Quotes about fife, page 4
Legend
THERE is an hour, they say,
On which your dream has power:
Then all you wish for comes,
As comes the lost field-bird
Down to the island-lights;
There is an hour, they say,
That's woven with your wish:
In dawn, or dayli’ gone,
In mirk-dark, or at noon,
In hush or hum of day,
May be that secret hour.
A herd-boy in the rain
Who looked o'er stony fields;
A young man in a street,
When fife and drum went by,
Making the sunlight shrill;
A girl in a lane,
When the long June twilight
Made friendly far-off things,
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poem by Padraic Colum
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Marlowe
With eastern banners flaunting in the breeze
Royal processions, sounding fife and gong
And showering jewels on the jostling throng,
March to the tramp of Marlowe's harmonies.
He drained life's brimming goblet to the lees;
He recked not that a peer superb and strong
Would tune great notes to his impassioned song
And top his cannonading lines with ease.
To the wild clash of cymbals we behold
The tragic ending of his youthful life;
The revelry of kisses bought with gold,
The jest and jealous rival and the strife,
A harlot weeping o'er a corpse scarce cold,
A scullion fleeing with a bloody knife.
poem by Arthur Bayldon
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I Shall Return
I shall return again; I shall return
To laugh and love and watch with wonder-eyes
At golden noon the forest fires burn,
Wafting their blue-black smoke to sapphire skies.
I shall return to loiter by the streams
That bathe the brown blades of the bending grasses,
And realize once more my thousand dreams
Of waters rushing down the mountain passes.
I shall return to hear the fiddle and fife
Of village dances, dear delicious tunes
That stir the hidden depths of native life,
Stray melodies of dim remembered runes.
I shall return, I shall return again,
To ease my mind of long, long years of pain.
poem by Claude McKay
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Dinner in a Quick Lunch Room
Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!
Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
Then the green silence of many watercresses;
Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood
And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!
poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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Zeus
Zeus has a normal life
Two children and a loving wife
Yet he feels his days crappy
He never is really happy!
Zeus likes his wife on his side
And when the children on his shoulder ride
Yet he feels he’s missing something
In nothing of these he’s getting the zing!
Zeus’ head wants to remain rational
But down there pricks the monster carnal
Goading him to break free
Telling him ‘you are not happy’!
Zeus after a prolonged strife
Breaks the shackle blows the fife
Other women with madness he hounds
Crazed with the blindness this world abounds!
Zeus wakes up to the riddle at last
That happiness cannot come out of lust
It’s always there in a normal life
Two children and a loving wife!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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From Egmont
ACT I.
CLARA winds a skein, and sings with Brackenburg.
THE drum gives the signal!
Loud rings the shrill fife!
My love leads his troops on
Full arm'd for the strife,
While his hand grasps his lance
As they proudly advance.
My bosom pants wildly!
My blood hotly flows!
Oh had I a doublet,
A helmet, and hose!
Through the gate with bold footstep
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poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Hymn to the Dairymaids on Beacon Street
Sweetly solemn see them stand,
Spinning churns on either hand,
Neatly capped and aproned white
Airy fairy dairy sight.
Jersey priestesses they seem
Miracling milk to cream.
Cream solidifies to cheese
By Pasteural mysteries,
And they give, within their shrine,
Their communión in kine.
Incantations pure they mutter
O'er the golden minted butter
And (no layman hand can pen it)
See them gloat above their rennet.
By that hillside window pane
Rugged teamsters draw the rein.
Doff the battered hat and bow
To these acolytes of cow.
Genuflect, ye passersby!
Muse upon their ritual high-
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poem by Christopher Morley
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Wake Not for the World-Heard Thunder
Wake not for the world-heard thunder,
Nor the chimes that earthquakes toll;
Stars may plot in heaven with planet,
Lightning rive the rock of granite,
Tempest tread the oakwood under,
Fear not you for flesh or soul;
Marching, fighting, victory past,
Stretch your limbs in peace at last.
Stir not for the soldier's drilling,
Nor the fever nothing cures;
Throb of drum and timbal's rattle
Call but men alive to battle,
And the fife with death-notes filling
Screams for blood--but not for yours.
Times enough you bled your best;
Sleep on now, and take your rest.
Sleep, my lad; the French have landed,
London's burning, Windsor's down.
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poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Very real
The winter in season
The flowers have every reason
To blossom and appeal
The shine and fragrance for the show to steal
Yes it is rare thing
We longed it for something
Pursed with all the zeal
To test the life very real
To search in fife is not wastage
It may come with the advancement of age
Whole life you may be dying for something to happen
It may not materialize in whole life even
It is very good quest
Hours are spent to get very best
It is still eluding the hope
As if walking on the right rope
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Romeo and Juliet
I was discouraged, alone in that dale
For life to me was no fairy tale!
My entire childhood I’d been pretending
Of some story with a happy ending
All of that time I’d been so naïve
It was nothing more than make-believe!
But how would I know, thanks to you alone
Magical feelings would prove me wrong?
A miserable life lost its course
When a charming prince appeared on a horse,
Rescued me from worldly strife
I was Cinderella that day of my life
For decades I had been sleeping
Years had I been weeping
Dozing away during harmonious bliss
But, darling, you saved me with a tender kiss
And you took me away as your soon-to-be wife
I was Sleeping Beauty that day of my life
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poem by Whitney Albright
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