Quotes about clang, page 5
Euryalus
UPWARD we went by fields of asphodel,
Leaving Ortygia's moat-bound walls below;
By orchards, where the wind-flowers' drifted snow
Lay lightly heaped upon the turf's light swell;
By gardens, whence upon the wayside fell
Jasmine and rose in April's overflow;
Till, winding up in Epipolae's wide brow,
We reached at last the lonely citadel.
There, on the ruined rampart climbing high,
We sat and dreamed among the browsing sheep,
Until we heard the trumpet's startled cry
Waking a clang of arms about the keep,
And seaward saw, with rapt foreboding eye,
The sails of Athens whiten on the deep.
poem by Edith Wharton
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To The River Rhone
Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower
In chambers purple with the Alpine glow,
Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow
And rocked by tempests!--at the appointed hour
Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower,
With clang and clink of harness dost thou go
To meet thy vassal torrents, that below
Rush to receive thee and obey thy power.
And now thou movest in triumphal march,
A king among the rivers! On thy way
A hundred towns await and welcome thee;
Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch,
Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay,
And fleets attend thy progress to the sea!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Impression Du Matin
THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping down
The bridges, till the houses' walls
Seemed changed to shadows, and S. Paul's
Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Sunday Morning Bells
FROM the near city comes the clang of bells:
Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine
In one faint misty harmony, as fine
As the soft note yon winter robin swells.--
What if to Thee in Thine Infinity
These multiform and many-colored creeds
Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds
Round the one living truth Thou givest him--Thee?
What if these varied forms that worship prove,
Being heart-worship, reach Thy perfect ear
But as a monotone, complete and clear,
Of which the music is, through Christ's name, Love?
Forever rising in sublime increase
To 'Glory in the Highest,--on earth peace?'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Queen Henrietta Maria
IN the lone tent, waiting for victory,
She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry,
To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face
Made for the luring and the love of man!
With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting place,
Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness,
My freedom and my life republican!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Byantium -2
Long night will start the pincer movement;
pyrexia is rising.
Something like an extraterrestrial hand
digs deep in the mind to open the tomb
to unravel the tragedy of nuts and bolts
which could not fix
the mutation of the hour of death.
Dark blinking lashes of soul
measures the cliffs of silence
and then pours the hot red
vermilion in parted wisdom of sky.
The clang of bones again penetrates
the liver. The green flaming jelly of
innocent bellies.
The hyacinth is choking the village pond
hiding the corpses of precious flowers
with green blood.
[...] Read more
poem by Satish Verma
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Temple of Hope
Long night will start the pincer movement;
pyrexia is rising.
Something like an extraterrestrial hand
digs deep in the mind to open the tomb
to unravel the tragedy of nuts and bolts
which could not fix
the mutation of the hour of death.
Dark blinking lashes of soul
measures the cliffs of silence
and then pours the hot red
vermilion in parted wisdom of sky.
The clang of bones again penetrates
the liver. The green flaming jelly of
innocent bellies.
The hyacinth is choking the village pond
hiding the corpses of precious flowers
with green blood.
[...] Read more
poem by Satish Verma
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A Calendar of Sonnets: March
Month which the warring ancients strangely styled
The month of war,--as if in their fierce ways
Were any month of peace!--in thy rough days
I find no war in Nature, though the wild
Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled
As feet of writhing trees. The violets raise
Their heads without affright, without amaze,
And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.
And he who watches well may well discern
Sweet expectation in each living thing.
Like pregnant mother the sweet earth doth yearn;
In secret joy makes ready for the spring;
And hidden, sacred, in her breast doth bear
Annunciation lilies for the year.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Doomsday Twenty-first December 2012!
Crack ah! A crack! Crack! Cling clang!
Jehovah's' whip would lash
World lamps would go off
Jehovah's bells would toll
All erased, a black out,
Accept not us true what they want us.
Our world would diffuse
Our lives quashed to infinity
That scripture prints dictate
Primary its not, doom prophets they are
They had done this the same times ago
Fear and confusion diffuse on masses days after.
Same scriptures make no judgment
Same scriptures engraved is Jehovah's math
Same scriptures God's time only him knows
Sumerian Nibiyu ball of Doom Nasa commits not
Mayan Calendar same as many a culture
Grind fear below your feet, Doom Sayers defeat them!
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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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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