Quotes about fife, page 5
In a Garden
The world is resting without sound or motion,
Behind the apple tree the sun goes down
Painting with fire the spires and the windows
In the elm-shaded town.
Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie
Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom,
The swallows weave in flight across the zenith
On an aerial loom.
Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,
Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox,
The heavy-headed asters, the late roses
And swaying hollyhocks.
For at high-noon I heard from this same garden
The far-off murmur as when many come;
Up from the village surged the blind and beating
Red music of a drum;
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poem by Sara Teasdale
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Woman In Black!
Why are your eyes glowing so dark?
What are your woes?
Has the maker conspire with your foes?
Your eyes had been exuding blood far too long
Your soul is drowning in the seas of melancholic song
You can't sleep, you can't smile
Your eyes had been glued to that struggling fly
Woman in black!
What's that, your soul can't get back?
Your ears had been staring at your though
Your head had been replaying, memories you got
And slowly your eyes dripping red wine
Has your brain played any scene from an indian vine?
Woman in black!
What is it that you lack?
Are you mourning your bloodline death?
Or has the world reject your heart's facsimile breath?
The road seems so ageless for you to rode alone
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poem by Kemurl Fofanah
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The Bullfinch
Why do you strike up songs military
Fife-like, o, bullfinch, my friend?
Who'll take the lead in our fight with Hell's forces?
Who will command us? What Hercules?
Where is Suvorov, strong, swift and fearless?
Now Northern thunder lies dead in the grave.
Who will ride fiery, ahead of the legions,
Nag for a steed, and crusts for meal,
Temper his sword in the heat and in ice storms,
Sleep on straw pallets, labor 'til dawn,
Bring down the armies, the walls and the forts
With but a handful of stout Russian men?
Who will excel in unwavering courage,
Conquering fate with a prayer and with faith,
Evil with bayonets, envy with jests?
Capturing scepters, remaining a slave,
Who will keep striving for valor alone,
Live for our Tsars, while consuming himself?
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poem by Gavril Romanovich Derzhavin
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A Bas Ben Adhem
My fellow man I do not care for.
I often ask me, What's he there for?
The only answer I can find
Is, Reproduction of his kind.
If I'm supposed to swallow that,
Winnetka is my habitat.
Isn't it time to carve Hic Jacet
Above that Reproduction racket?
To make the matter more succint:
Suppose my fellow man extinct.
Why, who would not approve the plan
Save possibly my fellow man?
Yet with a politician's voice
He names himself as Nature's choice.
The finest of the human race
Are bad in figure, worse in face.
Yet just because they have two legs
And come from storks instead of eggs
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poem by Ogden Nash
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I see today
Today is such a beautiful day
Well actually it’s hot and humid
But hey it here right now for me to enjoy or crib
Don’t know what tomorrow will bring or will it be here or not
This, today, this is mine and is all I have got
So all my hopes, aspirations, dreams, fight’s, grudges,
Smiles and frowns will have to adjust
And give each other space for I am going to live it fully
As there will never be a today like today
This day is full of promises although I don’t know
What is in store the next second?
Past may seem blissful and tomorrow may seem a better day
But believe me, today- it’s a force to be reckoned with
I will be ready, for every here and now and shake off the dust
For if I don’t do it now, some promises will die or rust
No, today is a great opportunity which I can’t let go
Today- I owe it to you to stand up and speak my mind
To not let myself get lost in daily grind
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poem by Soma Mukherjee
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The National Anthem
A monarch is pestered with cares,
Though, no doubt, he can often trepan them;
But one comes in a shape he can never escape -
The implacable National Anthem!
Though for quiet and rest he may yearn,
It pursues him at every turn -
No chance of forsaking
Its ROCOCO numbers;
They haunt him when waking -
They poison his slumbers -
Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows,
He's cursed with its music wherever he goes!
Though its words but imperfectly rhyme,
And the devil himself couldn't scan them;
With composure polite he endures day and night
That illiterate National Anthem!
It serves a good purpose, I own:
Its strains are devout and impressive -
Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throats
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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A Strange Wild Song
He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realize," he said,
"The bitterness of life!"
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the police!"
he thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"
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poem by Lewis Carroll
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Hail! Master Death!
When conquerors lift the bloody shield,
Showing the fallen's ooze of life,
And on a waste of blasted field
Joy quickens to the drum and fife,
Then the weird brood of flame and fate,
Far under ground, are ill at ease,
And rock their bodies, as they wait,
When Death shall strangle even these.
The banquet board is red and white,
And laughter bubbles with the wine;
But what's the meed of this delight?
The pauper's children peak and pine!
Enough! our sisters laughing stir
The prescient worm, which scents and sees
The feast time shall not long defer --
For Death shall strangle even these.
Tumbled at last in earth and lost
To church bells, sycophant and priest,
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poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Veteran
UNDERNEATH the autumn sky,
Haltingly, the lines go by.
Ah, would steps were blithe and gay,
As when first they marched away,
Smile on lip and curl on brow,
Only white-faced gray-beards now,
Standing on life's outer verge,
E'en the marches sound a dirge.
Blow, you bugles, play, you fife,
Rattle, drums, for dearest life.
Let the flags wave freely so,
As the marching legions go,
Shout, hurrah and laugh and jest,
This is memory at its best.
(Did you notice at your quip,
That old comrade's quivering lip?)
Ah, I see them as they come,
Stumbling with the rumbling drum;
But a sight more sad to me
E'en than these ranks could be
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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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