Quotes about prop, page 5
To Cardinal Manning
I, wakeful for the skylark voice in men,
Or straining for the angel of the light,
Rebuked am I by hungry ear and sight,
When I behold one lamp that through our fen
Goes hourly where most noisome; hear again
A tongue that loathsomeness will not affright
From speaking to the soul of us forthright
What things our craven senses keep from ken.
This is the doing of the Christ; the way
He went on earth; the service above guile
To prop a tyrant creed: it sings, it shines;
Cries to the Mammonites: Allay, allay
Such misery as by these present signs
Brings vengeance down; nor them who rouse revile.
poem by George Meredith
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Dede
Wop, sop, top, flop, prop;
Stumbling across the sands of Africa!
But, i am Dede in the land of your muse.
Hop, drop, mop, cop, bop, crop;
Out of love and out of peace,
But, i am Dede in the land of your muse.
Slop, glop, kop, lop, pop;
It is touching me and i can feel it! !
But walled off for convenience sake.
Out lout, rout, flout, put, but, clout, cut;
With ample space in front of you!
But, i am her to stay because of your love.
Bout, gut, grout, shout, stout;
Stumbling across the sands of Africa!
But, i am Dede in the land of your muse,
And, i do have something special for you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Question
Love, wilt thou love me still when wintry streak
Steals on the tresses of autumnal brow;
When the pale rose hath perished in my cheek,
And those are wrinkles that are dimples now?
Wilt thou, when this fond arm that here I twine
Round thy dear neck to help thee in thy need,
Droops faint and feeble, and hath need of thine,
Be then my prop, and not a broken reed?
When thou canst only glean along the Past,
And garner in thy heart what Time doth leave,
O, wilt thou then to me, love, cling as fast
As nest of April to December eave;
And, while my beauty dwindles and decays,
Still warm thee by the embers of my gaze?
poem by Alfred Austin
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Prayer for Forgiveness
i knelt down and prayed
this morning for forgiveness
for everything this country is doing
around the world...
for the oil wars,
for the partnerships
with countries that abuse
human rights...
for the dictators we
both prop up and remove...
for the gluttony and the greed
here at home.... for the apathy,
for the self centered path
of destruction we march on...
for those left hungry, homeless,
without medical care, without hope...
[...] Read more
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sonnet-In Virtues, I'll Be Steadfast
More humanely than they deserve, I treat;
Their weaknesses, I tend to much ignore;
In ways I can, I improve their poor feat;
Ungrateful yet, behave they, all the more.
Their minds I prop, whenever in despair;
I comfort them when sorrow hits their heart;
I protect them and do all things thats fair;
The things they do are clumsy on their part.
Oh, why colleagues behave like this, confounds?
Should I keep them like slaves, under my thumb?
Their attitudes, unfair, my heart much pounds;
Should I turn cruel and keep my skin numb?
The more humane you be, less is respect;
God's punishments come surely, I expect.
poem by John Celes
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Psalm 16 part 3
Courage in death, and hope of the resurrection.
When God is nigh, my faith is strong;
His arm is my almighty prop:
Be glad, my heart; rejoice, my tongue;
My dying flesh shall rest in hope.
Though in the dust I lay my head,
Yet, gracious God, thou wilt not leave
My soul for ever with the dead,
Nor lose thy children in the grave.
My flesh shall thy first call obey,
Shake off the dust, and rise on high;
Then shalt thou lead the wondrous way
Up to thy throne above the sky.
There streams of endless pleasure flow;
And full discoveries of thy grace
(Which we but tasted here below)
[...] Read more
poem by Isaac Watts
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Austerity Of Poetry
That son of Italy who tried to blow,
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,
In his light youth amid a festal throng
Sate with his bride to see a public show.
Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow
Youth like a star; and what to youth belong--
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.
A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo,
'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!
Shuddering, they drew her garments off--and found
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.
Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,
Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.
poem by Matthew Arnold
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Upon The Same Event
WHEN, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn
The tidings past of servitude repealed,
And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field,
The rough Aetolians smiled with bitter scorn.
''Tis known,' cried they, 'that he, who would adorn
His envied temples with the Isthmian crown,
Must either win, through effort of his own,
The prize, or be content to see it worn
By more deserving brows.--Yet so ye prop,
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon,
Your feeble spirits! Greece her head hath bowed,
As if the wreath of liberty thereon
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud,
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top.'
poem by William Wordsworth
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To a Friend
Who prop, thou ask'st in these bad days, my mind?--
He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.
Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son
Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But be his
My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul,
From first youth tested up to extreme old age,
Business could not make dull, nor passion wild;
Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole;
The mellow glory of the Attic stage,
Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.
poem by Matthew Arnold from Sonnets (1849)
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Sonnet – Don’t Be
Don't be the fallen leaves, so young and green;
Don't be the buds that never can flower;
Don't be the twigs that always remain lean;
Don't be the flow'rs that dropp with each shower.
Don't be the branches growing very long;
Don't be the tree that never blooms at all;
Don’t be the nests that disallow Bird-song;
Don't be the fruits that hit the Earth by Fall.
Don't be the trunk hollowed by Birds, white-Ants;
Don't be the crown that can't get Sun or Rain;
Don't be the tree that grows not straight but slants;
Don't be the roots that prop the tree in vain.
Don't be the tree that grows on marshy-land;
Just be a tree secure in Maker's Hand.
poem by John Celes
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