Quotes about 8 march, page 7
The Poets March
The Poets all march to the edge-
some perching
at the abyss of Screaming Desire;
Hearts exploding
Love reeling;
say not to those that Poet
that Desire is loathing
for those that believe this
back away
while we others
leap over Faith's abyss
smiling.
The Poets all march to the edge
of Faith
and blind we do not see
beyond the edge
we so desire
but Courage
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Song of the Soldiers
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away?
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye
Who watch us stepping by,
With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you!
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye?
Nay. We see well what we are doing,
Though some may not see --
Dalliers as they be! --
England's need are we;
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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For To Reclaim The Night
They march uptown for to reclaim the night
Carrying lighted candles and small battery hand lights
Their peaceful protest for basic human right
And in solidarity you will find much might.
They march for women house bound after dark
Who after sundown shun the street and park
Who bolt their doors a shield against their fear
The fear of danger to them ever near.
They march for women for a crime free life
For the rape victim and the battered wife
And for women wronged by men in every way
Such cases as we read of every day.
When Emily Pankhurst at Epsom race track died
Her sacrifice for women World wide
From there the fight for women's rights began
For all those suffering at the hands of man.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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Men Who March Away
Song of the Soldiers
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away!
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye
Who watch us stepping by,
With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you?
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye?
Nay. We see well what we are doing,
Though some may not see --
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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Happy Marriage
A little bit confused was beautiful Spring,
She had to choose for life a bridegroom.
Who will give her a wedding ring?
Three men wanted to be her happy and bloom.
March, April and May vied with each other.
About their great love they quietly talked.
April was for Spring like a brother,
With March she just often liked to walk.
Timid March gave her beautiful primroses,
Out of snowdrops he made a wreath,
He didn't want to know any losses,
He promised her the whole world's wealth.
Delicate and sweet was April.
He gave her a necklace of brilliant drops.
The life with him could be stable, - he said,
She'd be rich and would get good crops.
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poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Grey Wolves Grey
The Russian march is soft and slow,
Through dust and heat, or slush and snow,
When the Russian skies hang grey and low
To the frontiers far where the Russians go;
And they march to-night and they march to-day
Like the grey wolves grey, like the grey wolves grey.
Nor song nor sound their track reveals,
Save the ceaseless “clock” of the waggon wheels;
But a rift in the mist shows a glint of sun
On the long, dark shape of a toiling gun;
And they strain by night and they drag by day
To a distant goal, like the grey wolves grey.
As the horses toil at the ends of trains,
And the ends of roads on the Blacksoil Plains.
And Ivan digs in the frozen clay,
And he rolls the logs a bed to lay
For a gun that’s five hundred miles away,
But as sure to come as the grey wolves grey.
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poem by Henry Lawson
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March
Shall Thor with his hammer
Beat on the mountain,
As on an anvil,
A shackle and fetter?
Shall the lame Vulcan
Shout as he swingeth
God-like his hammer,
And forge thee a fetter?
Shall Jove, the Thunderer,
Twine his swift lightnings
With his loud thunders,
And forge thee a shackle?
'No,' shouts the Titan,
The young lion-throated;
'Thor, Vulcan, nor Jove
Cannot shackle and bind me.'
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poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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March Horse Fair Day
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet Town.
In Ireland on March the first the sun doesn't often shine
In fact the day is seldom ever fine
Old February till latter March remain
You take your hat and coat expecting rain.
Near 10 A.M. it makes a heavy shower
And it keeps on raining maybe for an hour
And horses and their owners soaked right to the skin
But rain doesn't worry tough horse loving men.
The deals were clinched with hand slap and hand shake
Your bond your word and your word you would not break
The Town Square packed with people young and old
And deals were done and many horses sold.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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January Jumps About
January jumps about
in the frying pan
trying to heat
his frozen feet
like a Canadian.
February scuttles under
any dish's lid
and she thinks she's dry because she's
thoroughly well hid
but it still rains all month long
and it always did.
March sits in the bath tub
with the taps turned on.
Hot and cold, cold or not,
Has the Winter gone?
In like a lion, out like a lamb
March on, march on, march on.
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poem by George Barker
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General Roberts in Afghanistan
'Twas in the year of 1878, and. the winter had set in,
Lord Roberts and the British Army their march did begin,
On their way to Afghanistan to a place called Cabul;
And the weather was bitter cold and the rivers swollen and full.
And the enemy were posted high up amongst the hills,
And when they saw the British, with fear their blood thrills;
The savages were camped on the hillsides in war array,
And occupying a strong position which before the British lay.
And viewed from the front their position was impregnable,
But Lord Roberts was a general of great skill;
Therefore to surprise the enemy he thought it was right,
To march upon the enemy in the dead of night.
Then the men were mustered without delay,
And each man of them was eager for the fray;
And in the silent darkness they felt no dismay,
And to attack the enemy they marched boldly away.
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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