Quotes about sole, page 7
Broken Dreams
THERE is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
Because it was your prayer
Recovered him upon the bed of death.
For your sole sake -- that all heart's ache have known,
And given to others all heart's ache,
From meagre girlhood's putting on
Burdensome beauty -- for your sole sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
A young man when the old men are done talking
Will say to an old man, 'Tell me of that lady
The poet stubborn with his passion sang us
When age might well have chilled his blood.'
Vague memories, nothing but memories,
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poem by William Butler Yeats
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Stardom or Boredom! A LONELY RED BIRD Flies in My Natural Kingdom!
I am eight and twenty, a lonely rose – no one close to sit with;
Here are no companions nor kin and kith, I live in lonely myth!
Sitting in the empty hall by myself at the day dawn in the white;
I feel awful – awful beyond all – crying gently dusk in the night.
Stardom or boredom! A lonely red bird flies in my natural kingdom!
Harum-scarum! Humdrum! A solo bird beats the lonely drum!
Aloof I am, sitting in the dark; aloof I am, with my lonely bark;
Aloof I am, butterflies helter-skelter in me at lonely gaze!
Aloof I am, there is a void; there is a vacuum in my lonely daze;
Aloof I am sitting with empty ache; aloof I am – a lonely lark.
Stardom or boredom! A lonely red bird flies in my natural kingdom!
Harum-scarum! Humdrum! A solo bird beats the lonely drum!
Aloof I am, these many shocks, lonely talks only for me, tell me why?
Aloof I am, I beg thee – don’t enter my only soul everyday, I say....
Aloof I am, I don’t want to be aloof in anyway – even on holiday;
Aloof I am, I say thee – I don't want to live, I want to die for lonely sigh!
Stardom or boredom! A lonely red bird flies in my natural kingdom!
Harum-scarum! Humdrum! A solo bird beats the lonely drum!
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poem by Harindhar Reddy
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Her Monument, The Image Cut Thereon
FROM THE ITALIAN OF LEOPARDI
Such wast thou,
Who art now
But buried dust and rusted skeleton.
Above the bones and mire,
Motionless, placed in vain,
Mute mirror of the flight of speeding years,
Sole guard of grief
Sole guard of memory
Standeth this image of the beauty sped.
O glance, when thou wast still as thou art now,
How hast thou set the fire
A-tremble in men's veins; lip curved high
To mind me of some urn of full delight,
O throat girt round of old with swift desire,
O palms of Love, that in your wonted ways
Not once but many a day
Felt hands turn ice a-sudden, touching ye,
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poem by Ezra Pound
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No More Than A Coward
That very word bully can bring on such fear,
They are so unruly their cruelty can sear,
Their sole aim in life is to be the bearer,
Of terrible strife they love to cause terror.
They can be scary to those victims they choose,
But they're always wary about who they abuse,
They pick on the lonely and pounce on the meek,
Their intention is only to terrorise the weak.
It is only fun is their sickening excuse,
They'll use any reason to dish out abuse,
Their personal involvement they always deny,
If truth be told their whole life is a lie.
It's not gender based it's both female and male,
In evil they're encased for they pick on the frail,
Their age is no barrier they're both young and old,
Of disease they're the carrier their actions are cold.
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poem by Bri Mar
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Fragoletta
O LOVE! what shall be said of thee?
The son of grief begot by joy?
Being sightless, wilt thou see?
Being sexless, wilt thou be
Maiden or boy?
I dreamed of strange lips yesterday
And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood
Was like a rose’s—yea,
A rose’s when it lay
Within the bud.
What fields have bred thee, or what groves
Concealed thee, O mysterious flower,
O double rose of Love’s,
With leaves that lure the doves
From bud to bower?
I dare not kiss it, lest my lip
Press harder than an indrawn breath,
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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Old Squire
I LIKE the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
I like the joyous morning air,
And the crowing of the cocks.
I like the calm of the early fields,
The ducks asleep by the lake,
The quiet hour which Nature yields
Before mankind is awake.
I like the pheasants and feeding things
Of the unsuspicious morn;
I like the flap of the wood-pigeon’s wings
As she rises from the corn.
I like the blackbird’s shriek, and his rush
From the turnips as I pass by,
And the partridge hiding her head in a bush,
For her young ones cannot fly.
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Those Flag Draped Coffins
Who can we talk to is there anyone there,
Why won't you listen does nobody care,
When we arrived here we were full of zest,
It was our sole intention to do our best.
To achieve that goal takes the will of a nation,
We need them on our side the entire population,
But as time's moved on they have drifted away,
We are seen as, ‘' THE ENEMY ‘' we no longer hold sway.
Their tactics against us are so underhand,
Yet our powers that be just can't understand,
You can only help people if they want your assistance,
But what we have here is total resistance.
Someone is arming them with their weapons of woe,
They're a constant threat a formidable foe,
The streets are unsafe of trust there's a lack,
dropp your guard for a second you'll be shot in the back.
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poem by Bri Mar
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Cristina
I
She should never have looked at me
If she meant I should not love her!
There are plenty...men, you call such,
I suppose...she may discover
All her soul to, if she pleases,
And yet leave much as she found them:
But I'm not so, and she knew it
When she fixed me, glancing round them.
II
What? To fix me thus meant nothing?
But I can't tell (there's my weakness)
What her look said!—no vile cant, sure,
About "need to strew the bleakness
Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed
That the sea feels"—no "strange yearning
That such souls have, most to lavish
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poem by Robert Browning from Cavalier Tunes (1842)
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To Beethoven
In o'er-strict calyx lingering,
Lay music's bud too long unblown,
Till thou, Beethoven, breathed the spring:
Then bloomed the perfect rose of tone.
O Psalmist of the weak, the strong,
O Troubadour of love and strife,
Co-Litanist of right and wrong,
Sole Hymner of the whole of life,
I know not how, I care not why, --
Thy music sets my world at ease,
And melts my passion's mortal cry
In satisfying symphonies.
It soothes my accusations sour
'Gainst thoughts that fray the restless soul:
The stain of death; the pain of power;
The lack of love 'twixt part and whole;
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poem by Sidney Lanier
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My Lady The Tyranness
Me since your fair ambition bows
Feodary to those gracious brows,
Is nothing mine will not confess
Your sovran sweet rapaciousness?
Though use to the white yoke inures,
Half-petulant is
Your loving rebel for somewhat his,
Not yours, my love, not yours!
Behold my skies, which make with me
One passionate tranquillity!
Wrap thyself in them as a robe,
She shares them not; their azures probe,
No countering wings thy flight endures.
Nay, they do stole
Me like an aura of her soul.
I yield them, love, for yours!
But mine these hills and fields, which put
Not on the sanctity of her foot.
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poem by Francis Thompson
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