Quotes about grimy, page 9
Hiraeth and Chewing Gum: Tropical botanist Llewelyn Williams 1901-1980
The clans are splintered
Evans Williams Griffiths Price
title bearers of half-dark past,
side by side, alike
yet individual as the trees
We crossed roads not to meet
sweet hidden goosegogs,
illicit pleasures of the boys
while our sisters learned sewing,
décor and decorum.
Ach y fi! In the docks
the lame, the beggars
grimy from engine coke,
Welsh speaking, Portuguese speaking.
Tea-clippers. Hiraeth.
Llewelyn went to Assam.
Already scholar, already
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poem by Sally Evans
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Fly On The Window
Fly on the window, trying to get out
for hours, incessant erratic movement,
as if it were looking for a parking spot.
Strokes its legs as if it were sharpening carving knives.
Firesticks. Witching wands. Who knows?
Nothing ignites. Cul de sac. Dead end.
Aerial view of Captain Cook exploring Bella Coola,
a kamikaze at Midway looking down
into a totally translucent sea
that proves there's an outside on the bottom
all the way to the bank across the street.
Will undaunted, the ferocity of life,
and its commitment to it,
its savage insistence on
walking itself to death on a windowpane
as immaculate as the grimy glass
even in something the size
of a mythically inflated punctuation mark.
Musca. Fly. Liar. Spawn of Beelzebub.
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poem by Patrick White
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The Hoosier Folk-Child
The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung--
Unlettered all of mind and tongue;
Unmastered, unmolested--made
Most wholly frank and unafraid:
Untaught of any school--unvexed
Of law or creed--all unperplexed--
Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled,
An all imperfect-perfect child--
A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you
And I do tardy honor to,
And so, profane the sanctities
Of our most sacred memories.
Who, growing thus from boy to man,
That dares not be American?
Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz--
Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does.
The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not
Much wider than the stable-lot
Between the house and highway fence
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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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On The Boulevard
Oh, it's pleasant sitting here,
Seeing all the people pass;
You beside your bock of beer,
I behind my demi-tasse.
Chatting of no matter what.
You the Mummer, I the Bard;
Oh, it's jolly, is it not? --
Sitting on the Boulevard.
More amusing than a book,
If a chap has eyes to see;
For, no matter where I look,
Stories, stories jump at me.
Moving tales my pen might write;
Poems plain on every face;
Monologues you could recite
With inimitable grace.
(Ah! Imagination's power)
See yon demi-mondaine there,
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Spirit Of The Unborn Babe
The Spirit of the Unborn Babe peered through the window-pane,
Peered through the window-pane that glowed like beacon in the night;
For, oh, the sky was desolate and wild with wind and rain;
And how the little room was crammed with coziness and light!
Except the flirting of the fire there was no sound at all;
The Woman sat beside the hearth, her knitting on her knee;
The shadow of her husband's head was dancing on the wall;
She looked with staring eyes at it, she looked yet did not see.
She only saw a childish face that topped the table rim,
A little wistful ghost that smiled and vanished quick away;
And then because her tender eyes were flooding to the brim,
She lowered her head. . . . "Don't sorrow, dear," she heard him softly say;
"It's over now. We'll try to be as happy as before
(Ah! they who little children have, grant hostages to pain).
We gave Life chance to wound us once, but never, never more. . . ."
The Spirit of the Unborn Babe fled through the night again.
The Spirit of the Unborn Babe went wildered in the dark;
Like termagants the winds tore down and whirled it with the snow.
And then amid the writhing storm it saw a tiny spark,
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Hotel
The long resounding marble corridors, the
shining parlors with shining women in
them.
The French room, with its gilt and garlands
under plump little tumbling painted loves'.
The Turkish room, with its jumble of many
carpets and its stiffly squared un-Turkish
chairs.
The English room, all heavy crimson and gold,
with spreading palms lifted high in round
green tubs.
The electric lights in twos and threes and hundreds,
made into festoons and spirals and
arabesques, a maze and magic of bright
persistent radiance.
The people sitting in corners by twos and
threes, and cooing together under the glare.
The long rows of silent people in chairs, watching
with eyes that see not while the patient
band tangles the air with music.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Song Of The Mouth-Organ
(With apologies to the singer of the "Song of the Banjo".)
I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone;
I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost;
I haven't got a "vox humana" tone,
And a dime or two will satisfy my cost.
I don't attempt your high-falutin' flights;
I am more or less uncertain on the key;
But I tell you, boys, there's lots and lots of nights
When you've taken mighty comfort out of me.
I weigh an ounce or two, and I'm so small
You can pack me in the pocket of your vest;
And when at night so wearily you crawl
Into your bunk and stretch your limbs to rest,
You take me out and play me soft and low,
The simple songs that trouble your heartstrings;
The tunes you used to fancy long ago,
Before you made a rotten mess of things.
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe
Wild air, world-mothering air,
Nestling me everywhere,
That each eyelash or hair
Girdles; goes home betwixt
The fleeciest, frailest-flixed
Snowflake; that ’s fairly mixed
With, riddles, and is rife
In every least thing’s life;
This needful, never spent,
And nursing element;
My more than meat and drink,
My meal at every wink;
This air, which, by life’s law,
My lung must draw and draw
Now but to breathe its praise,
Minds me in many ways
Of her who not only
Gave God’s infinity
Dwindled to infancy
Welcome in womb and breast,
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poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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The Light o' the Moon
[How different people and different animals look upon the moon: showing that each creature finds in it his own mood and disposition]
The Old Horse in the City
The moon's a peck of corn. It lies
Heaped up for me to eat.
I wish that I might climb the path
And taste that supper sweet.
Men feed me straw and scanty grain
And beat me till I'm sore.
Some day I'll break the halter-rope
And smash the stable-door,
Run down the street and mount the hill
Just as the corn appears.
I've seen it rise at certain times
For years and years and years.
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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Men and Women
1. IN THE BACKS.
As I was strolling lonely in the Backs,
I met a woman whom I did not like.
I did not like the way the woman walked:
Loose-hipped, big-boned, disjointed, angular.
If her anatomy comprised a waist,
I did not notice it: she had a face
With eyes and lips adjusted thereunto,
But round her mouth no pleasing shadows stirred,
Nor did her eyes invite a second glance.
Her dress was absolutely colourless,
Devoid of taste or shape or character;
Her boots were rather old, and rather large,
And rather shabby, not precisely matched.
Her hair was very far from beautiful
And not abundant: she had such a hat
As neither merits nor expects remark.
She was not clever, I am very sure,
Nor witty nor amusing: well-informed
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poem by James Kenneth Stephen
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