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The history of all the great characters of the Bible is summed up in this one sentence: They acquainted themselves with God, and acquiesced His will in all things.

quote by Richard Cecil
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Third, we could, while denouncing them both as illegal, have acquiesced in them both and thus remained neutral with both sides, although not agreeing with either as to the righteousness of their respective orders.

quote by George William Norris
Added by Lucian Velea
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It has always been a great wrong that these men and their families should be held in bondage. We of the North have hitherto acquiesced in it, lest, in the endeavor to redress it in violation of the Constitution, greater evils might ensue.

quote by Jay Alan Sekulow
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Palimpsest For Peace

Cross words cross across crossed wires.
Cross-purposes cross reconciliation off the list
As, crosswise, clockwise and counter-clockwise
Fight for costly cross-border dominance.
Cross voices cross between cross and crescent.
Quiescent sense lessens strength and ends
In senselessness as curses crush courtesy.
Cross-eyed viewpoints squint crossly
As cross-cultural conferences collapse.
Yet, crucially, crossed-fingers aloft,
If antagonists acquiesced in crossing over
To foster lost respect and tolerance,
We could cross off the past of bitterness,
Gross antipathy and once-crossed swords,
As cross-cooperation is consummated
As effortlessly as simply casting away
An anachronistic acrostic cryptic crossword.

poem by C. Richard Miles
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Anthology

I have learned to subsist
Barricaded by dominoes
Buoyed in isolation, and
Purged from treacherous marriages;
I have learned to get through
Without praying to a God
With no hopes for sedation
And no strings of expectation;
I have learned to breathe
Half-alive, half-dead
Disparate from the crowd
Flimsy with steadfast imposition;
And then I met people
In books and poems,
And I met these familiar emotions
In their phrases and lines,
And at the bud of cigarettes,
Underneath acid bottles,
And in corporeal flesh;
In vicarious situations,

[...] Read more

poem by Norman Santos
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Lovely Lines

When Madame la Pompadour saw me, she zoomed in
admonishing: You are NOT to read or listening to your
earphones - Yes, Your Majesty, I meekly acquiesced
and took my place as far away as possible from the strict
Madame and the rest of the Royalty, kept my delicious
book firmly closed - I'm reading "Making Money" by Terry
Pratchett and reached the bit about the cabinet that has
not been designed by a girl between four and eleven as it
contains all colours except pink - the hallmark of youthful
femininity - and started to study the Departmental Diary
issued to all officials, delighted with the daily meditation
or maxim at the top of each page: ‘Beauty is not what you
see but what you dream' - yuck, say my colleagues, how
syrupy, yum, says my own mind, how just like I feel; then
‘Kindness is to love people more than they deserve' - there,
now I can love my colleagues again, even if they abhor the
words that make me glad, ‘The true measure of a person is
how he treats someone who can do him no good', perfect,
now I shall be kind to my colleagues who cannot recognise
the beauty in these lovely lines…

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Pleas of a Claymore I

In my sedentary ineptitude,
I shall acquaint you with
The uncouth wails of a claymore
With the hissing sounds in the air
Of its unabashed bashings
Slicing through the verdigris of reticence
Swallowed, like serrated daggers
And the throat that bled the anarchy
That had always coiled in the underground
Grottos of a stagnant river.

I shall ring the sleeping bells,
With the shrills and clatters
Spewing the turbulent climates
Of a claymore in a warfare
That he vied for, like his own
And of a greater mayhem
When is he is not desirable
Pleasant and wanted,
And remained sheathed

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Four Ages. A Brief Fragment Of An Extensive Projected Poem

'I could be well content, allowed the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom gleaned
From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!'
Thus while gray evening lulled the wind, and called
Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side,
Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused,
And held accustomed conference with my heart;
When from within it thus a voice replied:
'Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at length
This wisdom, and but this, from all the past?
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse
Of talents, judgements, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsafed to err
With less excuse, and haply, worse effect?'
I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind

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poem by William Cowper
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Sala

A quaint sepia photograph reckons
Of my deceased old grandparents
In their cordial nuptial palpably soaked
And cloaked in God's veil and covenant
It perishes amongst the ghastly cobwebs
And the dusts in the wailing lifelessness
Of the immodest and muted living room

And in my somnolent and castrated vision
It had painted another mawkish picture,
A concrete memoire of the absence
Of love, of death, and of love in death
So I refocused on the sala instead
With the scraped pastel wallpapers
Toppling on the cold floor parquet
A catastrophic finagling that reveals
The abused skin of my genuine home:
The arms of acquiesced oblivion
Sprawling on the threadbare divan
And watching the midnight sitcoms

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Soldier's Prayer

Garden, in his “Anecdotes of the Revolution,” when describing the
sufferings of the army, mentions the circumstance of a soldier having
earnestly entreated permission to visit his family, which was refused, on
the ground that the same favour must be granted to others, who could not
be spared without weakening the army, whose strength was already reduced
by sickness. He acquiesced in the justice of the denial, but added,
that to him refusal would be death. He was a brave and valuable soldier,
and apparently in health at the time;—but his words were verified.

I care not for the hurried march through August's burning noon,
Nor for the long cold ward at night, beneath the dewy moon;
I've calmly felt the winter's storms, o'er my unshelter'd head,
And trod the snow with naked foot, till every track was red!

My soldier's fare is poor and scant—'t is what my comrades share,
Yon heaven my only canopy—but that I well can bear;
A dull and feverish weight of pain is pressing on my brow,
And I am faint with recent wounds—for that I care not now.

But oh, I long once more to view my childhood's dwelling-place,

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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