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Quotes about angelus

Only A Dream In Rio

More than a distant land
Over a shining sea
More than the steaming green
More than the shining eyes
Well they tell me its only a dream in rio
Nothing could be as sweet as it seems
On this very first day down
They remind me son have you so soon forgotten
Often as not its rotten inside
And the mask soon slips away
Strange taste of a tropical fruit
Romantic language of the portuguese
Melody on a wooden flute
Somba floating in the summer breeze
Its alright you can stay asleep
You can close your eyes
You can trust the people of paradise
To call your keeper
And tender your goodbyes
Oh what a night wonderful one in a million

[...] Read more

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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.

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The Bell Ringer (Le Sonneur)

While the bell awakens its voice clear and bright
To the pure deep air of the morning time,
Passing over a child who pours out in delight
An Angelus amid lavender and thyme,

The ringer, brushed by a bird brought to light,
Plods sadly and, mumbling a Latin rhyme
On the stone that stretches the old cord tight,
Hears only the tinkling of a far-off chime.

I myself am that man. For alas! when I pull
On anxious night’s rope to sound the Ideal,
Cold sins flaunt their faithful plumes in disdain

And the voice comes only as a hollow moan!
But one day, sick from having pulled in vain,
I’ll hang myself, Satan, removing the stone.

poem by (15 March 1862), translated by Henry WeinfieldReport problemRelated quotes
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At The Gate Of The Convent

Beside the Convent Gate I stood,
Lingering to take farewell of those
To whom I owed the simple good
Of three days' peace, three nights' repose.

My sumpter-mule did blink and blink;
Was nothing more to munch or quaff;
Antonio, far too wise to think,
Leaned vacantly upon his staff.

It was the childhood of the year:
Bright was the morning, blithe the air;
And in the choir I plain could hear
The monks still chanting matin prayer.

The throstle and the blackbird shrilled,
Loudly as in an English copse,
Fountain-like note that, still refilled,
Rises and falls, but never stops.

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Amy Lowell

The Cremona Violin

Part First

Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.
A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind
Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before
Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind
The distant town was black, and sharp defined
Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers,
Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.

A pasted city on a purple ground,
Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud
Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound
Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed,
Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud
Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom.
Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room.

She bustled round to shake by constant moving
The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire,

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Autumn

As the warm summer stubbornly begins to cease
As winds of change tantalizingly stream to tease
As the leaves metamorphose to a spectrum of color
The skies gradually loose their summer valor

As the folk reap the harvests dancing in the autumn tones
Gleaners stealthily scrap for paltry nature's loans
As the Angelus is recited with a sense of a bestowed providence
The haystacks mushroom to a seasonal superabundance

Millet captured the season through the eyes of poverty
Constable captured the season in a hay wain's prosperity
Monet captured the remnant life in stubborn stacks of hay
As the many colors of autumn were captured for an eternity's stay

As the leaves unhinge from their branch's grip
Free falling with a gentle push from the branch's tip
Like aimless parachutes gravitating to Gaia's earthly call
The leaves carve their path to floor the earthly ball

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Sonnet- Give Me More Woes, Lord

'Give me O Lord, more woes, ' I don't say, 'No, '
'Give me thy grace to withstand them for Thee';
And if Thou Will'd that I should undergo,
Let me do so, for my Eternity.


'Give me 0 Lord more woes, for others' sake, '
'So that more souls can be saved from sure hell.'
And in the meantime, never me forsake;
I want to toll Heaven's Angelus bell.

'Give me 0 Lord, more woes, if I can take, '
'For joys or sorrows of this world are false, '
The devils' overtures are all but fake;
Help me to listen only to Thy calls.

'Give me 0 Lord, more woes, for I love Thee, '
'Let me too lift thy cross to Calvary, '

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Sonnet: What a Christian Loves Most

I love to hear the church-bells peeling loud
For Angelus, before each service starts;
I am a Christian and I am so proud
To keep my soul pure till my life departs.

God’s peace descends on minds that deeply pray;
The atmosphere within a church is great;
I wish to get communion every day,
Confessing sins mortal, venial till date.

I love to pray kneeling ’fore grotto-gate
Emptying the heaviness from off my heart;
And then, I know my God will change my fate,
And help me do my duty and my part.

’Tis nice to live quite near a church always,
And spend in Piety our earthly days.

7-25-2002

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Angelus

A deep bell that links the downs
To the drowsy air;
Every loop of sound that swoons,
Finds a circle fair,
Whereon it doth rest and fade;
Every stroke that dins is laid
Like a node,
Spinning out the quivering, fine,
Vibrant tendrils of a vine:
(Bim - bim - bim.)
How they wreathe and run,
Silvern as a filmy light,
Filtered from the sun:
The god of sound is out of sight,
And the bell is like a cloud,
Humming to the outer rim,
Low and loud:
(Bim - bim - bim.)
Throwing down the tempered lull,
Fragile, beautiful:

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Poem on his Birthday

In the mustardseed sun,
By full tilt river and switchback sea
Where the cormorants scud,
In his house on stilts high among beaks
And palavers of birds
This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave
He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age;
Herons spire and spear.

Under and round him go
Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails,
Doing what they are told,
Curlews aloud in the congered waves
Work at their ways to death,
And the rhymer in the long tongued room,
Who tolls his birthday bell,
Toesl towards the ambush of his wounds;
Herons, stepple stemmed, bless.

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