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Quotes about awning

You Were Only Talking...

It's four o'clock in the morning,
No sleep for me this night,
I sit on the cold verandah,
And watch for a chink of light;
The wind howls round about me
The moon's not raised its head,
And you are out there walking,
Walking,
Walking,
And you are out there walking,
When you should have been in bed!

I'm shivering in the darkness,
It's colder than the crypt,
The rain that passed right over
Left puddles, where it dripped
My mind sets off to wonder
Why life should be so grim…
You said that you were talking,
Talking,

[...] Read more

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Over the Sea our Galleys Went

Over the sea our galleys went,
With cleaving prows in order brave,
To a speeding wind and a bounding wave,

A gallant armament:
Each bark built out of a forest-tree,

Left leafy and rough as first it grew,
And nailed all over the gaping sides,
Within and without, with black bull-hides,
Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,
To bear the playful billows' game:
So, each good ship was rude to see,
Rude and bare to the outward view,

But each upbore a stately tent
Where cedar-pales in scented row
Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine,
And an awning drooped the mast below,
In fold on fold of the purple fine,

[...] Read more

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The Wanderers

OVER the sea our galleys went,
With cleaving prows in order brave
To a speeding wind and a bounding wave--
   A gallant armament:
Each bark built out of a forest-tree
   Left leafy and rough as first it grew,
And nail'd all over the gaping sides,
Within and without, with black bull-hides,
Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,
To bear the playful billows' game;
So, each good ship was rude to see,
Rude and bare to the outward view.
   But each upbore a stately tent
Where cedar pales in scented row
Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine,
And an awning droop'd the mast below,
In fold on fold of the purple fine,
That neither noontide nor star-shine
Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad,
   Might pierce the regal tenement.

[...] Read more

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Saucy

I poetry'd him
And he poetry'd me
In the night
In the poetry'ing rain
Under the awning
Which poetry'd us
From saturation
(but I did still)

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These matters having been arranged, I had a temporary awning erected near the river, and was for three or four days busily employed writing an account of our journey for the Governor's information.

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COFFEE CHOICES Taken for Granted

Sitting, sipping, at a table outside
Under an awning in a cold light steady rain
Lets more stuff
Happen in my brain

Than if I were warm inside
In a nicer chair;
Acting like
I didn't really care

If others outside
Can't afford to come in.
They're also banned from the bathroom.
Seems like a sin.

I can see the practical side of
Where to sit as I choose.
Guess I should be glad of
A privilege I have yet to lose.

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Marinations

under a canvas awning, a few
metres above sea level, with backs
to the harbour the poets are reading —
their audience reclines on smooth fresh
mown lawn, swish as a cecil beaton
snap: lyric marinates the air; the p.a system
amplifies the verse right
to the water’s edge, where an evening
swimmer unaware of the source of
these bardic sounds, seeing is believing, may
mistake them for announcements
at a livestock sale or a stubborn
address from a captain whose ship
is going down

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Secondhand Conversation

Like a mephitic, obsidian smoke,
Language billows in impervious stacks.
In that clouded awning do our thoughts soak,
Enceinte and tainted with deep shades of black.
Crowded are we, insidiously sheathed,
In the choke-hold of constant stagnation.
Incessantly deprived of air we've breathed,
We cough up secondhand conversation.
We know not the subterfuge that bellows
Beneath the murmurs we enunciate.
We inhale the pareidolic shadows
That emit only to depreciate.
So, what resides there—in our spoiling lungs?
No fresh air— a song forever unsung.

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Thomas Hardy

The Rambler

I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat
When eve's brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree and mead--
All eloquent of love divine--
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!

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Indian Summer

The old grey year is near his term in sooth,
And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm
Awakens to a golden dream of youth,
A second childhood lovely and most calm,
And the smooth hour about his misty head
An awning of enchanted splendour weaves,
Of maples, amber, purple and rose-red,
And droop-limbed elms down-dropping golden leaves.
With still half-fallen lids he sits and dreams
Far in a hollow of the sunlit wood,
Lulled by the murmur of thin-threading streams,
Nor sees the polar armies overflood
The darkening barriers of the hills, nor hears
The north-wind ringing with a thousand spears.

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