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Quotes about mire

John Gay

Trivia ; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London : Book II.

Of Walking the Streets by Day.

Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful lays
The proper implements for wintry ways;
Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes,
To read the various warnings of the skies.
Now venture, Muse, from home to range the town,
And for the public safety risk thy own.
For ease and for dispatch, the morning's best;
No tides of passengers the street molest.
You'll see a draggled damsel, here and there,
From Billingsgate her fishy traffic bear;
On doors the sallow milk-maid chalks her gains;
Ah! how unlike the milk-maid of the plains!
Before proud gates attending asses bray,
Or arrogate with solemn pace the way;
These grave physicians with their milky cheer,
The love-sick maid and dwindling beau repair;
Here rows of drummers stand in martial file,
And with their vellum thunder shake the pile,

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I, Centaur (A Fantasy)

I, Centaur gallop on wind and fire
Across the meadows, across the mire
While demons in unearthly rage
Bellow from their burning stage
Curses on them above
“Let Lucifer take you below”
Saddened by some desire
We fall, but not on fire
Heaven help the fallen man
Here I am, I fall where I stand
Listen demons of the mist
I mock you with hand and fist
Come take your bounty fire
I wait for you across the mire
Hordes of hell now gather close
Listen to thy heavenly host
Listen to yon sweet harp play
Now listen to my sharp blade slay
Turn around - run
Cower once more underground

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William Butler Yeats

Byzantium

THE unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.
Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miraclc than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,

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Ghosts

Last passing leaves leave, life's page sage admires,
most boasts are ghost hosts, post haste phantom choirs,
now tripping, hesitant, upon life’s board,
stillborn, denying deepest heart’s desire.

As puppets men, leaves, dance upon branch wire
taut from birth to death, - staged play's proved liar,
taught to act but not to BE! - the sword
of Fate each early, late, must all retire.

For few dare seek the stars, or yet aspire
for freedom, seldom glance above their mire,
fear chloroforming chlorophyll cuts cord
that holds life's journey from horizons higher.

The burning bush survived the blazing fire,
and witness stands to God the purifier, -
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
as Fall to Winter wanes, frost snaps high-flyer.

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Federico García Lorca

Ode to Walt Whitman

By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
and children drawing stairs and perspectives.

But none of them could sleep,
none of them wanted to be the river,
none of them loved the huge leaves
or the shoreline's blue tongue.

By the East River and the Queensboro
boys were battling with industry
and the Jews sold to the river faun
the rose of circumcision,
and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky emptied
herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none of them paused,
none of them wanted to be a cloud,

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Light My Fire

(Jim Morrison, John Densmore, Ray Manzarek, Robby Krieger)
You know that it would be untrue
You know that it would be lie
If i was to say to you
Girl we couldn't get much higher
The time to hesitate is true
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love becomes a funeral fire
The time to hesitate is true
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love becomes a funeral fire
[Chorus:]
Come on baby light my fire
Come on baby light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
The time to hesitate is true
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose

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William Butler Yeats

The Two Kings

KING EOCHAID came at sundown to a wood
Westward of Tara. Hurrying to his queen
He had outridden his war-wasted men
That with empounded cattle trod the mire,
And where beech-trees had mixed a pale green light
With the ground-ivy's blue, he saw a stag
Whiter than curds, its eyes the tint of the sea.
Because it stood upon his path and seemed
More hands in height than any stag in the world
He sat with tightened rein and loosened mouth
Upon his trembling horse, then drove the spur;
But the stag stooped and ran at him, and passed,
Rending the horse's flank. King Eochaid reeled,
Then drew his sword to hold its levelled point
Against the stag. When horn and steel were met
The horn resounded as though it had been silver,
A sweet, miraculous, terrifying sound.
Horn locked in sword, they tugged and struggled there
As though a stag and unicorn were met
Among the African Mountains of the Moon,

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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

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Planted In The Middle Of Earth's Mire

Planted in the middle of earth's mire
A sweet flower pungent in agonizing scent
With thorns on her stem, like a brier
To protect herself, for she's heaven sent
Causing hearts to bleed and senses to die
The love filled rose, its intense emotion
Sends the lover's muse to heights above high
Flying to death with open wings in motion
Inquiring heaven, to beg for her salvation
For she yearns to die and forever be free
From her pain, from her only vexation
The mire that surrounds, and threatens she
So I pick her flower and throw her away
Into heaven's shadow, wert she yearn to stay…

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Robert Louis Stevenson

If This Were Faith

God, if this were enough,
That I see things bare to the buff
And up to the buttocks in mire;
That I ask nor hope nor hire,
Nut in the husk,
Nor dawn beyond the dusk,
Nor life beyond death:
God, if this were faith!

Having felt thy wind in my face
Spit sorrow and disgrace,
Having seen thine evil doom
In Golgotha and Khartoum,
And the brutes, the work of thine hands,
Fill with injustice lands
And stain with blood the sea:
If still in my veins the glee
Of the black night and the sun
And the lost battle, run:
If, an adept,

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