Quotes about phrase
VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator
Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!
It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Introit : VIII. The Golden Joy
What has the poet but a glorious phrase
And the heart's wisdom? -- Oh, a Joy of gold!
A Joy to mint and squander on the Kind,--
Pure gold coined current for eternity,
Giving dear wealth to men for a long age,
And after, lost to sight and touch of hands,
Leaving a memory that will bud and bloom
And blossom all into a lyric phrase--
The glorious phrase again on other lips,
The heritage of Joy, the heart again,
Wisdom anew that ages not but lives
To Sappho-sing the Poet else forgot.
O Joy! O secret transport of mystic vision,
Who hold'st the keys of Ivory and Horn,
Who join'st the hands of Earth and Faerie!
Thou art the inmate of the hermit soul
That shuns the touch of every street-worn wind
Sweet to all else, the shuns doctrine and doubt,
To wait in trembling quietness for thee.
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poem by Thomas MacDonagh
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Ph[r]ase by Gilded Ph[r]ase
PHRASE BY GILDED PHRASE
Welcome beams' streams weight true words in ways
A ll others only dream of imitating.
N one turn prose to free verse impersonating
D epth and scope of Night Hope's interplays
A s pleasure treasured fills each page, lights days,
L inks leisure to unmeasured selfless stating
E ternal truths through voice for choice all waiting
A dmire as choir unanimous relays
B right softness, sets scene for serene screen blaze.
R eflections simple, not simplistic, sating,
A lways gentle, unique style relating
Y ears, tears, or longings ph[r]ase by gilded ph[r]ase.
T he appetite awaits more verse uncloyed,
ON white wings, unabating, overjoyed.
14 August 2007
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Metamorphosis
Valerie is somehow made aware
As new age dawns, fair feelings open gate.
Longings, soul sating, heartache dissipate.
Energy can focus everywhere, -
Voyage into light and laughter. Share
Always bright emotions and create
Link which chains not, may anticipate
Evolution understanding where
Rebirth rings needed changes, softens care.
Instincts can expand to celebrate
Entwining beginnings, - secondary state.
Visions of serenity prepare,
And opportunities for future fair.
Life looks not back: let Fate precipitate
Events, as metamorphosis Hope's gate
Reopening, offers dreams intense and rare.
Idyll ideal's no mirage as free spirits start
Enchanting voyage, may a new world chart...
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Don Juan: Canto The Ninth
Oh, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'--for Fame
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
France could not even conquer your great name,
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase-
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),
You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!'
I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well
In Marinet's affair--in fact, 'twas shabby,
And like some other things won't do to tell
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.
Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell,
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your grace is still but a young hero.
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:
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Canto the Ninth
I
Oh, Wellington! (or "Villainton" -- for Fame
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
France could not even conquer your great name,
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase --
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),
You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder "Nay!"
II
I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well
In Marinet's affair -- in fact, 't was shabby,
And like some other things won't do to tell
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.
Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell,
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your grace is still but a young hero.
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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto the Eighth
I
Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will -- they mean but wars.
II
All was prepared -- the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay, --
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.
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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Eighth Book
ONE eve it happened when I sate alone,
Alone upon the terrace of my tower,
A book upon my knees, to counterfeit
The reading that I never read at all,
While Marian, in the garden down below,
Knelt by the fountain (I could just hear thrill
The drowsy silence of the exhausted day)
And peeled a new fig from that purple heap
In the grass beside her,–turning out the red
To feed her eager child, who sucked at it
With vehement lips across a gap of air
As he stood opposite, face and curls a-flame
With that last sun-ray, crying, 'give me, give,'
And stamping with imperious baby-feet,
(We're all born princes)–something startled me,–
The laugh of sad and innocent souls, that breaks
Abruptly, as if frightened at itself;
'Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above
In sudden shame that I should hear her laugh,
And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book,
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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I began thinking there should be an American phrase book, 'cause I've got an Italian phrase book, and an Arabic one... now a British one. I think it'd be pretty good to have an American phrase book.
quote by Joe Strummer
Added by Lucian Velea
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It Is What It Is
“It is what it is”
-Such a popular phrase!
And folks spread it around
Like Fast Food Mayonnaise.
It’s been used to describe
Economic foment,
The state of the arts and
The high cost of rent.
A phrase often spoken
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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