He won it, and ran it much faster Than even the first, I believe Oh, he was the daddy, the master, Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. He showed 'em the method to travel -- The boy sat as still as a stone -- They never could see him for gravel; He came in hard-held, and alone. But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow; Like me, with my thatch of the snow; When he dies, then I hope I may follow, And go where the racehorses go.
I don't want no harping nor singing -- Such things with my style don't agree; Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing There's music sufficient for me. And surely the thoroughbred horses Will rise up again and begin Fresh races on far-away courses, And p'raps they might let me slip in.
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter Proclaim that the battle grows hot; As they come down the racecourse a-steering, He'll rush to the front, I believe; And you'll hear the great multitude cheering For Pardon, the son of Reprieve. My business,—just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear. I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced, But never quaked before.
Benchmark - Poems
I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there. I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house. And he laughing said to me. And I pluck'd a hollow reed.
To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. Here love ends, Despair, ambition ends; All pleasure and all trouble, Although most sweet or bitter, Here ends in sleep that is sweeter Than tasks most noble. Sonnet When I consider everything that grows by William Shakespeare PDF Sonnet When I consider everything that grows By William Shakespeare When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay To change your day of youth to sullied night; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
This life is most jolly. Piano by D. Nay, thou shalt not bid me stand! Nay, I will not yield! Then aroint thee, shadow fly! And I know from that Elysian freight She will brave but once more the Atlantic weather, When dory and fisherman sail by fate To seek for the Happy Isles together.qijirahnflet.tk
[JOSTEIN BØRTNES AND TOMAS HÄGG] Gregory of Nazianzus, Images and Reflections.pdf
No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear. On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale.
And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her—strange!
So it is: yet let us sing, Honour to the old bow-string! Honour to the bugle-horn! Honour to the woods unshorn! Honour to the Lincoln green! Honour to the archer keen! Honour to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honour to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood-clan! Though their days have hurried by Let us two a burden try. And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while!
Musical Bouquet: Praeludium Sextum scored for Organ Solo
We are not wholly bad or good Who live our lives under Milk Wood, And Thou, I know, wilt be the first To see our best side, not our worst. O let us see another day! Bless us all this night, I pray, And to the sun we all will bow And say, good-bye — but just for now! How just unto thy joints this circlet sitteth, So just thy face and shape my fancy fitteth. The touch will try this ring of purest gold, My touch tries thee, as pure though softer mold.
That metal precious is, the stone is true, As true, and then how much more precious, you. The gem is cleare, and hath nor needes no foyle, Thy face, nay more, thy fame is free from soil. Youle deem this deere, because from me you have it, I deem your faith more deer, because you gave it. But this, as all things else, time wastes with wearing, Where you my jewels multiply with bearing.
John Harington. Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh. Then heard I, more distinctly than before, The ocean breathe and its great breast expand, And hurrying came on the defenceless land The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar. All thought and feeling and desire, I said, Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song Have ebbed from me forever! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Dear my love, you know, You had a father: let your son say so.
William Shakespeare. They stick against the path, their pink chapped and their inching labored. It's a matter of moisture isn't it? Time, a measure of wet, shrinking, the drier you get. Kay Ryan. I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows, Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows. But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight. He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away. It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak, It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek. It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dean Man's Creek. I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.
When you look at them, There is nothing in your mind Except the reflections Of my flowers. But when I look at them I see only the reflections In your mind, And not my flowers. It is my desire To bring roses, And place them before you In a white dish. Wallace Stevens. A Shropshire Lad: Far in a western brookland by A. There, in the windless night-time, The wanderer, marvelling why, Halts on the bridge to hearken How soft the poplars sigh. There, by the starlit fences, The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs. All things that have been born were born to die, And flesh which Death mows down to hay is grass; You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, And if you had it o'er again—'twould pass— So thank your stars that matters are no worse, And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.
We meet again, if we should understand Each other; and if not, I shall not try Your patience further than by this short sample— 'Twere well if others follow'd my example. Out of the blacksmith's cavern comes the ringing Of hammer, shoe, and anvil; out of the inn The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing— The sounds that for these fifty years have been. The whisper of the aspens is not drowned, And over lightless pane and footless road, Empty as sky, with every other sound Not ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode, A silent smithy, a silent inn, nor fails In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom, In tempest or the night of nightingales, To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room.
And it would be the same were no house near. Over all sorts of weather, men, and times, Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hear But need not listen, more than to my rhymes. Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves We cannot other than an aspen be That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves, Or so men think who like a different tree.
- Benchmark Poetry;
- PETRONIUS ARBITER;
- Musical Bouquet: Praeludium Sextum Sheet Music by Johann Caspar Ferdinand Fischer.
- Johann Caspar Ferdinand Fischer;
- Fighting Traffic: The Dawn of the Motor Age in the American City (Inside Technology);
- Satiricon libri.
- Ombres en la nit (Clàssica) (Catalan Edition).
We strain our eyes beyond this dusk to see What, from the threshold of eternity We shall step into. No, I think we shun The splendour of that everlasting glare, The clamour of that never-ending song. And if for anything we greatly long, It is for some remote and quiet stair Which winds to silence and a space for sleep Too sound for waking and for dreams too deep. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
It is difficult even to choose the adjective For this blank cold, this sadness without cause. The great structure has become a minor house. No turban walks across the lessened floors. The greenhouse never so badly needed paint. The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
Related Musical Bouquet: Praeludium Sextum
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