91–100 of 369 posts
Aside from Tolkien's poetry in-world poetry, my favorite is probably Tennyson. Ulysses in particular is awesome. This is the final stanza. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Ol…
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.Cecil Day Lewis: Tempt me no more, for I Have known the lightning's hour, The poet's inward pride, The certainty of power. And, of course being a Scot, Robert Burns: What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; A Man's a Man for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a'…
Burn's Selkirk Grace is about the only thing I've tried to memorise; I'll check afterwards how far away I was: Some hae meat and cannae eat, And some wid eat that want it, But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit
From http://www.rampantscotland.com/poetry/blpoems_grace.htm:
Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.
And sae the Lord be thankit“Come to the edge," he said. "We can't, we're afraid!" they responded. "Come to the edge," he said. "We can't, We will fall!" they responded. "Come to the edge," he said. And so they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.” ― Guillaume Apollinaire close second: I am Ebenezer Bleezer, I run BLEEZER’S ICE CREAM STORE, there are flavors in my freezer you have never seen before, twenty-eight divine creations too delicio…
God. Though you probably have to read/hear/understand the Quran in Arabic to fully appreciate its beauty. Nothing worldly has even come close to the poetic and literatural quality of God's word.
I'm sorry, but reading the translation of Quran, I can't believe it: Those who wander from the way of Allah have an awful doom.--38:36 Take them [unbelivers] and kill them wherever ye find them. Against such We have given you clear warrant.--4:91 O ye who believe! Fight those of the disbelievers who are near to you, and let them find harshness in you--9:123 Those who strive against Our revelations, challenging (Us),…
Here is a video to illustrate the poetic quality of the Quran:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?18947...
## Don't Blame Anyone
Never complain about anyone, nor anything,
because basically you have done
what you wanted in your life.
Accept the difficulty of improving yourself
and the courage to start changing yourself.
The triumph of the true man emerges from
the ashes of his mistake.
Never complain about your loneliness or your
luck, face it with courage and accept it.
In one way or another it is the outcome of
your acts and the thought that you always
have to win.
Don't be embittered by your own failure or
blame it on another, accept yourself now or
you'll keep making excuses for yourself like a child.
Remember that any time is
a good time to begin and that nobody
is so horrible that they should give up.
Don't forget that the cause of your present
is your past, as well as the cause of your
future will be your present.
Learn from the bold, the strong,
those who don't accept situations, who
will live in spite of everything. Think less in
your problems and more in your work and
your problems, without eliminating them, will die.
Learn how to grow from the pain and to be
greater than the greatest of those
obstacles. Look at yourself in the mirror
and you will be free and strong and you will stop
being a puppet of circumstances because you
yourself are your own destiny.
Arise and look at the sun in the mornings
and breathe the light of the dawn.
You are part of the force of your life;
now wake up, fight, get going, be decisive
and you will triumph in life. Never think about
luck because luck is
the pretext of losers.All in the town were still asleep, When the sun came up with a shout and a leap. In the lonely streets unseen by man, A little dog danced. And the day began.
All his life he'd been good, as far as he could, And the poor little beast had done all that he should. But this morning he swore, by Odin and Thor And the Canine Valhalla—he'd stand it no more!
So his prayer he got granted—to do just what he wanted, Prevented by none, for the space of one day. "Jam incipiebo, sedere facebo," In dog-Latin he quoth, "Euge! sophos! hurray!"
He fought with the he-dogs, and winked at the she-dogs, A thing that had never been heard of before. "For the stigma of gluttony, I care not a button!" he Cried, and ate all he could swallow—and more.
He took sinewy lumps from the shins of old frumps, And mangled the errand-boys—when he could get 'em. He shammed furious rabies, and bit all the babies, And followed the cats up the trees, and then ate 'em!"
They thought 'twas the devil was holding a revel, And sent for the parson to drive him away; For the town never knew such a hullabaloo As that little dog raised—till the end of that day.
When the blood-red sun had gone burning down, And the lights were lit in the little town, Outside, in the gloom of the twilight grey, The little dog died when he'd had his day.
By William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
1794