Good sword has often been in poor scabbard.
Scottish Gaelic proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
A good sword is the one left in its scabbard.
He that strikes with the sword shall be stricken with the scabbard.
Who draws his sword against his prince must throw away his scabbard.
Whosoever draws his sword against the prince must throw the scabbard away.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The scabbard is content to be dull when it protects the keenness of the sword.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Wit in women is apt to have bad consequences; like a sword without a scabbard, it wounds the wearer and provokes assailants.
quote by Elizabeth Montagu
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Dignity
at par
with you
my equal
in this fight
you are
so gentle
when i
lose the grip of
my sword and it falls
on the ground
you have the courage
to pick it up
for me and tell
me
i need it most now
and then
the point of the sword
now faces
frozen at the eye
of my heart
i stare
coldly and i perspire
to the thought
of my death
at this point
you say
tnanks it is fair
and i look at
you again
at par
shoulder to shoulder
my equal
you let me go
you put your sword
in your scabbard
and take the stride
on your white horse
and leave me
agape my mouth
opens
you are at par
with me
my equal
you have all the chance
to kill me at once
but you didn't
you make me live
now
a new man
a fighter rising from his fall
gentle and
brave as ever
to fight
my own wars.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Damned Reunions
tired of those damned
reunions always other people doing good
making more money buying respect
integrity no longer intact
like a sword to its scabbard
bards and boards and bored
and braggarts
silky collars and shiny shoes
and dance beats
no longer adapted to my age,
i am not
attending any anymore
damned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love Without Lust
Like the power of love
Lust goes on in the shadows
In the spirit of obsession
Intoxicated with greedy passions
Get me drunk
Let me say what i know
Love goes not without lust
A pair don't make two
In the smithy of the smith
Refine your feelings
Let not the sword from the scabbard
Don't give the barley with chaffs
I know love do exist
But the child is born with the placenta
Bring out the evil in good
Give your love without lust.
poem by Adewumi Joshua
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Pleas of a Claymore I
In my sedentary ineptitude,
I shall acquaint you with
The uncouth wails of a claymore
With the hissing sounds in the air
Of its unabashed bashings
Slicing through the verdigris of reticence
Swallowed, like serrated daggers
And the throat that bled the anarchy
That had always coiled in the underground
Grottos of a stagnant river.
I shall ring the sleeping bells,
With the shrills and clatters
Spewing the turbulent climates
Of a claymore in a warfare
That he vied for, like his own
And of a greater mayhem
When is he is not desirable
Pleasant and wanted,
And remained sheathed
Effacing incorrigible thousand winks
In the mausoleum of his scabbard
That pierced through the veneer
Of impassable platinum.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Obstinately lacerating its throat
In emitting the anguish
Into the moon as he raised
Its head to wedge the enemy;
A phantasmagoria of an adversary
In an amorphous shape
For he is an abused vessel
Of a blind tormented soul
In the emollient hands
That he had vied for
Like his very own.
Sometimes, the claymore
Is more of a scabbard
Than a sword.
And when the vigor is acquiesced
Cleaving into a carnage
With a remonstrative odium
He would bow his estoque
Into the sanguinary of the soil
Reeking with sepulchral remorse
Only to pray for the clenched fist
That had mended him
And forget about his own
Fluttering pains
And peccadilloes.
Sometimes, the claymore
Is more of a rosary
Than a sword.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Men Of Good Fortune
Men of good fortune
Often cause empires to fall
While men of poor beginnings
Often cant do anything at all
The rich son waits for his father to die
The poor just drink and cry
And me, I just dont care at all
Men of good fortune
Very often cant do a thing
While men of poor beginnings
Often can do anything
At heart they try to act like a man
Handle things the best way they can
They have no rich, daddy to fall back on
Men of good fortune
Often cause empires to fall
While men of poor beginnings
Often cant do anything at all
It takes money to make money they say
Look at the fords, but didnt they start that way
Anyway, it makes no difference to me
Men of good fortune
Often wish that they could die
While men of poor beginnings
Want what they have and to get it theyll die
All those great things that live has to give
They wanna have money and live
But me, I just dont care at all
Men of good fortune
Men of poor beginnings
Men of good fortune
Men of poor beginnings
Men of good fortune
Men of poor beginnings
Men of good fortune
Men of poor beginnings
...
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Food and taste
There is good food and good bed.
There is fine wine and fine tune.
By is a cute lady with a melody.
You, as a king, are restless to taste.
The sword of Damocles hangs there.
The poor have taste, no means.
The rich have means, no taste.
17.04.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Call
Hark! 'tis the rush of the horses,
The crash of the galloping gun!
The stars are out of their courses;
The hour of Doom has begun.
Leap from thy scabbard, O sword!
Leap! 'Tis the Day of the Lord!
Prate not of peace any longer,
Laughter and idlesse and ease!
Up, every man that is stronger!
Leave but the priest on his knees!
Quick, every hand to the hilt!
Who striketh not—his the guilt!
Call not each man on his brother!
Cry not to Heaven to save!
Thou art the man—not another—
Thou, to off glove and out glaive!
Fight, ye who ne'er fought before!
Fight, ye old fighting-men more!
poem by Francis William Bourdillon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sword Of Mine
The Sword that I carry
Though made not of iron or steel,
It is a mighty sword
That I proudly do so wield.
Though it wont break the skin
Or combat the weapons of a foe
But this is a mighty sword of mine
More precious than silver or gold.
This sword that I carry
I proudly display it in my hand,
For I know this sword of mine
Is greater, than any other mans.
It comforts me when I am tired
It will warm me when I am cold
It will lie down beside of me
To protect, and strengthen my soul.
The sword that I hold
Is tattered, and so very worn
It has been a friend along side of me,
In the sunshine and many storms.
It has shown me a path to follow
And has lit the road that I walk,
And those nights when I was alone and scared
Then to me, I could hear it talk.
The sword that I wield
Though may be different, in shape or size,
But it is the same sword
Which for years has cushioned the souls cry.
It has been here since the dawn of time
And will be here when the great walls fall,
And then when all men of war and hate reflect,
My sword, will be the mightiest sword of all.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sword
On the wall it hangs,
silently.
In scabbard encased.
Secure.
Secrets
What secrets might it conceal?
Courage, heroism
earned on battle's field?
Challenge?
In conflict no quarter.
Honor?
Was it never drawn with biased intent?
Silence.
Is that subtle clue to all?
Disturb not sleeping essence,
for to disrupt its peace.
Its honed edge will draw
taste, and carry blood's stain.
Sword.
On the wall it hangs,
silent, foreboding.
Symbol..., prophesy?
12Aug10
poem by Kurt Hearth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hollywood Holiday
I rode my motorcycle through a watermelon patch
Right on the california freeway
I took my holy Bible on my blessed boogie woogie drive
Cause I know I know I know
Where I go oh lord theyre gonna bless me jive
Poor you poor me
Poor everybody who buy to be
Poor me poor you
Poor everybody who die to do
I parked my motorcycle on hollywood and vine
And sang till my red blood turned boiling blue
I took my sole survival and bore my cross on a string
Cause I know I know I know
What I dear I bear my charm to king
Poor you poor me
Poor everybody who buy to be
Poor me poor you
Poor everybody who die to do
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Street
Ah these are the poor,
These are the poor –
Bergen street.
Humiliation,
Hardship...
Nor are they very good to each other;
It is not that. I want
An end of poverty
As much as anyone
For the sake of intelligence,
'the conquest of existence' –
It has been said, and is true –
And this is real pain,
Moreover. It is terrible to see the children,
The righteous little girls;
So good, they expect to be so good...
poem by George Oppen
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian