Related quotes
The Trumpeter
The war was all around
And the city was small.
The doctors laughed at him,
He was not like de Gaulle.
Well, may be the trumpeter?
OK, trumpeter, as a trumpeter!
Being a trumpeter is so good,
At least you don't have to bow.
The bullets whistle over your head,
As the winds sometimes blow.
But why it happened like that?
For a boy the war was a spit.
But once in the autumn rains,
In a strange unknown land,
The regiment was waned,
No one heard the command.
No one was there to be astound.
Come on, trumpeter! You sound!
In smoke and flames he stood,
His lips pressed to the trumpet,
The regiment, like knighthoods,
Followed the trumpeter.
The International they sang,
And the triumph bells rang.
The trumpeter,.. but a real soldier
Was devoted to a peaceful music,
He had to defend the border,
With a trumpet to do the trick.
If you are a man but not a hick,
The trumpet you will pick.
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Trumpeter Swans
TRUMPETER SWANS
Neither prone to liaison
Prefer to mate for life
“Trumpeter Swans”
Unto afterlife
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Trumpet Call
Trumpeter, sound for the last Crusade!
Sound for the fire of the red-cross kings,
Sound for the passion, the splendour, the pity
That swept the world for a dead Man's sake,
Sound, till the answering trumpet rings
Clear from the heights of the holy City,
Sound till the lions of England awake,
Sound for the tomb that our lives have betrayed;
O'er broken shrine and abandoned wall,
Trumpeter, sound the great recall,
Trumpeter, rally us, rally us, rally us;
Sound for the last Crusade!
Trumpeter, sound for the splendour of God!
Sound the music whose name is law,
Whose service is perfect freedom still,
The order august that rules the stars.
Bid the anarchs of night withdraw,
Too long the destroyers have worked their will,
Sound for the last, the last of the wars.
Sound for the heights that our fathers trod,
When truth was truth and love was love,
With a hell beneath, but a heaven above,
Trumpeter, rally us, up to the heights of it!
Sound for the City of God.
poem by Alfred Noyes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Health To The Queen
While the thistle bears
Spears,
And the shamrock is green,
And the English rose
Blows,
A health to the Queen!
A health to the Queen, a health to the Queen!
Fill high, boys, drain dry, boys,
A health to the Queen!
The thistle bears spears round its blossom,
Round its blossom the shamrock is green,
The rose grows and glows round the rose in its bosom,
We stand sword in hand round the Queen!
Our glory is green round the Queen!
We close round the rose, round the Queen!
The Queen, boys, the Queen! a health to the Queen!
Fill high, boys, drain dry, boys,
A health to the Queen!
Last post I'd a note from that old aunt of mine,
'T was meant for a hook, but she called it a line;
She says, I don't know why we're going to fight,
She's sure I don't know-and I'm sure she's quite right;
She swears I haven't looked at one sole protocol;
Tantara! tantara! I haven't, 'pon my soul!
Soho, blow trumpeter,
Trumpeter, trumpeter!
Soho, blow trumpeter, onward's the cry!
Fall, tyrants, fall-the devil care why!
A health to the Queen; a health to the Queen!
Fill high, boys, drain dry, boys,
A health to the Queen!
My granny came down-'pour vous voir, mon barbare,'
She brought in her pocket a map-du Tartare-
Drawn up, so she vowed, 'par un homme ah! si bon!'
With a plan for campaigning old Hal, en haut ton.
With here you may trick him, and here you may prick him,
And here-if you do it en roi-you may lick him,
But there he is sacred, and yonder-Oh, la!
He's as dear a sweet soul as your late grandpapa!
Soho, blow trumpeter,
Trumpeter, trumpeter!
Blow the charge, trumpeter, blare, boy, blare!
Fall, tyrants, fall-the devil care where!
A health to the Queen, a health to the Queen!
Fill high, boys, drain dry, boys,
A health to the Queen!
My cousin, the Yankee, last night did his best
To prove 'the Czar-bless you's-no worse than the rest.'
We wheeled the decanters out on to the lawn,
And he argued-and spat-in a circle till dawn.
Quoth I, 'If the game's half as thick as you say,
The more need for hounds, lad! Hunt's up! Harkaway!'
Soho, blow trumpeter!
Trumpeter, trumpeter!
Tally-ho, trumpeter, over the ditch-
Over the ditch, boys, the broad ditch at Dover!
Hands slack, boys, heels back, boys,
Yohoicks! we're well over!
Soho, blow, trumpeter! blow us to cover!
Blow, boy, blow,
Berlin, or Moscow,
Schoenbrun, or Rome,
So Reynard's at home,
The devil care which!
Hark, Evans! hark, Campbell! hark, Cathcart!-Halloo!
Heydey, harkaway! good men and true!
Harkaway to the brook,
You won't land in clover!
Leap and look!
High and dry!
Tantivy, full cry!
Full cry up the hill!
Hurrah, and it's over!
A burst and a kill.
While the thistle bears
Spears,
And the shamrock is green,
And the English rose
Blows,
A health to the Queen!
A health to the Queen, a health to the Queen!
Fill high, boys, drain dry, boys,
A health to the Queen!
The Queen, boys, the Queen! the Queen, boys, the Queen!
Full cry, high and dry, boys,
A health to the Queen!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
War
As the drum rolls
end
the lightning
wanes
the trumpeter
solos
The Last Post
deadly spores
from mushroom clouds
fall gently
to the ground.
poem by Vince Gullaci
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Drought King's Trumpeter
Said old Pete, the Pensioner:
'I met him down the road
Where, twixt the shadders of the gums,
The silver moonlight flowed.
His skin was white like shrivelled grass,
His eyes was eyes o' flame.
He was the Drought King's trumpeter,
An' tooted as he came.
He tooted on a holler bone, of some thing dead o' thirst,
Like dry winds a-moanin' low. Then into song he burst:
'Ho! The Drought King's a-comin, as he came to men afore,
Out of his home within the sun. They're flingin' wide the door.
Then shall Folly flee before him an' Destruction spread behind.
He comes to purify the earth an' chasten humankind. . . .,'
I saw the Drought King's trumpeter as plain as I see you.
An' not a dropp inside o' me - save, maybe, one or two.'
Said old Pete, 'I saw him there
Underneath the moon,
He tooted on his holler bone
An' danced a rigadoon.
I took one look into his face
Then fled into the night;
I fell in thro' my old hut door
An' banged an' barred it tight.
But thro' the night I heard him there; the way he keened an' cried,
The callin' of the curlew was sweet melody beside.
'Ho! The Drought King's a-comin' from his home within the sun
To lay his curse upon the earth for sins that men have done.
Grace ye had an' gifts ye had, but gambled 'em away
An' schemed to make a mockery of many a fruitful day. . . .'
I tell yeh, man, 'twas not the wind! I heard him at my door.
An' ne'er a dropp inside o' me - save maybe, three or four.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tom O'Roughley
'THOUGH logic-choppers rule the town,
And every man and maid and boy
Has marked a distant object down,
An aimless joy is a pure joy,'
Or so did Tom O'Roughley say
That saw the surges running by.
'And wisdom is a butterfly
And not a gloomy bird of prey.
'If little planned is little sinned
But little need the grave distress.
What's dying but a second wind?
How but in zig-zag wantonness
Could trumpeter Michael be so brave?'
Or something of that sort he said,
'And if my dearest friend were dead
I'd dance a measure on his grave.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Who Goes Home?
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Who Goes Home?
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Mystic Trumpeter
HARK! some wild trumpeter--some strange musician,
Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night.
I hear thee, trumpeter--listening, alert, I catch thy notes,
Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me,
Now low, subdued--now in the distance lost.
Come nearer, bodiless one--haply, in thee resounds
Some dead composer--haply thy pensive life
Was fill'd with aspirations high--unform'd ideals,
Waves, oceans musical, chaotically surging,
That now, ecstatic ghost, close to me bending, thy cornet echoing,
pealing, 10
Gives out to no one's ears but mine--but freely gives to mine,
That I may thee translate.
Blow, trumpeter, free and clear--I follow thee,
While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene,
The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day, withdraw;
A holy calm descends, like dew, upon me,
I walk, in cool refreshing night, the walks of Paradise,
I scent the grass, the moist air, and the roses;
Thy song expands my numb'd, imbonded spirit--thou freest, launchest
me,
Floating and basking upon Heaven's lake. 20
Blow again, trumpeter! and for my sensuous eyes,
Bring the old pageants--show the feudal world.
What charm thy music works!--thou makest pass before me,
Ladies and cavaliers long dead--barons are in their castle halls--the
troubadours are singing;
Arm'd knights go forth to redress wrongs--some in quest of the Holy
Grail:
I see the tournament--I see the contestants, encased in heavy armor,
seated on stately, champing horses;
I hear the shouts--the sounds of blows and smiting steel:
I see the Crusaders' tumultuous armies--Hark! how the cymbals clang!
Lo! where the monks walk in advance, bearing the cross on high!
Blow again, trumpeter! and for thy theme, 30
Take now the enclosing theme of all--the solvent and the setting;
Love, that is pulse of all--the sustenace and the pang;
The heart of man and woman all for love;
No other theme but love--knitting, enclosing, all-diffusing love.
O, how the immortal phantoms crowd around me!
I see the vast alembic ever working--I see and know the flames that
heat the world;
The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lovers,
So blissful happy some--and some so silent, dark, and nigh to death:
Love, that is all the earth to lovers--Love, that mocks time and
space;
Love, that is day and night--Love, that is sun and moon and stars; 40
Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume;
No other words, but words of love--no other thought but Love.
Blow again, trumpeter--conjure war's Wild alarums.
Swift to thy spell, a shuddering hum like distant thunder rolls;
Lo! where the arm'd men hasten--Lo! mid the clouds of dust, the glint
of bayonets;
I see the grime-faced cannoniers--I mark the rosy flash amid the
smoke--I hear the cracking of the guns:
--Nor war alone--thy fearful music-song, wild player, brings every
sight of fear,
The deeds of ruthless brigands--rapine, murder--I hear the cries for
help!
I see ships foundering at sea--I behold on deck, and below deck, the
terrible tableaux.
O trumpeter! methinks I am myself the instrument thou playest! 50
Thou melt'st my heart, my brain--thou movest, drawest, changest them,
at will:
And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me;
Thou takest away all cheering light--all hope:
I see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the opprest of the
whole earth;
I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race--it becomes
all mine;
Mine too the revenges of humanity--the wrongs of ages--baffled feuds
and hatreds;
Utter defeat upon me weighs--all lost! the foe victorious!
(Yet 'mid the ruins Pride colossal stands, unshaken to the last;
Endurance, resolution, to the last.)
Now, trumpeter, for thy close, 60
Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet;
Sing to my soul--renew its languishing faith and hope;
Rouse up my slow belief--give me some vision of the future;
Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy.
O glad, exulting, culminating song!
A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes!
Marches of victory--man disenthrall'd--the conqueror at last!
Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man--all joy!
A reborn race appears--a perfect World, all joy!
Women and Men, in wisdom, innocence and health--all joy! 70
Riotous, laughing bacchanals, fill'd with joy!
War, sorrow, suffering gone--The rank earth purged--nothing but joy
left!
The ocean fill'd with joy--the atmosphere all joy!
Joy! Joy! in freedom, worship, love! Joy in the ecstacy of life!
Enough to merely be! Enough to breathe!
Joy! Joy! all over Joy!
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To an Early Daffodil
Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring!
Thou herald of rich Summer's myriad flowers!
The climbing sun with new recovered powers
Does warm thee into being, through the ring
Of rich, brown earth he woos thee, makes thee fling
Thy green shoots up, inheriting the dowers
Of bending sky and sudden, sweeping showers,
Till ripe and blossoming thou art a thing
To make all nature glad, thou art so gay;
To fill the lonely with a joy untold;
Nodding at every gust of wind to-day,
To-morrow jewelled with raindrops. Always bold
To stand erect, full in the dazzling play
Of April's sun, for thou hast caught his gold.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bread and games
They told me I should sing
But I didn't know what to sing
So I asked
What do you want me to sing
Sing bread and games
Bread and games and sing a long
And so I sang
And BANG
The pianist was shot
He had too long a finger
He had too short a thumb
And he was dumb
The said and you sing
Sing bread and games
Bread and games and sing a lot
And so I sang
And BANG
The trumpeter was shot
He had too round a face
He had too long a chin
For a musician a terrible sin
And you sing
Sing bread and games
Bread and games and sing a lot
And so I sang
And BANG
Sorry we had no choice
You've got such a terrible voice
2010.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Swans lll
And many, many more
along an endless shore
their light-militia up the flood extended
fluid, fierce and sotto-sounding
further than the eye could see
pissed as if they had to pay
mortgages, with fees compounding
on which their lives depended-
but, actually, they didn't, needing nay.
Then there came a dawn
so curious, I can't forget
it morning was and blowing quite a bit;
down in a desultory way
the snows of dawn fell down that winter day
when all them turned, acceding to one will
and over the water sped and faster till
they one by one began to disappear
into the low-set clouds like jet succeeding jet
clutching his fellow's tail in his own bill.
I do not know, I wish I did know where
Water-Wing and Weary
Clamor, Flotsome, Fade
the lovely, sinuous O'Leary
Sulphur-Cheek and Feather-Legging, are;
and Feather-Bed and Feather-Head and Fade
but I can only guess, I guess-
where Mute is, Trumpeter and Wade-
whose eye was pink and twinkled like the Morning Star.
poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Swans ll
Guiltless-they
never flustered me
but like an actor in a play
I fed them corners of the crusts of bread
and tufts of candy cotton, pink and green
thrown on the solvent scene
all the which they gratefully retrieved
and upright, thanked me dumbly and received
with gracious nods and blue shakes of the head.
All so very,
supernumerary
called by names beknown to all
to whom they were distinguishable
by which they alone were summonable
aquamarine, a dozen dozens
paddling doughtily in tandem
brother by brother, cousin by cousin
or alone by preference at random.
There was Water-Wing and Water-Weary
Clamor and Flotsome and Fade,
the lovely, sinuous O'Leary;
Then Mute and unusual Wade
would come a-begging
trailed by Sulphur-Cheek and Feather-Legging
and Crest-just short for Bottom-Crested
and jazzy, dark Trumpeter
studying themselves. all, in the water's mirror.
And many, many.....
poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Smile the scented wind
let me be the wind that wash the tiding sea and sudden
the illusion of this day and capture your heart in the endless
beauty of your destiny
thou, the living blue ocean always bring, happiness and
as the trumpeter echo of my call, nothing has come to live in
your bountiful scented smile in the wind, my dear soul rest
oh! my admirable dear desire, my passion shadowed in your
wisdom of love, enduring the holocaust of pain as you walks
amidst my trembling heart, I restore to live beyond today
let me ask a little pardon, the humble beginning of my love,
that leads me to kiss my ignorance of being, that hold me to
push the reason, why forgiveness comes first to your mercy
I come thou, in the brightness of today, blinded that you
Will just a dew to believe the point to accept that all lewd
I to know the zeal that begin the idyllic time with me
may come the sea fished, the water in the dueling night
of the coming ocean blue light of tomorrow, for thou shall
my heart paddle my soul to rejoin; with the time to bring
the memory of you my wind beneath the angler hook of
today ….
tell my beloved One ……
poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Fairy Fellers Master-stroke
Hes a fairy feller
The fairy folk have gathered round the new moon shine
To see the feller crack a nut at nights noon time
To swing his ace he swears, as it climbs he dares
To deliver...
The master-stroke
Ploughman, waggoner will, and types
Politician with senatorial pope - hes a dilly-dally-o
Pedagogue squinting, wears a frown
And a satyr peers under ladys gown, dirty fellow
What a dirty laddio
Tatterdemalion and a junketer
Theres a thief and a dragonfly trumpeter - hes my hero
Fairy dandy tickling the fancy of his lady friend
The nymph in yellow can we see the master-stroke
What a quaere fellow
Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, ploughboy
Waiting to hear the sound
And the arch-magician presides
He is the leader
Oberon and titania watched by a harridan
Mab is the queen and theres a good apothecary-man
Come to say hello
Fairy dandy tickling the fancy of his lady friend
The nymph in yellow
What a quaere fellow
The ostler stares with hands on his knees
Come on mr. feller, crack it open if you please
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Politeness
The English and the French were met
Upon the field of future battle;
The foes were formidably set
And waiting for the guns to rattle;
When from the serried ranks of France
The English saw with woeful presage
Under a flaming flag advance
A trumpeter who bore a message.
'Twas from their Marshal, quite polite,
Yet made the English leader shiver.
"We're perched," said he, "upon the height,
While you're exposed beside the river.
We have the vantage, you'll agree,
And your look-out is melancholy;
But being famed for courtesy
We'll let you fire the starting volley."
The English General was moved,
In fact his eyes were almost tearful;
Then he too his politeness proved
By writing back: "We are not fearful.
Our England is too proud to take
The privilege you thrust upon her;
So let your guns in thunder break:
To you, M'sieu, shall be the houour."
Again a note the Marshall sent
By envoy for his battle station:
"Your spirit wins my compliment,
Your courage my appreciation.
Yet you are weak and we are strong,
And though your faith is most inspiring,
Don't let us linger all day long -
Mon General, begin the firing."
"How chivalrous the soul of France."
The English General reflected.
"I hate to take this happy chance,
But I suppose it's what's expected.
Politeness is a platitude
In this fair land of gallant foemen."
So with a heart of gratitude
He primed his guns and cried: "Let's go men!"
The General was puzzled when
No answer came, said he: "What is it?
Why don't they give us hell?" And then
The herald paid another visit.
The Marshall wrote: "to your salute
Please pardon us for not replying;
To shatter you we cannot shoot . . .
My men are dead and I am dying."
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What I Saw In London..
A full on confrontation between two angry guys,
Which made me stop in my tracks and avert my eyes.
At the Royal Festival Hall, a singer and a jazz band.
Couples whirling each other round the ballroom, holding hands.
A film crew by Gabriel's Wharf, filming 'Pop Up Quiz, '
Although, I haven't the faintest what that exactly is! ?
A young woman near the bridge of Blackfriars,
Performing operatic pieces till her hearts desire.
A middle aged man playing solo acoustic guitar,
Sat strumming away, just along from the riverside bar.
A lone trumpeter playing a rendition of 'Amazing Grace' -
I love buskers: They really add to the ambience of the place.
In Embankment Gardens, there was an American school band,
But I only stopped for a while, as the heat I just couldn't stand.
Under Waterloo Bridge, the famous book fair:
I looked around, but didn't buy anything there.
A pebble, a young boy, along the water skimmed,
Just done on a single moment's heartfelt whim.
Sand artists at work on the small exposed beach.
People sitting, relaxing on the wooden seats.
Lots of people dining under umbrellas in the shade,
Eating mouth watering food, all freshly made.
The Globe Theatre shop, where I went to take a look,
And ended up buying a very useful Shakespeare book.
Children getting soaked in the fountains, making a din.
I loved the feeling of the cooling spray on my very hot skin.
And as I walked back to Waterloo, en route,
I came across a magazine photo shoot.
You never know what things you may find,
And it's nice to paint a picture in your mind.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!