He that strikes with the sword shall be stricken with the scabbard.
Related quotes
A good sword is the one left in its scabbard.
Who draws his sword against his prince must throw away his scabbard.
Good sword has often been in poor scabbard.
Scottish Gaelic proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
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!
Rate This Poem
I’d love to be inside the head
of the Phantom Oner as she
strikes again… with one deadly One,
cuts the previous ten right down
to a grovelling 5.5…
‘that’ll teach you, you big-headed smug,
with your groupies and brown-nosers; all your pissy posse…
THIS IS NOT A POEM…’
and with one bound – I’m free!
No longer need I try to write
a poem rich in metaphor like some jewelled scabbard,
declaring sparkling wealth and power;
distracting from the question,
is the sharp sword, of discrimination,
still there, sharp, inside?
or a poem so full of music’s sound,
it sings itself into the mind
like leprechaun with emerald guile,
in the ear of sleeping child…
or, any other sort of poem –
I’m free … now I know I can
please everyone, someone, no-one.. on a scale
from nought to ten or should that be
from ten to nought?
I can now just be; be my one self…
write from the heart;
remembering that all others have a heart…so,
thanks, O noble one…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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!
Phantom Lord
Sound is ripping through your ears
The deafing sound of metal nears
Your bodies waiting for his whips
The taste of leather on your lips
Hear the cry of War
Louder than before
With his sword in hand
to control the land
Crushing metal strikes
on this frightening night
Fall onto your knees
For the Phantom Lord
Victems falling under chains
You hear them crying death pains
The fists of terrors breaking through
Now there's nothing you can do
Hear the cry of War
Louder than before
With his sword in ha o
to control the land
Crushing metal strikes
on this frightening night
Fall onto your knees
For the Phantom Lord
The leather armies have prevailed
The Phantom Lord has never failed
Smoke is lifting from the ground
The rising volume metal sound
Hear the cry of War
Louder than before
With his sword in hand
to control the land
Crushing metal strikes
on this frightening night
Fall onto your knees
For the Phantom Lord
Fall to your knees
and bow to the Phantom Lord
song performed by by Metallica from Kill 'Em All
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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!
Upon a Hill is a Sword
Upon a hill is a sword that intimidates,
It strikes at the expense of tragedy,
What does it do but fabricate debates,
Meaningful dates are spoken with ability.
Upon a chance so acute, the sword is handed
To a singer of reasonable songs
Finding waters of lovable words like pearls
From an abalone.
Upstairs the heavens are crossed to come across
A weapon of magic, abhorrently working
And chiming the time-clock like applesauce,
Where the orchards keep with infinity but abating.
The sword does not love being abolished,
With adoration it speaks of hatred abounding;
The dagger is shorter and inadequate, brandished
Like a weapon in abbreviation, one that is abandoning.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Demon Lord (Part V)
The air is thick
Smoke rises from the flames
Phelan’s blades scrap against the floor
In front of Him stands the Demon Lord
Fire spews from its mouth
The flames engulf Phelan
They fly from his body
The floor shakes as the Demon Lord leaps down from his throne
Their eyes meet
The flames grow
The Hatred within the Demon Lord’s heart grows
Your reign is over
Are the words that fly from Phelan’s mouth
The words are met by fire
His blades shine
The Demon Lord’s hand grabs a sword
A blade of pure fire appears
Both opponents know the other must die
Fire fills the room
The heat is unbearable
Yet both struggle against each other
Your reign is over
Gold strikes fire
Silver strikes fire
Fire strikes armor
Both slowly weaken
The battle rages on
Your reign is over
Neither gives ground
Neither gain ground
Phelan lifts his mighty blades to the sky
The Demon Lord strikes
Your reign is over
The gold crashes down
The sword of fire is shattered
The pieces fly over the entire world
Your reign is over
The silver blade slices through the air
A gurgled scream is heard through the lands
The body of the Demon Lord crumples
The head rolls out of the palace
As Phelan whips the blood from the swords he yells
Your reign is over
poem by Phillip Dodham Cormier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Nurse's Watch
From 'The Boy's Wonderhorn'
The moon it shines,
My darling whines;
The clock strikes twelve:--God cheer
The sick both far and near.
God knoweth all;
Mousy nibbles in the wall;
The clock strikes one:--like day,
Dreams o'er thy pillow play.
The matin-bell
Wakes the nun in convent cell;
The clock strikes two:--they go
To choir in a row.
The wind it blows,
The cock he crows;
The clock strikes three:--the wagoner
In his straw bed begins to stir.
The steed he paws the floor,
Creaks the stable door;
The clock strikes four:--'tis plain
The coachman sifts his grain.
The swallow's laugh the still air shakes,
The sun awakes;
The clock strikes five:--the traveler must be gone,
He puts his stockings on.
The hen is clacking,
The ducks are quacking;
The clock strikes six:--awake, arise,
Thou lazy hag; come, ope thy eyes.
Quick to the baker's run;
The rolls are done;
The clock strikes seven:--
'Tis time the milk were in the oven.
Put in some butter, do,
And some fine sugar, too;
The clock strikes eight:--
Now bring my baby's porridge straight.
poem by Clemens Maria Brentano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Mind
There rings the bell
The dream strikes hard
Awakening the girl
A dream so bad
There comes joy
The thoughts strike hard
Happy is the boy
In the end gets mad
There goes hope
Night strikes hard
Man hangs on a rope
A story so sad
There sounds the gun
Day dream strikes hard
The woman can't run
Just waits for the blood
There comes war
The life strikes hard
All on the floor
In the red liquid flood.
poem by Walani Ndhlovu
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!
A blow with a word strikes deeper than a blow with a sword.
quote by Robert Burton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!