Of listening children have your fears, for little pitchers have great ears.
Related quotes
Too many pitchers, that's all, there are just too many pitchers Ten or twelve on a team. Don't see how any of them get enough work. Four starting pitchers and one relief man ought to be enough. Pitch 'em every three days and you'd find they'd get control and good, strong arms.
Faithful Eckart
"OH, would we were further! Oh, would we were home,
The phantoms of night tow'rd us hastily come,
The band of the Sorceress sisters.
They hitherward speed, and on finding us here,
They'll drink, though with toil we have fetch'd it, the beer,
And leave us the pitchers all empty."
Thus speaking, the children with fear take to flight,
When sudden an old man appears in their sight:
"Be quiet, child! children, be quiet!
From hunting they come, and their thirst they would still,
So leave them to swallow as much as they will,
And the Evil Ones then will be gracious."
As said, so 'twas done! and the phantoms draw near,
And shadowlike seem they, and grey they appear,
~Yet blithely they sip and they revel
The beer has all vanish'd, the pitchers are void;
With cries and with shouts the wild hunters, o'erjoy'd,
Speed onward o'er vale and o'er mountain.
The children in terror fly nimbly tow'rd home,
And with them the kind one is careful to come:
"My darlings, oh, be not so mournful!--
"They'll blame us and beat us, until we are dead."--
"No, no! ye will find that all goes well," he said;
"Be silent as mice, then, and listen!
"And he by whose counsels thus wisely ye're taught,
Is he who with children loves ever to sport.
The trusty and faithful old Eckart.
Ye have heard of the wonder for many a day,
But ne'er had a proof of the marvellous lay,--
Your hands hold a proof most convincing."
They arrive at their home, and their pitchers they place
By the side of their parents, with fear on their face,
Awaiting a beating and scolding.
But see what they're tasting: the choicest of beer!
Though three times and four times they quaff the good cheer
The pitchers remain still unemptied.
The marvel it lasts till the dawning of day;
All people who hear of it doubtless will say:
"What happen'd at length to the pitchers?"
In secret the children they smile, as they wait;
At last, though, they stammer, and stutter, and prate,
And straightway the pitchers were empty.
And if, children, with kindness address'd ye may be,
Whether father, or master, or alderman he,
Obey him, and follow his bidding!
And if 'tis unpleasant to bridle the tongue,
Yet talking is bad, silence good for the young--
And then will the beer fill your pitchers!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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What are you going to do? Admit to yourself that the pitchers have you on the point of surrender? You can't do that. You must make yourself think that the pitchers are just as good as they always have been or just as bad.
quote by Lou Gehrig
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It would be a lot different for me because there is a lot of information that you need to know about as a player. How pitchers are pitching you, how defenses are playing, certain situations about certain pitchers.
quote by Ernie Banks
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Good pitchers, after a tough outing, bounce back. Real good pitchers don't let too many poor games get in there.
quote by Don Cooper
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All pitchers are born pitchers.
quote by Joe DiMaggio
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Tales of Those Now Listening
Folks now gone.
With advice given ignored but shared...
Surfacing upon once deaf ears,
Suddenly heard...
As if from no where!
Those maturing with a wisdom,
Brought upon by age and reflecting...
Leave some to ask,
'Mama 'why' did I not listen then?
Daddy, we had our differences...
But what you tried to express,
I confess...
Seemed so old fashion and useless.
And when the two of you restricted me,
From doing things that would bring harm...
I thought my world would end.'
And the tales of those now listening...
Are as old although they remain ever so fresh.
And the listening somehow is heard,
Clearer now than it has ever been.
Some are spoken to their hard headed children.
With a hope 'something' learned,
Will sink into their thick and disrespecting skins.
But these tales of those now listening,
And delivered...
Seem to breathe new life,
As each generation applies an innovative affliction.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Black Bruises II
I can ponder upon the blackness,
the garrulous of silence
placated by benign solitude
I can endure the ostracizing
listening to lulling lullabies,
listening to trembling metals,
listening to enraptured echoes,
listening to a soundless shattering,
listening to nothingness,
listening to guffawing crows,
listening to diffident clocks,
listening to the waning time;
but am I the only one listening
to these black bruised whispers?
poem by Norman Santos
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Eight Years Old
SUN, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,
Rise, let the time of year be May,
Speak now the word that April hears,
Let March have all his royal way;
Bid all spring raise in winter’s ears
All tunes her children hear or play,
Because the crown of eight glad years
On one bright head is set to-day.
II.
What matters cloud or sun to-day
To him who wears the wreath of years
So many, and all like flowers at play
With wind and sunshine, while his ears
Hear only song on every way?
More sweet than spring triumphant hears
Ring through the revel-rout of May
Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III.
Strong-hearted winter knows and fears
The music made of love at play,
Or haply loves the tune he hears
From hearts fulfilled with flowering May,
Whose molten music thaws his ears
Late frozen, deaf but yesterday
To sounds of dying and dawning years,
Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV.
For deathward now lies winter’s way
Down the green vestibule of years
That each year brightens day by day
With flower and shower till hope scarce fears
And fear grows wholly hope of May.
But we—the music in our ears
Made of love’s pulses as they play
The heart alone that makes it hears.
V.
The heart it is that plays and hears
High salutation of to-day.
Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears
Its own unworthiness to play
Fit music for those eight sweet years,
Or sing their blithe accomplished way.
No song quite worth a young child’s ears
Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI.
There beats not in the heart of May,
When summer hopes and springtide fears,
There falls not from the height of day,
When sunlight speaks and silence hears,
So sweet a psalm as children play
And sing, each hour of all their years,
Each moment of their lovely way,
And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII.
Ah child, what are we, that our ears
Should hear you singing on your way,
Should have this happiness? The years
Whose hurrying wings about us play
Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears
Nought worse than sunlit showers in May,
Being sinless as the spring, that hears
Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII.
Yet we too triumph in the day
That bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,
To lighten daylight, and to play
Such notes as darkness knows and fears,
The child whose face illumes our way,
Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,
Whose hand is as the hand of May
To bring us flowers from eight full years.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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There Are No Children Here
The untrained eye
Walks down the street
And sees children
But they're not children
There are no children here
Adults look back
With hungry eyes
And someone thinks
''They're just children
With a mother and a father
Never any fear''
And they kid themselves
As there are no mothers
No fathers
Because there are no children here
Terror doesn't care
As they cry over there
It lets someone stare
Through the sight of a gun
Seeing everyone
And just for fun
Shoot them
People rush around crying
''But they were just children!
They were just children! ''
A man with a gun
Turns and runs
But as he does they hear
''They aren't children''
And
''They weren't children''
And
''You need to know:
There are no children here''
No one makes a sound
Listening to the truth he's found
And they know:
It's our fault
We didn't save them
We could have saved them
If we cared
There would be children here
poem by Violet Llewellyn
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In My Old Age A Great Happiness
IN MY OLD AGE A GREAT HAPPINESS
In my Old Age
A great Happiness
Comes over me.
Why?
I cannot exactly say
I walk I sing
Music and Poetry in me.
The Spring
The Light the Flowers
Some Great Peace
Of all the years I have been
My children
My step-grandchildren
So much I love
Eretz Yisrael.
How happy the light
Of this green day
All the while
Forgetting
The fears of what might be
The uncertainy of what is
The pains of what will be-
A great Happiness
A great Happiness
Thank G-d I have here now still
Thank God for so much goodness in my life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Cat Scat
I am watching Cleo listening, our cat
listening to Mozart's Magic Flute. What
can she be hearing? What
can the air carry into her ears like that,
her ears swivelling like radio dishes that
are tuned to all the noise of the world, flat
and sharp, high and low, a scramble of this and that
she can decode like nobody's business, acrobat
of random airs as she is? Although of course a bat
is better at it, sifting out of its acoustic habitat
the sound of the very shape of things automat-
ically-- and on the wing, at that. The Magic Flute! What
a joy it is, I feel, and wonder (to the end this little scat)
doe , or can, the cat.
poem by Eamon Grennan
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With A Wish To Get A Bigger Bang
Boom, boom, boom.
Children listening to their videos.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With the sound plugged in their ears.
And boom, boom, boom.
Violence is for them addicting,
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom, boom, boom.
Children listening to their videos.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Spilling blood and guts are nothing,
To the kids who love it much.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
It's a thrill for them to see somebody getting killed,
And...
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
And for them it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom.
Children listening to their videos.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With the sound plugged in their ears.
And boom, boom, boom.
Violence is for them addicting,
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom, boom, boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Violence is for them addicting,
And it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Violence is for them addicting,
And it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom...
A game addicting and insane!
Violence is for them addicting,
And it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom...
A game addicting and insane!
Violence is for them addicting,
And it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom...
A game addicting and insane!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Thousand Eyes
Chorus
The night has a thousand eyes
And theyre all on you
The night has a thousand ears
Listening to your cries
Let it work its magic
Let it work its magic
The night has a thousand eyes
Verse 1
You, you had to slip away
After all that spark
You, said all that you could say
And slipped into the dark
I could not let you go
Alone into the night
I had to let you know
The magic there, in the night air
Chorus
The night has a thousand eyes
And theyre all on you
The night has a thousand ears
Listening to your cries
Let it work its magic
Let it work its magic
The night has a thousand eyes
Verse 2
You, somewhere out in the dark
Runs a wounded heart
You, stumbling in the night
In the air of after light
You take along the fears
Did you waste these years,
And did they warn you
Of the night zone all alone
Sometimes it takes a fight
To keep everything on track,
And sometimes it takes a starry night
To bring the magic back
This was the time
And this was the place
With starlight on your face
And the moon on the rise,
The night has a thousand eyes
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
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I've Been Listening to You Bitch
How do I know what makes you happy?
I've been listening to you for years.
I've been listening to you...
Sharing your agony and fears.
I've been here listening.
And I have not been distant.
I've been listening to you bitch.
And spending a lot of my time,
Doing it.
How do I know what makes you happy.
I know what doesn't.
And knowing that,
Is enough for me to know,
It is time for me to leave.
And 'if' that doesn't make 'you' happy...
Maybe knowing I am gone,
Will make you as thrilled...
I hope.
Even if only half as much,
As I know I am going to be!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Is man really courageous?
Is man really courageous?
He who says so
Must be lunatic.
Man fears life,
He fears death,
He fears disease,
He fears failure
And sometimes his success also,
He fears the truth,
He fears honesty,
He fears God
But on his terms,
And above all
He fears himself.
So why should he be called
A courageous?
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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Music To My Ears
Music to my ears
Losing all the fears
Where they go?
They just disappeared
If only a moment.
It must be savored
As if it was a savior
The sanity within
It is where it begins and ends
Welcome to my world friend
I live it everyday
With every word I say
Its a dream
I have created
Destinies be fated
Emotions so jaded
Music to my ears
Losing all the fears
Where they go?
they just disappeared
If only a moment.
It must be savored
As if it was a savior
The sanity within
It is where it begins and ends
Never let it stop
It is hope beneath my cloths
It is my strength
It is my everything
It grows bigger every day
So please follow me this way
And maybe I can share
In your moments of despair
Music to my ears
Losing all the fears
Where they go?
they just disappeared
If only a moment.
It must be savored
As if it was a savior
The sanity within
It is where it begins and ends
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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