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Newspaper editors are men who separate the wheat from the chaff, and then print the chaff.
quote by Adlai Stevenson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An editor is someone who separates the wheat from the chaff and then prints the chaff.
quote by Adlai E. Stevenson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Editor: a person employed by a newspaper, whose business it is to separate the wheat from the chaff, and to see that the chaff is printed.
quote by Elbert Hubbard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Editor: a person employed on a newspaper whose business it is to seperate the wheat from the chaff, and to see that the chaff is printed.
quote by Elbert Hubbard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Editor a person employed by a newspaper, whose business it is to separate the wheat from the chaff, and to see that the chaff is printed.
quote by Elbert Hubbard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waiting On The Wheat Harvest
as you sow brothers sisters so you wheat harvest reap
as a grain of wheat dies germinates bears fruit to heap
Jesus will completely clean up threshing floor gather his wheat
chaff he will burn up with unquenchable fire hell suffering heat
an enemy came in over sowed weeds in among seed wheat
reapers harvest collect weeds burn them saving only wheat
Satan demands sifts men as wheat to blow away in sifting wind
Son of man will send angels to gather chosen ones from ill wind
a grain of wheat falls into the ground dies then bears fruit new life
so hate soul temptation in this world safeguard soul for eternal life
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who sows wheat with the devil will get its chaff.
If you borrow some chaff from the rich man you have to repay him with wheat.
As you get older, you find that often the wheat, disentangling itself from the chaff, comes out to meet you.
quote by Gwendolyn Brooks
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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As threshing separates the wheat from the chaff, so does affliction purify virtue.
quote by Christian Nestell Bovee
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Sower
With sanguine looks
And rolling walk
Among the rooks
He loved to stalk,
While on the land
With gusty laugh
From a full hand
He scattered chaff.
Now that within
His spirit sleeps
A harvest thin
The sickle reaps;
But the dumb fields
Desire his tread,
And no earth yields
A wheat more red.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Oh Earth
To the nobles of Yahdah and Yerusalem,
Seventeen Shekels of silver for my bride;
For the virgin will rejoice in a dance like the Gaelic Scotland.
To the ancestral spirits and to the lake of love,
And like a well-watered garden of love!
But i paid seventeen Shekels of silver for my bride.
Of sacrifices offered to the dead when,
People are led by Satan in this world!
And my heart is broken inside for what i do see around me.
What is the chaff compared to the wheat?
For they are hanged in broad day light;
And to the grave of the rich and the poor people,
But the virgin will rejoice in a a dance like the Gaelic Scotland.
Earth, man, beast and the heavens! !
What is the chaff compared to the wheat?
And fromYerusalem to Babylon,
With contemporary polytheisms to crown the day!
To the grave of the common people and the grave of the great,
You will fall and rise no more oh pirates! !
And like the post-mortem status of the individual,
But with the story of your life in Egypt for 430 years!
Bloomed by the wind and loved by the people,
I am like a leaf floating around you in the air;
But the butterflies do know my name,
For the licentious feasts of lust and sexual excess is not part of my muse.
A cry from Abarim! !
But oh earth, can you understand what i am saying?
And like a pain of a woman in labour,
But drink and be drunk and vomit it out!
For what is coming against you is surely around you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet
Love bends over a yellow stalk of wheat,
Hope shields these grains her seed, sowed, eyes
Corn poppies pearl-black the inset stars discreet,
Worm eaten flowers, caste-up†a moment’s prize!
The sparkling cross pollination of souls and minds
Of hearts cool, hot, tepid, passionate, tears assigned:
These aren’t the sting, swollen, eruptions†she reminds.
Each bursting bloom a blood vessel, newly; entwined:
But gaze not blindly men at women’s true honest preserve
It’s God’s worn-out labour here on mother earth, cherished
The brashest of bees can dance and thrash their verve
And like the kneeling Sheppard raise all... the perished.
As the yolk of a flower is but a set, weed!
So he the father must chaff-out the wheat from the seed.
poem by Mark Heathcote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Friend New Friend
Stone waves of marble dreams
Your sea of beauty a fallen throne
Age has taken away arrogance
Sublimate every phrase into an agate
Shoreline where blue poems drift
Let it go for this coming change
Freedom like the edge of dawn
I leave you with a smile of forgiveness
Love has become a universe
Love has become a golden mirror
Another chapter, another bend in the road
The darkness and the light are separated
Wheat and chaff part
Anyone trying is my old and new friend
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Parables of Jesus: The Kingdom of Heaven: The Wheat and the Darnel Gospel, Matthew 13: 24-30
Then Jesus told another parable:
‘Kingdom of Heaven- Wheat and the darnel'
Heaven can be compared to that of a man,
Who sowed only good seed in his whole field.
But just when everybody fell asleep,
His enemy had come and sown darnel,
Amongst the wheat and sped away quite fast.
And when the new wheat sprouted very well,
The darnel too appeared amidst the same;
His labourers all went to him and said,
‘Wasn't it good seed that you sowed in your field?
He told them, ‘Some enemy had done this! '
When they asked if they should pull the weeds out,
He told, ‘No, as the wheat would come with it! '
‘Let them both grow until the harvest-time;
And then I will instruct my reapers all,
‘Collect the darnel first; burn the bundles!
Gather the good wheat all into my barn! '
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Long For That City
For that City do I deeply long
Where victory songs we'll sing
Temper is all grace and good there
Discontent and malice won't ever flare
For that City does my heart beat
No room is there for the chaff, only the wheat
It's all pure gold, as clear as glass
Shining with God's glory, like a stone all precious
To dwelling in that City I look forward
Where a river with the water of life flows downward
From the throne of God and of the Lamb
No regrets there; just peace under Jesus' thumb
There's no death
There's no sorrow
There's no crying
There's no pain
How I long for that City!
poem by by unknown author
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not all the spikes of wheat go on the wheat pile.
The Widower
Never took the time to learn what she did, .
he just knew it got done.
He thought she would always be there for him.
His days were like the sun,
shiny and bright and filled with joy
and the moon was theirs at night.
The kids were grown, all on their own
and usually nowhere in sight.
Gone so fast, this one he'd loved,
life had cut him in half.
Each day that came was worse than the last,
gone like the wheat from the chaff.
As he started to try to live again
it's then he knew she was there.
He found little notes written on paper,
written with loving care.
How to wash clothes, how to cook meals
and how to make a bed.
He understood now what she'd left him
and his eyes filled as he read.
All of his life he had taken for granted
all of the things she'd done.
Now as he followed all of her directions
he appreciated every last one.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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