Related quotes
Where the hedge is lowest, men may soonest over.
Where the hedge is lowest, the devil leaps over.
Before The Fair
'Lost,' 'lost,' the beeves and the bullocks,
The cattle men sell and buy,
Crowded upon the fair green,
Low to the lightless sky.
'Live,' 'live,' and 'Here,' 'here,' the blackbird
From the top of the bare ash-tree,
Over the acres whistles
With beak of yellow blee.
And climbing, turning, and climbing
His little stair of sound,
'Content,' 'content,' from the low hedge
The redbreast sings in a round.
And I who hear that hedge-song
Will fare with all the rest,
With thoughts of lust and labour,
And bargain in my breast.
The bare hedge bright with rain-drops
That have not fallen down,
The golden-crowded whin-bush
Nor know these things my own!
poem by Padraic Colum
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Dunnocks Nest
A memory from the past I still recall
In the box hedge by the old garden wall
I saw two male dunnocks and a hen
Fly out of hedge and then with food fly in.
I heard their little nestlings for food cry
And I with the curiosity of a boy
Peered in the hedge a moss built cup shaped nest I see
With pink skinned nestlings in it I counted three.
To the ways of Nature I was young and green
And I marvelled at the wonder I had seen
Three blind and pink skinned nestlings the shy dunnock's brood
Thought I too was a carer with some food.
With their tiny mouths wide open for food they did plead
And when I did not satisfy their greed
They slumped back in their nest as in a heap
And within a few minutes were asleep.
It must have been close to fifty years ago
Yet of Nature little I still seem to know
But such a precious memory bound to stay
With me until the reaper has his way.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Home Thoughts, From Abroad
Oh, to be in England
Now that April 's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
poem by Robert Browning from Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet XV. On The Grasshopper And Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's -- he takes the lead
In summer luxury, -- he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
poem by John Keats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On the Grasshopper and Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
poem by John Keats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Do Not Be Afraid To Write The Worst Lines
poems are feelings,
logic need not be there
but could be just instinct
words flowing like a river
following nothing but that
which takes the curves
of least resistance
enjoy over there the
view of the naked bathers
those that dive and
swim beneath the waters
only to rise and show
the beauty both outside
and within
look at the trees lining
on the banks of desire
up there the clouds have
tongues licking the
shapely bodies of the skies
we reach the edge and
we fall freely to the lowest
level of our journey
soon we will write about
the impact of the fall
the pains and the lowest
ebbs of our lives
do not be afraid to write
the worst lines for they
speak the truth of what
happened to each of us
faithful to our craft and
consistent to our conscripts
we dance we dream we die
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Conditional Sanctuary
You may take some comfort here behind my hedge,
But, if you do, I must insist you rarely speak. I do
Not want to hear of what you bought today when
You were shopping, or of the disgusting products,
Churned out on assembly lines, which you decided
You should eat. I do not want to talk about
Celebrities or any of the vile doings of the faceless
Frauds who buzz in legislatures, pulled along by,
As they're pushing on the strings of our colossus,
Run amok from sea to sea. I do not want my peace
Disturbed. If you should speak, then note the
Silence of my guards, the arching trees, and say
You now can hear the birds, whose calls don't
Carry very far, and say you're fine with sitting,
Watching wind upon the grain below, and
Shadows slowly growing longer. Say, in short,
You understand why almost no one is invited
Here behind my hedge.
poem by Lawrence Beck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
At my lowest I was making nothing, of course.
quote by Teri Hatcher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Signs Of Winter
The cat runs races with her tail. The dog
Leaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass.
The swine run round and grunt and play with straw,
Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack.
Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crow
Unceremonious visit pays and croaks,
Then swops away. From mossy barn the owl
Bobs hasty out--wheels round and, scared as soon,
As hastily retires. The ducks grow wild
And from the muddy pond fly up and wheel
A circle round the village and soon, tired,
Plunge in the pond again. The maids in haste
Snatch from the orchard hedge the mizzled clothes
And laughing hurry in to keep them dry.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A newspaper is the lowest thing there is.
quote by Richard J. Daley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Morale is at the lowest point since I've been here.
quote by David Davis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Every one tries to cross the fence where it is lowest.
The lowest fence is the easiest to get across.
Wit is the lowest form of humor.
quote by Alexander Pope
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!