En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.

quote by Torquato Tasso
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Grey World

Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.

Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.

Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.

poem by Leon Gellert
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Ten Grey hairs and a silver one

I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship

I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home

I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work

I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job

I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child

I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub

I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter

I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school

I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing

I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum

My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …

poem by Pascale Ost
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Coffee Courage

The bitter coffee kicked;
I shook and then I licked
My lips and gave a sigh.

Shattered eyes encouraged,
I nearly had envisaged
Waking up an eye.

Another sip; a jolt –
Not unlike a bolt
Of wattage from the mains.

My sockets under strain,
I tried it once again:
Aha! The light, the searing white –
My God, the bloody pain!

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009

Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,

Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Yeats Grave

Silenced by death in the grave
W b yeats couldnt save
Why did you stand here
Were you sickened in time
But I know by now
Why did you sit here?
In the grave
W.b. yeats second
Why should I blame her,
That she filled my days
With misery or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways
Or hurled the little streets upon the grave
Had they but courage
Equal to desire
Sad that maud gonne couldnt stay
But she had mac bride anyway
And you sit here with me
On the isle inistree
And you are writing down everything
But I know by now
Why did you sit here
In the grave...
Why should I blame her
Had they but courage equal to desire

song performed by by Cranberries
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Major Bellenden's Song

And what though winter will pinch severe
Through locks of grey and a cloak that's old?
Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier,
For a cup of sack shall fence the cold.

For time will rust the brightest blade,
And years will break the strongest bow;
Was ever wight so starkly made,
But time and years would overthrow?

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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In Courage

In courage-you find
no fear
and in courage-no weakness
does appear
In courage-steps toward
danger taken
and in courage-strength
within awaken
In courage- a hero
takes shape
and in courage- the villain
can't escape
In courage-there is a call
to duty
and in courage-out of ugliness
comes beauty

poem by Dorsey Baker
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The Grey Company

O the grey, grey company
   Of the pallid dawn!
O the ghostly faces,
   Ashen-like and drawn!
The Lord's lone sentinels
   Dotted down the years,
The little grey company
   Before the pioneers.

Dreaming of Utopias
   Ere the time was ripe,
They awoke to scorning,
   The jeering and the strife.
Dreaming of millenniums
   In a world of wars,
They awoke to shudder
   At a flaming Mars.

Never was a Luther
   But a Huss was first --
A fountain unregarded
   In the primal thirst.
Never was a Newton
   Crowned and honoured well,
But first, alone, Galileo
   Wasted in a cell.

In each other's faces
   Looked the pioneers;
Drank the wine of courage
   All their battle years.
For their weary sowing
   Through the world wide,
Green they saw the harvest
   Ere the day they died.

But the grey, grey company
   Stood every man alone
In the chilly dawnlight,
   Scarcely had they known
Ere the day they perished,
   That their beacon-star
Was not glint of marsh-light
   In the shadows far.

The brave white witnesses
   To the truth within
Took the dart of folly,
   Took the jeer of sin;
Crying "Follow, follow,
   Back to Eden gate!"
They trod the Polar desert,
   Met a desert fate.

Be laurel to the victor,
   And roses to the fair,
And asphodel Elysian
   Let the hero wear;
But lay the maiden lilies
   Upon their narrow biers --
The lone grey company
   Before the pioneers.

poem by Jessie Mackay
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What Gives You Courage

Without fear there cannot be courage
Fear drives the unthinkable out of us

What gives you courage when there is none?
What gives you courage to get out of bed?
What gives you courage to drive when you know it's dangerous?
What gives you courage to succeed?
What gives you courage to survive?
What gives you courage to strive?

People have courage to live for their children
People have courage to live for themselves
People have courage to live for hope
People have courage because they believe
People have courage to not give up

Fear is not the essence of life
But a free soul not tamed

Courage is the journey of your heart
Guided by strength
On a path of untamed obstacles

Let courage guide you
As you begin your quest

poem by Alisha Ricks
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Iris

Not how you would be thought of, your color
Being grey, silky, like a second skin, your hair
Flecked with it. Now, hearing your way of saying
Iridescent while I read your poem, three years
After your death, I am compelled to check
You out in Ovid, Lamprière, Bulfin, then
A book of flowers, where I discover you
On marshy ground, not grey exactly—in fact
A pretty blue-grey, a quiet type, with a green cowl
To shelter the thoughtful inclined head.

Not at all the bright-winged messenger
Who’d drown the world if Juno put you up to it,
But a quiet sylph, who could color her message
With a sly tilt of the head, those grey eyes steady,
Lips pursed, making a pretence of kissing.

You could supply so many ambiguities—
Gradations and streaks and tones of grey and blue—
That for twenty years I saw your story told
Where the sky lay on the wintry hills, weighed down
With tears Mnemosyne allows for you:
Flower, messenger, poet.

poem by James Phillip McAuley
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The Way I Treated Father [A Bush Song]

I WORKED with father in the bush
At splitting rails and palings.
He never was unkind to me,
Although he “had his failings:”
And now his grave is old and green,
And now at times I’m rather
Inclined to think ’twas very mean
The way I treated father.

The mother had for years been dead,
And Dad and I and Stumpy
Were living in a little shed—
What bushmen call a humpy;
And now I think when day began,
And it was cold and chilly,
’Twas mean to see a grey old man
Get up and boil the billy.

And though my lazy limbs were stiff;
And though ’twas winter weather.
And though my eyes were shut as if
The lids were glued together,
I think ’twas mean to lie in bed;
I think that I was silly,
Because I growled if father said,
“Git up and bile the billy!”

I didn’t help the cooking much
For I was always “tired”—
’Twas strange that I could eat with such
An appetite as I had;
But now I mind I never growled
When father shouted, “Willie!
It’s gittin’ on for dinnertime;
Go home and bile the hilly.”

His grave is growing old and green
And things have altered rather;
But still I think ’twas mighty mean
The way I treated father.
He left a tidy sum to me,
But I’d give all the money
To hear him say, “Will you get up
And bile the billy, Sonny?”

poem by Henry Lawson
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Murrow Turning Over In His Grave

All the sainted sinners
They pay handsomely
And eventually?
They make the weapons
And they run the prisons
And they sell the justice
Cause being guilty is
Just good business
And well be standing on
The borderline
Aint no one there gonna
Stop it now
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
Half-closed eyes
And the countrys deadly
Do you feel the ooze as your brain drains out
From your pneumatic drills and sharpening knives
Blood in the sky
Are you dead or alive?
All the restless people and the bitter green
Well it fakes this gold, makes the spirit mean
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild

song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rita Matlock Gruenberg

Grandmother! You who sang to green valleys,
And passed to a sweet repose at ninety-six,
Here is your little Rita at last
Grown old, grown forty-nine;
Here stretched on your grave under the winter stars,
With the rustle of oak leaves over my head;
Piecing together strength for the act,
Last thoughts, memories, asking how I am here!
After wandering afar, over the world,
Life in cities, marriages, motehrhood--
(They all married, and I am homeless, alone.)
Grandmother! I have not lacked in strength,
Nor will, nor courage. No! I have honored you
With a life that used these gifts of your blood.
But I was caught in trap after trap in the years.
At last the cruelist trap of all.
Then I fought the bars, pried open the door,
Crawled through -- but it suddenly sprang shut,
And tore me to death as I used your courage
To free myself!
Grandmother! Fold me to your breast again.
Make me earth with you for the blossoms of spring--
Grandmother!

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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As Long As Your Eyes Are Blue

'Will you love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?
When the charms of youth shall have passed away
Will your love as of old prove true?

'For the looks may change, and the heart may range
And the love be no longer fond;
Will you love with truth in the years of youth
And away to the years beyond?'

Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown
And the blush on your cheek that lies,
But I love you most for the kindly heart
That I see in your sweet blue eyes.

For the eyes are the signs of the soul within,
Of the heart that is leal and true,
And, my own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.

For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach
May be reft of their golden hue;
But, my own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Tribute To Courage

Courage is doing what is right
Without having to be told
Courage is manning up
When you know you've done something wrong
Courage is looking the enemy in the eye
And telling them to just bring it
Courage is having fear
But still staying strong
Courage is facing adversity
But being able to overcome it
Courage is leaving your family behind
To defend the country you love
Courage is being a soldier
In the greatest army in the world
Thank you for this courage
That lets us live free
May God bless you
And come home safely to your families

poem by James Elston
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An End

Love, strong as Death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers:
A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
In the quiet evening hours.

He was born in the Spring,
And died before the harvesting:
On the last warm summer day
He left us; he would not stay
For Autumn twilight cold and grey.
Sit we by his grave, and sing
He is gone away.

To few chords and sad and low
Sing we so:
Be our eyes fixed on the grass
Shadow-veiled as the years pass
While we think of all that was
In the long ago.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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To a Prospective Cook

Curly locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be ours?
Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet weed the flowers,
But stand in the kitchen and cook a fine meal,
And ride every night in an automobile.

Curly Locks, Curly Locks, come to us soon!
Thou needest not to rise until mid-afternoon;
Thou mayest be Croatian, Armenian, or Greek;
Thy guerdon shall be what thy askest per week.

Curly Locks, Curly Locks, give us a chance!
Thou shalt not wash windows, nor iron my pants.
Oh, come to the cosiest of seven-room bowers,
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be ours?

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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A Highly-Colored Romance

Ben Green was a New-Hampshire boy,
Who stood full six feet two:
A jovial chap this same Ben Green,
Though he had oft been blue.
He loved a girl named Olive Brown,
Who lived near Bixby's pond,
And who, despite her brunette name,
Was a decided blonde.
"A Highly Colored Romance."
A pink of rare perfection she,
The belle of all the town;
Though Ben oft wished her Olive Green,
Instead of Olive Brown.
And she loved Ben, and said that nought
Should mar their joy serene;
And, when she changed from Olive Brown,
'Twould surely be to Green.
She kept her word in-violet,
And vowed, ere she was wed,
Although when Brown she had Be(e)n Green.
When Green she'd be well read.
But, ah! her young affections changed
To Gray, a Southern fellow;
And Green turned white the news to hear,
Though first it made him yell, oh!
Says he, " How can you lilac this,
When you vowed to be true?
I'll take your fine young lover, Gray,
And beat him till he's blue."
Then Olive Brown to crimson turned,
And said, "Do as you say:
The country long has wished to see
'The Blue combined with Gray.'"
Ben Green to purple turned with rage,
And black his brow as night;
While on the cheek of Olive Brown
The crimson changed to white.
"O cruel Olive Brown!" says Ben,
"I've been dun-brown by you:
Let this 'Grayback' his steps retrace,
And take Greenback, — oh, do!"
Poor Olive Brown, what could she say,
To sea-Green look so sad ?
And so she rose, and said to him,
"I'll go and ask my dad."
. . . .
The years rolled by: Ben's raven locks
For silver did not lack;
And Olive, with her hair of gold,
Was glad she took Greenback.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: II

Yes, who shall tell the value of our tears,
Whether we wept aright or idly grieved?
There is a tragedy in unloved years,
And in those passionate hours by love deceived,
In lips unkissed and hopes too soon bereaved,
And youth's high courage which no strength could save,
And manhood's web of fate by folly weaved,
And grey--haired grief brought down into the grave.
Who shall distinguish truly and be wise
'Twixt grief and grief, 'twixt night and night? The sun
Has its own sorrow and a voice that cries
Louder than darkness of its joys undone,
And pleads with that exceeding bitter cry,
``I have tasted honey, and behold, I die!''

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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This Grey Pavement and This Grey Sky (A Poem Without Irony)

This grey pavement and this grey sky
Will be here
When I am not.

One day they will disappear too.
All our earthly worlds, dreams or not
Will one day not be.

Play on Mr. Shakespeare
You too will not have a grave in the sky.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Strong Courage

My courage is STRONG
It is the strongest people have seen in a while
The kind you rarely see

My courage is when I stand up to people
My courage is when I tell the truth and not be afraid
My courage is when I help someone and put myself in danger to help
My courage is not being scared of a risky task
My courage is speaking my mind without any worries
My courage is STRONG

poem by Bailey Deziel
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