It seems to me that it will be very wearisome to be a man.
quote by Pierre Loti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As a rule, anyone who can tell a good story can write one, so there really need be no mistake about his qualification; such a man will be careful not to be wearisome, and to keep his point, or his catastrophe, well in hand.
quote by James Payn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After a prosperous, but to me very wearisome, voyage, we came at last into port. Immediately on landing I got together my few effects; and, squeezing myself through the crowd, went into the nearest and humblest inn which first met my gaze.
quote by Adelbert von Chamisso
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My overcoat is worn out; my shirts also are worn out. And I ask to be allowed to have a lamp in the evening; it is indeed wearisome sitting alone in the dark.
quote by William Tyndale
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Residue
The wayfarer you must be tired now.
Here the inn to get a rest for a while.
Don't be scared, on your wearisome journey
there is no any weighbridge to weigh
your sins or merits?
Please do not look at me in a sarcastic way.
Yes I am a wrongdoer and I sleep with every soul
till the candle burns
as I cannot abandon my dreary inn
and who gives me the warmth in this solitary life?
Am I a waxwork?
I too feel thirst and hunger.
On the way if you have any doubt of leftovers
please do not hesitate to visit me again.
You are always welcome my dear.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Epeisodia
I
Past the hills that peep
Where the leaze is smiling,
On and on beguiling
Crisply-cropping sheep;
Under boughs of brushwood
Linking tree and tree
In a shade of lushwood,
There caressed we!
II
Hemmed by city walls
That outshut the sunlight,
In a foggy dun light,
Where the footstep falls
With a pit-pat wearisome
In its cadency
On the flagstones drearisome
There pressed we!
III
Where in wild-winged crowds
Blown birds show their whiteness
Up against the lightness
Of the clammy clouds;
By the random river
Pushing to the sea,
Under bents that quiver
There rest we.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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A Man and a Statuette
A man reads an old paper sitting on a bench in an isolated park.
A wearisome whisper of a female!
'Brother any interesting news in the paper today and do they still in a search of me? '
'Where are you? ' Man asked.
'I am just in front of you and your friend woman' Statuette replied.
'I am sorry I cannot see you as I am a born blind'.
'Then how do you read the news paper? 'She verified.
(This neglected park of huge trees touch the sky and you never see a flower. The secret whisper and the lament of a rebellion that haunt in constantly. Only the Fruit bats fly here and there in the awful night.)
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Vang
Scientist to the stars ans to the enthusiasms of the memsahib,
But, i have sweet words of love to the emerald pastures!
And, i will better gorw older enough to care for you.
This life,
Of the indications towards your love!
This act,
Escaping from a wearisome wet weather!
But, i am normally pleasant to the tolerant state of my mind.
Heydays, heydays! !
With flowers in proportions;
But, may this edifice be as firm as the foundation of the heavens.
Craft and exquisite innovations,
The muse of love is what we share oh my sweet Vang! !
And like the brocades of painted palanquins to carry about;
But, i am in the valley of subsequent Love with you!
And, your love is very marvellous to my heart.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet I
Care killed a cat, and I have cares at home,
Which vex me nightly and disturb my bed.
The things I love have all grown wearisome;
The things that loved me are estranged or dead.
I have a house most fair, but tenanted
With shadows only, gardens of tall trees,
Fenced in and made secure from every dread
But this one terror, my soul's lack of ease.
I have much wealth of pleasure, horse and hound,
Woods broad for sport, and fields that are my own,
With neighbours of good cheer to greet me round,
And servants tried by whom my will is done.
Here all things live at peace in this dear place,
All but my pride, which goes companionless.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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To The Moon
O lovely moon, how well do I recall
The time,--'tis just a year--when up this hill
I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:
And thou suspended wast o'er yonder grove,
As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.
But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared
Thy countenance to me, because my eyes
Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;
For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,
And _is_ so still, unchanged, belovèd moon!
And yet this recollection pleases me,
This computation of my sorrow's age.
How pleasant is it, in the days of youth,
When hope a long career before it hath,
And memories are few, upon the past
To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!
poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Charioteer Has Gone To Sleep
The charioteer has gone to sleep
Ovecome by fatigue of wearisome ways
Unaware of where he is
All that's evident
Is his continuous journey
On unmarked, worn-out way
In his wooden wagonette
From the beginning of time
To the end of time
When the wagonette
Creaks even with a small bump
Wrapped up in millions of folds
Of ragged shabbiness
Each living being is startled
The charioteer dreams
He has lost himself in strange worlds
Comfortable climes
Riding a golden chariot
And holding the princess's hand
The charioteer has gone to sleep
(Translated from the original Urdu by Satyapal Anand)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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The Death of Grandfather
We waited commonly for sleep or even death.
The instances were wearisome as ages.
But suddenly the wind's refreshing breath
Touched through the window the Holy Bible's pages:
An old man goes there - who's now all white-haired -
With rapid steps and merry eyes, alone,
He smiles to us, and often calls with hand,
And leaves us with a gait, that is well-known.
And suddenly we all, who watched the old man's track,
Well recognized just him who now lay before us,
And turning in a sudden rapture back,
Beheld a corpse with eyes forever closed ...
And it was good for us the soul's way to trace,
And, in the leaving one, to find the glee it's forming.
The time had come. Recall and love in grace,
And celebrate another house-warming!
poem by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok
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St. Peter and the Angel
Delivered out of raw continual pain,
smell of darkness, groans of those others
to whom he was chained--
unchained, and led
past the sleepers,
door after door silently opening--
out!
And along a long street's
majestic emptiness under the moon:
one hand on the angel's shoulder, one
feeling the air before him,
eyes open but fixed...
And not till he saw the angel had left him,
alone and free to resume
the ecstatic, dangerous, wearisome roads of
what he had still to do,
not till then did he recognize
this was no dream. More frightening
than arrest, than being chained to his warders:
he could hear his own footsteps suddenly.
Had the angel's feet
made any sound? He could not recall.
No one had missed him, no one was in pursuit.
He himself must be
the key, now, to the next door,
the next terrors of freedom and joy.
poem by Denise Levertov
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Our Own Flag
They mustered us up with a royal din,
In wearisome weeks of drought.
Ere ever half of the crops were in,
Or the half of the sheds cut out.
'Twas down with the saddle and spurs and whip
The swagman dropped his swag.
And we hurried us off to the outbound ship
To fight for the English flag.
The English flag, it is ours in sooth
We stand by it wrong or right.
But deep in our hearts is the honest truth
We fought for the sake of a fight.
And the English flag may flutter and wave
Where the World-wide Oceans toss,
But the flag the Australian dies to save
Is the flag of the Southern Cross.
If ever they want us to stand the brunt
Of a hard-faught, grim campaign,
We will carry our own flag up to the front
When we go to the wars again.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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On The Platform
When Dr. Bill Bartlett stepped out of the hum
Of Mammon's distracting and wearisome strife
To stand and deliver a lecture on 'Some
Conditions of Intellectual Life,'
I cursed the offender who gave him the hall
To lecture on any conditions at all!
But he rose with a fire divine in his eye,
Haranguing with endless abundance of breath,
Till I slept; and I dreamed of a gibbet reared high,
And Dr. Bill Bartlett was dressing for death.
And I thought in my dream: 'These conditions, no doubt,
Are bad for the life he was talking about.'
So I cried (pray remember this all was a dream):
'Get off of the platform!-it isn't the kind!'
But he fell through the trap, with a jerk at the beam,
And wiggled his toes to unburden his mind.
And, O, so bewitching the thoughts he advanced,
That I clung to his ankles, attentive, entranced!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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I Am Curious And Anxious..!
I am curious and anxious -
Milling around
For long hours
Impatiently the pious await
The painful creak of
Heavy large doors
Of ' Vaikunda Vaasal '! -
Squeeze and sweat through
In mad rushes and pushes
The skirting tunnel
Narrow and dark
Inside the temple!
O..is all the hurry and frenzy
To gain access to heaven
In flesh and blood?
O..wearisome lot!
Would you listen?
Follow me to the slopes
Of the East and the West
At crack of Dawn
And budding of Dusk-
Many many Heavens
Shall thrill your souls!
Yea-
Wealth in limitless flow
Peace in pristine streams
Beauty in enchanting smiles
Winds with softest caresses
Skies in solemn meditation
Space unlimited for
Collisionless flights -
Nowhere would you find
Heavens in equal..!
!
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Murder In The Old Forest
As I drove along
One day, singing a merry song
A sight I saw
As a grand old tree did fall,
Causing my joy to cease
At this view of disgrace
The sight by this road
Was a wearisome load,
For timber men did slay
In the usual way;
The beginnings again
Of another arrogant subdivision,
All oh so perfectly planned
Without even one dropp of spiritual consideration;
Murder here was commited in the wise old woods
By the avarice of man
At the blade of an axe - all just to acquire the lucrative goods;
What once was pure and alive
Filled with wonder, life to provide,
Has now been killed by a fall
At the nashing teeth
Of a soulless chainsaw;
Dozers sweep all evidence away
Of the tragedy on this day,
As a grand old forest is once again lost
Obliged to pay the unholy cost
Of human greed,
Disguised as need.
But, I ask you
What can I
One mere man do?
- Perhaps, by way of a simple poem
This tragedy shall become known,
Bringing more to task
As each may eventually ask:
'For the murdered trees does anyone care?
And when they are gone who shall inquire,
Why or where? '
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Mustapha
Oh, wearisome condition of humanity,
Born under one law, to another bound;
Vainly begot, and yet forbidden vanity,
Created sick, commanded to be sound.
What meaneth nature by these diverse laws?
Passion and reason self-division cause.
It is the mark or majesty of power
To make offences that it may forgive;
Nature herself doth her own self deflower,
To hate those errors she herself doth give.
For how should man think that he may not do,
If nature did not fail and punish too?
Tyrant to others, to herself unjust,
Only commands things difficult and hard,
Forbids us all things which it knows is lust,
Makes easy pains, unpossible reward.
If nature did not take delight in blood,
She would have made more easy ways to good.
We that are bound by vows and by promotion,
With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites,
To teach belief in good and still devotion,
To preach of heaven's wonders and delights:
Yet when each of us in his own heart looks
He finds the God there far unlike his books.
poem by Lord Brooke Fulke Greville
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Earth’s Moments Of Gloom
“The heart knoweth its own bitterness”
The heart hath its moments of hopeless gloom,
As rayless as is the dark night of the tomb;
When the past has no spell, the future no ray,
To chase the sad cloud from the spirit away;
When earth, though in all her rich beauty arrayed,
Hath a gloom o’er her flowers—o’er her skies a dark shade,
And we turn from all pleasure with loathing away,
Too downcast, too spirit sick, even to pray!
Oh! where may the heart seek, in moments like this,
A whisper of hope, or a faint gleam of bliss?
When friendship seems naught but a cold, cheerless flame,
And love a still falser and emptier name;
When honors and wealth are a wearisome chain,
Each link interwoven with grief and with pain,
And each solace or joy that the spirit might crave
Is barren of comfort and dark as the grave.
Lift—lift up thy sinking heart, pilgrim of life!
A sure spell there is for thy spirit’s sad strife;
’Tis not to be found in the well-springs of earth,—
Oh! no, ’tis of higher and holier birth.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Abounding Grace
Calm and slow with God I am sure, through this trial I will endure,
As God is with me in this trial, He shall strengthen me, no denial,
Through hardship, whatever I face, God will supply ample Grace,
Grace that’s unlimited friend, all from my God, beginning to end.
Indeed, God’s Grace will abound, this while I face another round,
Another round while in this race, comforted by unyielding Grace,
God’s Grace provided from above, as He leads me, in His Love,
Through yet another trying day, providing comfort along the way.
With His Spirit He keeps me calm, knowing that I am in His Palm,
In God’s grip and there to stay, He helps me through day to day;
God helps me through every turn, as His Spirit helps me to learn,
To lean upon The Lord through all, that’s in any trial, big or small.
Through God’s Grace I find peace, when my trial does not cease,
When my trials are wearisome, the Peace of God’s sure to come,
Always calming to my weary soul, knowing that God is in control,
In every trial or circumstance, God’s Grace comes not by chance.
God’s Grace comes just in time, never by chance but His design,
Dispensed, right from His Throne, as The Lord cares for His own;
His Loving Grace I first received, the moment in Christ, I believed,
His presence shall leave me never, as God’s Love abides forever.
(05/2011)
The Age of Wisdom
Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the Barber's shear,
All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin--
Wait till you come to Forty Year.
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's windowpanes--
Wait till you come to Forty Year!
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to Forty Year.
Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray,
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome, ere
Ever a month was passed away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and wisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month is gone.
Gillian's dead, God rest her bier--
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married; but I sit here,
Alive and merry at Forty Year,
Dipping my nose in Gascon wine.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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