Pale Death with impartial tread beats at the poor man's cottage door and at the palaces of kings.
Related quotes
Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings.
Pale death knocks with impartial foot at poor men's hovels and king's palaces.
Pale death, with impartial step, knocks at the hut of the poor and the towers of kings.
Poverty
I saw an old cottage of clay,
And only of mud was the floor;
It was all falling into decay,
And the snow drifted in at the door.
Yet there a poor family dwelt,
In a hovel so dismal and rude;
And though gnawing hunger they felt,
They had not a morsel of food.
The children were crying for bread,
And to their poor mother they’d run;
‘Oh, give us some breakfast,’ they said,
Alas! their poor mother had none.
She viewed them with looks of despair,
She said (and I’m sure it was true),
‘’Tis not for myself that I care,
But, my poor little children, for you.’
O then, let the wealthy and gay
But see such a hovel as this,
That in a poor cottage of clay
They may know what true misery is.
And what I may have to bestow
I never will squander away,
While many poor people I know
Around me are wretched as they.
poem by Jane Taylor
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‘He came unto His own, and His own received Him not’
As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.
He asked in vain for a crust of bread,
Standing there in the frozen blast.
The door was locked and bolted fast.
‘Only a beggar!’ the poor man said.
Christ the Lord went further on,
Until He came to a palace gate.
There a king was keeping his state,
In every window the candles shone.
The king beheld Him out in the cold.
He left his guests in the banquet-hall.
He bade his servants tend them all.
‘I wait on a Guest I know of old.’
‘’Tis only a beggar-man!’ they said.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘it is Christ the Lord.’
He spoke to Him a kindly word,
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread.
Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell,
And all the words of Christ are true.
He touched the cottage, and it grew;
He touched the palace, and it fell.
The poor man is become a king.
Never was man so sad as he.
Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three,
He has no joy in mortal thing.
But the sun streams in at the cottage door
That stands where once the palace stood.
And the workman, toiling to earn his food,
Was never a king before.
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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Home, Sweet Home
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that come at my call --
Give me them -- and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,
As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door
Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet, home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
poem by John Howard Payne
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Out Of Africa
We trod and trod only for out of Africa
We still tread in summer
We always cry out for help
The help of numerous African feebles
We at rest squeeze and squeeze only for gold
We still squeeze ourselves to the fumes
Fumes of poverty by our sites of sights on board
And we never overcome ourselves
We indeed tread and trod for a hand
For out of Africa is our face
Our face of dark and red continent of bungs
But nicely and strongly made
We can't stand near ourselves
Only if well induced
Add power to these poor mothers
Our energetic mothers with children ahead
These African frameworks, these poor beings!
We exceedingly tread for help
For Africa is not for Africans' hope
Yes we can states engulfed by this sky
We need to come out of these flakes
We trod and trod for out of Africa
We still tread in summer
We always flip for alittle push
Push for a support of our wholesome
For without kings' look we are drowned
And these heaps of feebles shall dance at us all
poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
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To A Successful Man
(WHAT THE GHOSTS SAID.)
And after all the labour and the pains,
After the heaping up of gold on gold,
After success that locked your feet in chains,
And left you with a heart so tired and old,
Strange-is it not?-to find your chief desire
Is what you might have had for nothing then-
The face of love beside a cottage fire
And friendly laughter with your fellow-men?
You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.
You ruled a field that kings could never buy:
The whisper of the sea was at your door,
And all those quiet stars were in your sky,
The nook of ferns below the breathless wood
Where one poor book could unlock Paradise. . . .
What will you give us now for that lost good?
Better forget. You cannot pay the price.
You left them for the fame in which you trust.
But youth, and hope-did you forsake them too?
Courage! When dust at length returns to dust,
In your last dreams they may come back to you.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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When the Kings Went to War
When the kings went to war
Went to war
Went to war
When the kings went to war
I stayed home.
Now the kings have returned
Some have died
Most alive
Now the kings have returned
And I'm alone.
Who to tell
How to say
All that happened in the days
When the kings went to war
While I stayed home.
Oh the battles
Oh the hell
Not of war but worse
The well-kept secrets crying
To be known.
Knocks the door
Comes before
Nathan knows and he will tell
How the king failed to war
When he stayed home.
When the kings went to war
Went to war
Went to war
When the kings went to war
I stayed home.
Heroin
Death is a rider on a pale horse, Honey.
Yah roll up your sleeve and yah lay down your money.
Death is a rider on a pale horse.
A cord around your arm and the needle hunts your vein.
You'll starve in your dreams with the lotus in your brain.
Death is a rider on a pale horse.
There's blood in your eyes, and your time's not free.
Selling it like that will get yah HIV.
Death is a rider on a pale horse.
Death is a rider on a pale horse, Honey.
Yah roll up your sleeve and yah lay down your money.
Ya, death is a rider on a pale horse.
Senseless Death
Death is blind
Death is deaf
yet it is dumb
Death is senseless
Absolutely at that
So much so
To the kings door
It knocks upon
From a mother's womb
It feeds thereof
If death had a way
Heavens gate it will shake
The chains of hell
It will break
Searching a new soul to take
Senseless
As death may seem
Upon every soul
Still it sneaks
Taking from any
As it wills.
poem by Emeka chunye Okaforudeji
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To Them That Mourn
Lift up your heads: in life, in death,
God knoweth his head was high.
Quit we the coward's broken breath
Who watched a strong man die.
If we must say, 'No more his peer
Cometh; the flag is furled.'
Stand not too near him, lest he hear
That slander on the world.
The good green earth he loved and trod
Is still, with many a scar,
Writ in the chronicles of God,
A giant-bearing star.
He fell: but Britain's banner swings
Above his sunken crown.
Black death shall have his toll of kings
Before that cross goes down.
Once more shall move with mighty things
His house of ancient tale,
Where kings whose hands were kissed of kings
Went in: and came out pale.
O young ones of a darker day,
In art's wan colours clad,
Whose very love and hate are grey -
Whose very sin is sad.
Pass on: one agony long-drawn
Was merrier than your mirth,
When hand-in-hand came death and dawn,
And spring was on the earth.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Counting the Beats
You, love, and I,
(He whispers) you and I,
And if no more than only you and I
What care you or I ?
Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.
Cloudless day,
Night, and a cloudless day,
Yet the huge storm will burst upon their heads one day
From a bitter sky.
Where shall we be,
(She whispers) where shall we be,
When death strikes home, O where then shall we be
Who were you and I ?
Not there but here,
(He whispers) only here,
As we are, here, together, now and here,
Always you and I.
Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.
poem by Robert Graves
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The observation of others is coloured by our inability to observe ourselves impartially. We can never be impartial about anything until we can be impartial about our own organism.
quote by A.R. Orage
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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til My Heart Beats Down Your Door
Hey you should know by now Im gonna take you down
Cant keep me out forever cause now Im back around
Put up your best defense Ive made up my mind
I aint like the other Im gonna make you mine
Im gonna keep on knockin knockin like before
til my heart beats down your door
Im gonna keep on comin comin back for more
til my heart til my heart beats down your door
Baby you know you love me
So why do you pretend
When I could make you happy if you just let me in
Well I remember better days with you by my side
Ill keep you warm forever
And if it takes all night
Im gonna keep on knockin knockin like before
til my heart beats down your door
Im gonna keep on comin comin back for more
til my heart til my heart beats down your door
song performed by by Europe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death the Leveller
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
poem by James Shirley
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Death's Final Conquest
The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor victim bleeds:
All heads must come
To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.
poem by James Shirley
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The Glories of our Blood and State
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
poem by James Shirley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From Ajax Dirge
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Scepter and crown
Must tumble down
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field
And plant fresh laurels where they kill,
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still.
Early or late
They stoop to fate
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death’s purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
poem by James Shirley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Time
Times a teacher yesterday
You know I had nothing but time
Whyd you have to go away
I never got to tell you goodbye
And time beats up on me
Life is funny, life is strange
You know Im just trying to get by
Money, honey, buys you things
It cant buy a place in the sky
And time beats up on you
Another year disappeared
Where did it go?
People ask me
Whats the time
I really dont know
I really dont know
I really dont
I really dont know
And time beats up on you
And time beats up on you
Time beats up on
Time beats up on
Time beats up on
Time beats up on
Time beats up on me
Beats up on you
Beats up on you
song performed by by Fastball
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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