Pale death, with impartial step, knocks at the hut of the poor and the towers of kings.
Related quotes
Pale death knocks with impartial foot at poor men's hovels and king's palaces.
Pale Death with impartial tread beats at the poor man's cottage door and at the palaces of kings.
Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings.
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.
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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Salome's Dancing-Lesson
She that begs a little boon
(Heel and toe! Heel and toe!)
Little gets- and nothing, soon.
(No, no, no! No, no, no!)
She that calls for costly things
Priceless finds her offerings-
What's impossible to kings?
(Heel and toe! Heel and toe!)
Kings are shaped as other men.
(Step and turn! Step and turn!)
Ask what none may ask again.
(Will you learn? Will you learn?)
Lovers whine, and kisses pall,
Jewels tarnish, kingdoms fall-
Death's the rarest prize of all!
(Step and turn! Step and turn!)
Veils are woven to be dropped.
(One, two, three! One, two, three!)
Aging eyes are slowest stopped.
(Quietly! Quietly!)
She whose body's young and cool
Has no need of dancing-school-
Scratch a king and find a fool!
(One, two, three! One, two, three!)
poem by Dorothy Parker
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Gift of Life
Birth
Is the
First step towards
Death.
Life
Is a gift,
Though
Rife
With
Strife.
So why postpone
Unwrapping it?
Live
As if
There is
No tomorrow.
Do we know
When its time to go?
Lest
You are overcome
With regret
And shock
When death
Knocks.
BASED ON SUFI PHILOSOPHY
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Songs of Summer
The songs of summer are over and past!
The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves;
Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves
The nests are rudely swung in the blast:
And ever the wind like a soul in pain
Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.
The songs of summer are over and past!
Woe's me for a music sweeter than theirs--
The quick, light bound of a step on the stairs,
The greeting of lovers too sweet to last:
And ever the wind like a soul in pain
Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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To Knock on a Door
Who
Who
Who knocks?
Who knocks at
Who knocks at my door?
Who knocks at my door - not chamber
Who knocks at my door - not chamber door, but door. Who knocks?
Who knocks at my door - not chamber door, but door. Who knocks? Is it a raven - a raven
Who knocks at my door - not chamber door, but door. Who knocks? Is it a raven - a raven named Nevermore that knocks, knocks at my non-chamber door?
Who knocks at my door - not chamber door, but door. Who knocks? Is it a raven - a raven named Nevermore that knocks, knocks at my non-chamber door? ... No, it's just my brother, Josh, that knocks, knocks at my non-chamber door:
It's time for dinner.
poem by Hannah Shier
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Tears of the poor man (alternative version)
The tears of the poor are
The drinks of the rich,
Yet the shedding of blood
Is the rich man's headache...
And what of the poor man's justice?
In truth, water is too cool
To bring forth your anguish!
Fire is the only solution!
Drink fire to end your injustice.
Silence is each lover's desire,
Yet the poor man's unbearable pain.
Making a din is the only right choice
To put forth your final demand.
Dew is but the conspiracy
Hatched between the rich and their kings,
While morning is but the first step
Of each poor man's sufferings..
poem by Abdul Wahab
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The Tears Of The Poor Man
The tears of the poor are
The drinks of the rich,
Yet the shedding of blood
Is the rich man's headache...
And what of the poor man's justice?
In truth, water is too cool
To bring forth your anguish!
Fire is the only solution!
Drink fire to end your injustice.
Silence is each lover's desire,
Yet the poor man's unbearable pain.
Making a din is the only right choice
To put forth your final demand.
Dew is but the conspiracy
Hatched between the rich and their kings,
While morning is but the first step
Of each poor man's sufferings...
poem by Denis Martindale
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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.
When Death Knocks
When death knocks
I shall fling the door wide
Rush into his embrace,
For I am ready.
He holds no fear for me
Why should I fear a friend?
One I have known all my life;
Who has accompanied every step,
Helped me on my way.
No I shall not fear death for
He will cut my earth bound chains
And his kiss shall set me free.
Copyright 2012 P H Brookes
poem by Paul Brookes
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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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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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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
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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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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Those Dance Moves
When I see you pull
those dance moves
it knocks me out
When the music
is screamin'
it knocks me out
You know I gotta smile
It makes me so happy
It makes me so happy
it knocks me out
I can't see anyone else
when those
dance moves
knocks me out
poem by Rachel Nichols
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