A Landscape By Courbet
Low lies the mere beneath the moorside, still
And glad of silence: down the wood sweeps clear
To the utmost verge where fed with many a rill
Low lies the mere.
The wind speaks only summer: eye nor ear
Sees aught at all of dark, hears aught of shrill,
From sound or shadow felt or fancied here.
Strange, as we praise the dead man's might and skill,
Strange that harsh thoughts should make such heavy cheer,
While, clothed with peace by heaven's most gentle will,
Low lies the mere.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Related quotes
Fundamental of Liar Chapter XLII: What Lies Beneath
beauty lies beneath
sense lies beneath
secret lies beneath
character lies beneath
rule lies beneath
mind lies beneath
past lies beneath
foundation lies beneath
root lies beneath
dark hole lies beneath
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Room That Was Locked
we talk about nothing last night
and for the past few nights about the room that was locked.
long time ago, even the mere mention of that room
they remember, the old folks always reminded us
of the penalties, for the mere use of words,
and there was fear and there was the suppressed silence
that eventually bothered each of those who thought about it,
except for one man, who one day, with all his anger,
got a bit piece of wood, the one left by the termites,
and hit the room that was always locked, and when its
door was broken, they all went it, to know what secret lies
inside the abandoned room that was forbidden.
to their aghast, there is nothing there.
except perhaps, the mere fear about its being forbidden.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Trying Hard...
the mere possibility
that i can have you
even for
one night, shall,
make me live,
but you are telling me,
as fate
is firm on its stand,
it is not
possible at all,
never,
and then to live,
some more,
one day at a time,
i tell lies to myself,
no one's hurt,
i have no regrets,
i must live, i must,
no one kills me,
and neither shall i kill
myself
because of you, because
of that
mere possibility.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poetic Experience
writing for me is like hammering
a nail... you keep pounding till
it's driven. what i have tried
to do, in collusion with others,
is to amass a body of work that
celebrates the human in human
beings... with all its pain,
suffering, turmoil, and all the
trials, the human experience is
still the eternal experience...
the only hope for humanity to
survive lies in turning inward.
until we know ourselves, we can
never have the god experience,
and can never truly interact with
others, can never even see others,
much less know them! we are mere
reflections of each other, mere
reflections of god... the sameness
that lies below our differences
is both deep, and wide!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Whatever Have the Governed Become?
What ever have the governed become?
Mere puppets fed some grain
Of fancy lies as elections come
As though they lack some needed brain?
What ever end shall the governed be,
Mere numbers on the survey scale?
Pressed upon and taxed so freely
To pay for debts when leaders fail?
Why does the governed keep so silent
Accepting all in meek obedience
When in their hearts Protest is bent
On shouting out their very Conscience?
No, the governed will speak and rule
No more of lies and sheer Deception
Governed we are and we're not fools
We will not cower in the face of Corruption!
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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At First. To Charlotte Cushman.
My crippled sense fares bow'd along
His uncompanioned way,
And wronged by death pays life with wrong
And I wake by night and dream by day.
And the Morning seems but fatigued Night
That hath wept his visage pale,
And the healthy mark 'twixt dark and light
In sickly sameness out doth fail.
And the woods stare strange, and the wind is dumb,
-- O Wind, pray talk again --
And the Hand of the Frost spreads stark and numb
As Death's on the deadened window-pane.
Still dumb, thou Wind, old voluble friend?
And the middle of the day is cold,
And the heart of eve beats lax i' the end
As a legend's climax poorly told.
Oh vain the up-straining of the hands
In the chamber late at night,
Oh vain the complainings, the hot demands,
The prayers for a sound, the tears for a sight.
No word from over the starry line,
No motion felt in the dark,
And never a day gives ever a sign
Or a dream sets seal with palpable mark.
And O my God, how slight it were,
How nothing, thou All! to thee,
That a kiss or a whisper might fall from her
Down by the way of Time to me:
Or some least grace of the body of love,
-- Mere wafture of floating-by,
Mere sense of unseen smiling above,
Mere hint sincere of a large blue eye,
Mere dim receipt of sad delight
From Nearness warm in the air,
What time with the passing of the night
She also passed, somehow, somewhere.
poem by Sidney Lanier
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Strange Pursuit
Intersecting love lines
Drew us closer every day
Always kept your distance
When you felt my presence near you
Love keeps on rolling over
Fly in retreat
I would follow without shame
A stupid spud staggering to the flame
To be had and rehad
Be a victim of the pain
Now its strange, its so strange
Its a strange pursuit
Its a strange pursuit
Its a strange pursuit
I come running like a fatboy
In lead shoes
But like a fatboy
Huff puffing after you
Its hopeless to hope for
The one thing that Im wanting
cause its strange
Its so very strange
Its a strange pursuit
Darling, Im dazzled
But you know Im too frazzled
Its a strange pursuit
Makin my mind up
While it lies in little pieces
Its a strange pursuit
You know its getting tough
When youre getting real rough
Its a strange pursuit
Darling, Im dazzled
But you know Im too frazzled
Its a strange pursuit
Makin my mind up
While it lies in little pieces
It s a strange pursuit
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If I Should Die
If I should die, how kind you all would grow!
In that strange hour I would not have one foe.
There are no words too beautiful to say
Of one who goes forevermore away
Across that ebbing tide which has no flow.
With what new lustre my good deeds would glow!
If faults were mine, no one would call them so,
Or speak of me in aught but praise that day,
If I should die.
Ah, friends! before my listening ear lies low,
While I can hear and understand, bestow
That gentle treatment and fond love, I pray,
The lustre of whose late though radiant way
Would gild my grave with mocking light, I know,
If I should die.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Maids Of Elfin-Mere
When the spinning-room was here
Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,
With their spindles every night;
One and Two and three fair Maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was toll'd,
Then departed through the wold.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Three white Lilies, calm and clear,
And they were loved by every one;
Most of all, the Pastor's Son,
Listening to their gentle singing,
Felt his heart go from him, clinging
Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere.
Sued each night to make them stay,
Sadden'd when they went away.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Hands that shook with love and fear
Dared put back the village clock,-
Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock,
Flow'd the song with subtle rounding,
Till the false 'eleven' was sounding;
Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere
Swiftly, softly, left the room,
Like three doves on snowy plume.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
One that night who wander'd near
Heard lamentings by the shore,
Saw at dawn three stains of gore
In the waters fade and dwindle.
Never more with song and spindle
Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,
The Pastor's Son did pine and die;
Because true love should never lie.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
poem by William Allingham
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Kash...
kash....
Kabhi aap samajh paate
Mere shabdo ki nahi
Mere hriday ki bhasha.
Dekh paate,
Mere hotho ke muskarahat ke pare
Mere palko me chuupi ghata.
Kabhi sunte mere sannate
Ki bojhal vayatha.
Mehsoos karte
Har saaans me
bujhti,
jalti
Mere sapno ki shama.
Kabhi jaan pate
iss nashwar se deh
me base
aatman ki ankahi dastann.
Par shayad
Ye hona na tha
Hume youn tooth kar bikharna hi tha
Aap aakhir marichika ho mere ragistan ke
Yo aap ko paakar khona hi tha.
Par phir bhi
kash...
kabhi aap....-anjali
poem by Anjali Kakati
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I’m Astounded By His Strange Love
I am astounded by His strange love,
by the way He lived just as a mere man
where He the creator God chose
to Himself bore man’s punishment.
I am astounded by His strange love,
by the way He wrote in the sand,
forcing the men who wanted to kill to leave
and forgiving Mary Magdalene.
I am astounded by His strange love,
by the way that He daily dwells with me,
being gentle like a unblemished dove
where I am a man full of sin and iniquity,
I am astounded by His strange love
poem by Gert Strydom
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Life does not mean mere karma or mere bhakti or mere jnana.
quote by Vinoba Bhave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Transformation (2)
at first i was just a mere word
so i transformed myself into a sentence
and then not contented with what i am
a mere sound and syllable
an idea, a conceived meaning
i opted to have some cells
i learned how to make myself many
so i got duplicates and multiples
until i began to have a body
some hands and feet until i began
to have a definite form like circles and
squares and cubes until i became a man
and then i regretted all these
i went back to what i was
a mere word
now looking still
for my own meaning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Truth
Oh, its a strange day
In such a lonely way
I saw some children dance
I watched my life in a trance
And the people around me
Seemed so glad to be here
Will my time pass so slowly
On the day that I fear?
And the noise that surrounds me
Pulls so loud in my head
]from the promise that healed us
To the lies that I said
Oh, its a strange day
In such a lonely way
Some people look down on me,
I know they like what they see
Strange day,
Such a strange day
Such a strange day
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The lies
Crawling into my bed, with innocent eyes,
hunting my fantasies, Why? 'I ask myself'
Why? the lies. The barbarous lies, coming
out of your mouth; I pity myself, but even
more the depths of your soul.That holds a
deep sharp tongue; the lies have spoken
your hazarding thoughts. Shame will hunt
you down, when the Angel's of heaven
manifest their anguish. The lies I believed
in; will speak back to you. And torment you
like a prison sentence, the angels of heaven
will never entwine, with hell and fire. I am the
heaven you are the fire that burns the pure
and holds the wicked.The lies that come from
the heart of evil. The lies will never conquer the
depths of my thoughts, nor the truth of my soul,
the lies will eat you alive, and keep you from
the bliss and joys, becoming like knives through
your tongue. The lies that grow in your twisted
mind.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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N4
my theory lives thru
as you have said it: these are all lies
lies and more lies
and you know them all to be lies,
but as you said it,
you begin to understand the truth
beneath these lies
a layer of grass
another layer of flowers
another layer of clouds
beneath is the niche
burying the nuggets of
my own wisdom, how i live my life
and justify it later
before God, shall all lies be
truths
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Book
Eternal God! Maker of all
That have lived here since the man's fall:
The Rock of Ages! in whose shade
They live unseen, when here they fade;
Thou knew'st this paper when it was
Mere seed, and after that but grass;
Before 'twas dressed or spun, and when
Made linen, who did wear it then:
What were their lives, their thoughts, and deeds,
Whether good corn or fruitless weeds.
Thou knew'st this tree when a green shade
Covered it, since a cover made,
And where it flourished, grew, and spread,
As if it never should be dead.
Thou knew'st this harmless beast when he
Did live and feed by Thy decree
On each green thing; then slept - well fed -
Clothed with this skin which now lies spread
A covering o'er this aged book;
Which makes me wisely weep, and look
On my own dust; mere dust it is,
But not so dry and clean as this.
Thou knew'st and saw'st them all, and though
Now scattered thus, dost know them so.
O knowing, glorious Spirit! when
Thou shalt restore trees, beasts, and men,
When Thou shalt make all new again,
Destroying only death and pain,
Give him amongst Thy works a place
Who in them loved and sought Thy face!
poem by Henry Vaughan
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Peace
The red-rose flush fades slowly in the west.
The golden water, basking in the light,
Pales to clear amber and to silver white.
The velvet shadow of a flame-crowned crest
Lies dark and darker on its shining breast,
Till lonely mere and isle and mountain-height
Grow dim as dreams in tender mist of night,
And all is tranquil as a babe at rest.
So still! So calm! Will our life's eve come thus?
No sound of strife, of labour or of pain,
No ring of woodman's axe, no dip of oar.
Will work be done, and night's rest earned, for us?
And shall we wake to see sunrise again?
Or shall we sleep, to see and know no more?
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Beyond
It seemeth such a little way to me
Across to that strange country – the Beyond;
And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be
The home of those whom I am so fond,
They make it seem familiar and most dear,
As journeying friends bring distant regions near.
So close it lies, that when my sight is clear
I think I almost see the gleaming strand.
I know I feel those who have gone from here
Come near enough sometimes, to touch my hand.
I often think, but for our veiled eyes,
We should find heaven right round about us lies.
I cannot make it seem a day to dread,
When from this dear earth I shall journey out
To that still dear country of the dead,
And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.
I love this world, yet shall I love to go
And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.
I never stand above a bier and see
The seal of death set on some well-loved face
But that I think ‘One more to welcome me,
When I shall cross the intervening space
Between this land and that one “over there”;
One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair.’
And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing – with a bated breath,
And white, set face – a little strip of sea,
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Refusal to Conform
I'm so tired of being sensible,
Tired of being wise,
All of the things I should do,
It's lies, lies, lies!
I want to get drunk instead,
I want to get right out of my head,
All of the things you told me to do,
All the ways I could have pleased you,
It's lies, lies, lies!
It comes as no surprise
That getting drunk is the only way out,
Let me stand on the rooftops and shout
'Lies, lies, lies! '
You'd have liked me to be a good boy,
Someone your colleagues could employ,
Someone who fitted in,
Who didn't have the courage to sin,
Someone to make you proud,
Someone who didn't shout out loud
'It's lies, lies, lies! '
I wasn't prepared to say yes to you,
I wasn't prepared to do what you do,
Go to hell, old father,
It's lies, lies, lies,
And that is the way a hero dies!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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