Ashore At Dover
On landing, the first voice one hears is from
An English police-constable; a man
Respectful, conscious that at need he can
Enforce respect. Our custom-house at home
Strict too, but quiet. Not the foul-mouthed scum
Of passport-mongers who in Paris still
Preserve the Reign of Terror; not the till
Where the King haggles, all through Belgium.
The country somehow seems in earnest here,
Grave and sufficient:—England, so to speak;
No other word will make the thing as clear.
“Ah! habit,” you exclaim, “and prejudice!”
If so, so be it. One don't care to shriek,
“Sir, this shall be!” But one believes it is.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Related quotes
Said the Kaiser to the Spy
“Now tell me what can England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
“She can do nought, your Majesty—
You rule the sea and sky.
Her day of destiny is done;
Her path of peace is plain;
For she dare never throw a troop
Across the Strait again.”
The Kaiser sent his mighty host,
With Bombast in advance,
To set his seal on Paris first,
And make an end of France.
Their guns were heard in Paris streets,
And trembling Europe heard;
(They’re staggering back in Belgium now)
And England said no word.
“Now tell me what can England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
“She can do nought in Southern seas
Where her possessions lie!
Her colonies are arming now—
They only wait your aid!”
“I’ll send my ships,” the Kaiser said,
“And I will kill her trade!”
The Kaiser sent his cruisers forth
To do their worst or best;
And one made trouble in the North—
The Cocos tell the rest.
He sent a squadron to a coast
Where treachery prevailed—
Gra’mercy! They were stricken hard
On seas that Raleigh sailed!
“Now tell me what can England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
“Her ports are all unfortified
And there your chances lie!”
He sent his ships to Scarborough,
And called them back again.
The Blucher lies in Channel ooze
With seven hundred men.
“Oh, tell me what can England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
“She can’t hold Egypt for a day—
(I have it from On High.”)
And so the Kaiser paid the Turk
To put the matter through—
And England’s Queen of Egypt now,
And boss of Turkey too.
“Now tell me what shall England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
You see that neither of them knew
Much more than you or I.
But the blooming thing that’s troubling me
As the pregnant weeks go by,
Is wotinell shall England do
When the Kaiser hangs that Spy!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Speak The Word
Unsettled hearts
Promise what they cant deliver
Bring me the wine
And the cold night air to clear my head
Gray matter memory house
Master of this trembling flesh
Steady still my doubts
Let me speak the word that precedes bliss
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
These weakened knees
Have not touched ground or pew in ages
I havent bowed my head
I offer thanks to any God or to ask for favors
But watch me now
Im falling down
Praying
To speak the word that precedes bliss
To speak the word
To speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dead Singer
'SHE is dead!' they say; 'she is robed for the grave; O there are lilies upon her breast;
Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, and folded her hands to rest;
Her blue eyes show through the waxen lids: they have hidden her hair's gold crown;
Her grave is dug, and its heap of earth is waiting to press her down.'
'She is dead!' they say to the people, her people, for whom she sung;
Whose hearts she touched with sorrow and love, like a harp with life-chords strung.
And the people hear—but behind their tear they smile as though they heard
Another voice, like a mystery, proclaim another word.
'She is not dead.' it says to their hearts; 'true Singers can never die;
Their life is a voice of higher things, unseen to the common eye;
The truths and the beauties are clear to them, God's right and the human wrong,
The heroes who die unknown, and the weak who are chained and scourged by the strong.'
And the people smile at the death-word, for the mystic voice is clear:
'THE SINGER WHO LIVED IS ALWAYS ALIVE: WE HEARKEN AND ALWAYS HEAR!'
And they raise her body with tender hands, and bear her down to the main,
They lay her in state on the mourning ship, like the lily-maid Elaine;
And they sail to her isle across the sea, where the people wait on the shore
To lift her in silence with heads all bare to her home forevermore,
Her home in the heart of her country; oh, a grave among our own
Is warmer and dearer than living on in the stranger lands alone.
No need of a tomb for the Singer! Her fair hair's pillow now
Is the sacred clay of her country, and the sky above her brow
Is the same that smiled and wept on her youth, and the grass around is deep
With the clinging leaves of the shamrock that cover her peaceful sleep.
Undreaming there she will rest and wait, in the tomb her people make,
Till she hears men's hearts, like the seeds in Spring, all stirring to be awake,
Till she feels the moving of souls that strain till the bands around them break;
And then, I think, her dead lips will smile and her eyes be oped to see,
When the cry goes out to the Nations that the Singer's land is free!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Unknown Soldier by Billy Rose
There's a graveyard near the White House
Where the Unknown Soldier lies,
And the flowers there are sprinkled
With the tears from mother's eyes.
I stood there not so long ago
With roses for the brave,
And suddenly I heard a voice
Speak from out the grave:
'I am the Unknown Soldier,
The spirit voice began
'And I think I have the right
To ask some questions man to man.
'Are my buddies taken care of?
Was their victory so sweet?
Is that big reward you offered
Selling pencils on the street?
'Did they really win the freedom
They battled to achieve?
Do you still respect that Croix de Guerre
Above that empty sleeve?
'Does a gold star in the window
Now mean anything at all?
I wonder how my old girl feels
When she hears a bugle call.
'And that baby who sang
Hello, Central, give me no man
Can they replace her daddy
With a military band?
'I wonder if the profiteers
Have satisfied their greed?
I wonder if a soldier's mother
Ever is in need?
'I wonder if the kings, who planned it all
Are really satisfied?
They played their game of checkers
And eleven million died.
'I am the Unknown Soldier
And maybe I died in vain,
But if I were alive and my country called,
I'd do it all over again.
poem by Emily Moralez
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Fear and Death; Are Our Twin of Pain
A nice conversation within the twin and me:
Twin: can you see our faces?
Me: yeah, sure; it looks like matured poop.
Twin: do you want us to honest with you?
Me: No, I want both of you to keep bullshiting around; till I grab your necks and strangle continuously, till your skulls squash.
Twin: ok; that's very respectful and fearful. Don't you have respect for us; almighty king fear and death?
Me: *hissing* what ever! For all I care; you both could go drink a full bottle of acid, and knock yourselves out; while you die of cancer, with all due respect, idiots! .
Twin: ok, I see this our friendly conversation is leading to no where, I guess; we will try another fellow, that is not Nigerian, maybe someone from Tokyo or Syria.
Me: good you know; at least both of you are foolish enough to park up your poop faces, and try another native dustbin bird, you could scold and steal away so easily. It was nice meeting and charting with you two retards. For you both; act like illiterate witches and wizards, preaching the word of God in hell, and selling holy water, to winch and quench the burning fire of hell.
Twin: we like you; because you fire up our curiosity. Can we be your friends?
Me: yeah, sure; you've just found the right hell, to make you burn successfully.
Me: It was nice melting both of you. Baboons!
poem by King Femi Oloidi
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Anomalous
What hath a mind
If it hath not a choice
What hath a man
If he hath not a voice
What is a man
If the voice the man hath
Is that of another
On a surrogate path
Rather I say
Inimitably give
Make each moment yours
Expectations, outlive
Bring no shame upon
How you sound or appear
Speak loud, proud,
Conscious, and clear
You're not born with a voice
It forms over time
Just speak for yourself
You'll turn out sublime
poem by Brandon McConnell
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Someone Who Believes In You
Written by: neil diamond
Believe me
Im someone who believes in you
Say, you really had a million dollars
And a car for every day of the week
So what? you know what?
It wouldnt mean not a single thing
Without that someone
Who believes it too
Yeah, you gotta have someone
Who believes in you
Say, you really had a hollywood contract
And your face up on the big billboard
Big car, big star
Youd move a lot, but you wouldnt get far
Without that someone
Who believes it too
You better have someone
Who believes in you
You are the truest part of me
That quiet place where I can be strong
You come to fill my deepest needs
You call my name, and I hear your song
Believe me
Theres someone who believes in you
So, you really got the hots for stardom
All you need is some big guitar
To take you, and make you
Into an overnight star
And then youll find that
Stars get lonesome too
And you better have someone
Who believes in you
You are the truest part of me
That tender place where I can be strong
You come to fill my deepest needs
You speak my name, and I hear your song
So you really want a job in the circus
Paint you face and make the people smile
A clown, come on down
Youve been too long walking that high wire
When youre falling, youll be calling to
Be calling out to someone who believes you
Someone whos there when nobody needs you
Calling out to someone who believes in you
song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From Paris To Brussels (11 P.M. 15 October To Half-Past 1 P.M. 16) Proem At The Paris Station
In France (to baffle thieves and murderers)
A journey takes two days of passport work
At least. The plan's sometimes a tedious one,
But bears its fruit. Because, the other day,
In passing by the Morgue, we saw a man
(The thing is common, and we never should
Have known of it, only we passed that way)
Who had been stabbed and tumbled in the Seine,
Where he had stayed some days. The face was black,
And, like a negro's, swollen; all the flesh
Had furred, and broken into a green mould.
Now, very likely, he who did the job
Was standing among those who stood with us,
To look upon the corpse. You fancy him—
Smoking an early pipe, and watching, as
An artist, the effect of his last work.
This always if it had not struck him that
'Twere best to leave while yet the body took
Its crust of rot beneath the Seine. It may:
But, if it did not, he can now remain
Without much fear. Only, if he should want
To travel, and have not his passport yet,
(Deep dogs these French police!) he may be caught.
Therefore you see (lest, being murderers,
We should not have the sense to go before
The thing were known, or to stay afterwards)
There is good reason why—having resolved
To start for Belgium—we were kept three days
To learn about the passports first, then do
As we had learned. This notwithstanding, in
The fullness of the time 'tis come to pass.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Stalking-horse
He was caught in the border by a sentry.
“Hey! You are an illegal immigrant and where is your Passport? ”
'I don’t have that sort of thing and I am a wanderer of world citizen.”
'It’s not an excuse. You should carry your Passport whenever you enter another country.”
“I told you once I don’t have.”
“Your good name please? ”
“Sentimental.”
“You carry my name and your country of birth? ”
“Earth Sir.”
“Parents are living? ”
“Yes. But who knows where? ”
“We have to take you to custody. You seemed to be a Terrorist or a Freak.”
“If you predict that much then I has no any objections. You are holding a weapon and I am a free fall.”
“Tell me exactly what your intention is? ”
“I am seeking an honorary citizenship.”
“That would decide by the court of Law and let’s go in.”
They dragged him to their country.
On the way he said to the sentry “You talked about the funny word [Law].
Immense and it’s happy to hear that your country has law-abiding people.
What do you think of the court’s decision? ”
“Definitely put you into jail.”
“Oh! It’s really ridiculous when an unpractised lawyer who goes to the jail
In the country of walking into the freedom”
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The English (it must be owned) are rather a foul-mouthed nation.
quote by William Hazlitt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A House In The Country
He don't need no sedatives to ease his troubled mind.
At work he is invariably unpleasant and unkind.
Why should he care if he is hated in his home,
'Cause he's gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
He's gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
But he ain't gotta home, oh no,
And he's as wicked as he can be,
'Cause he's gotta house in the country
Where he likes to spend his weekend days.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, well all right
Well, he got his job when drunken Daddy tumbled down the stairs.
From that very day this boy is more than having his share.
One of these days I'm gonna knock him off of his throne,
'Cause he's gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
He's gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
And he's oh so smug, oh yeah.
He's got everything he needs,
'Cause he's gotta house in the country
Where he likes to spend his weekend days.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, well all right
And he's oh so smug, oh yeah.
He's got everything he needs,
'Cause he's gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
He's gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
But he's socially dead, oh yeah,
And it don't matter much to him,
'Cause he's gotta house in the country
Where he likes to spend his weekend days.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, well all right
House in the country
House in the country
House in the country
House in the country
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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House In The Country
He dont need no sedatives to ease his troubled mind.
At work he is invariably unpleasant and unkind.
Why should he care if he is hated in his home,
cause hes gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
Hes gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
But he aint gotta home, oh no,
And hes as wicked as he can be,
cause hes gotta house in the country
Where he likes to spend his weekend days.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, well all right
Well, he got his job when drunken daddy tumbled down the stairs.
From that very day this boy is more than having his share.
One of these days Im gonna knock him off of his throne,
cause hes gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
Hes gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
And hes oh so smug, oh yeah.
Hes got everything he needs,
cause hes gotta house in the country
Where he likes to spend his weekend days.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, well all right
And hes oh so smug, oh yeah.
Hes got everything he needs,
cause hes gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
Hes gotta house in the country,
And a big sports car.
But hes socially dead, oh yeah,
And it dont matter much to him,
cause hes gotta house in the country
Where he likes to spend his weekend days.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, well all right
House in the country
House in the country
House in the country
House in the country
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cromwell
They took dead Cromwell from his grave,
And stuck his head on high;
The Merry Monarch and his men,
They laughed as they passed by
The common people cheered and jeered,
To England’s deep disgrace—
The crowds who’d ne’er have dared to look
Live Cromwell in the face.
He came in England’s direst need
With law and fire and sword,
He thrashed her enemies at home
And crushed her foes abroad;
He kept his word by sea and land,
His parliament he schooled,
He made the nations understand
A Man in England ruled!
Van Tromp, with twice the English ships,
And flushed by victory—
A great broom to his masthead bound—
Set sail to sweep the sea.
But England’s ruler was a man
Who needed lots of room—
So Blake soon lowered the Dutchman’s tone,
And smashed the Dutchman’s broom.
He sent a bill to Tuscany
For sixty thousand pounds,
For wrong done to his subjects there,
And merchants in her bounds.
He sent by Debt Collector Blake,
And—you need but be told
That, by the Duke of Tuscany
That bill was paid in gold.
To pirate ports in Africa
He sent a message grim
To have each captured Englishman
Delivered up to him;
And every ship and cargo’s worth,
And every boat and gun—
And this—all this, as Dickens says—
“Was gloriously done.”
They’d tortured English prisoners
Who’d sailed the Spanish Main;
So Cromwell sent a little bill
By Admiral Blake to Spain.
To keep his hand in, by the way.
He whipped the Portuguese;
And he made it safe for English ships
To sail the Spanish seas.
The Protestants in Southern lands
Had long been sore oppressed;
They sent their earnest prayers to Noll
To have their wrongs redressed.
He sent a message to the Powers,
In which he told them flat,
All men must praise God as they chose,
Or he would see to that.
And, when he’d hanged the fools at home
And settled foreign rows,
He found the time to potter round
Amongst his pigs and cows.
Of private rows he never spoke,
That grand old Ironsides.
They said a father’s strong heart broke
When Cromwell’s daughter died.
(They dragged his body from its grave,
His head stuck on a pole,
They threw his wife’s and daughter’s bones
Into a rubbish hole
To rot with those of two who’d lived
And fought for England’s sake,
And each one in his own brave way—
Great Pym, and Admiral Blake.)
From Charles to Charles, throughout the world
Old England’s name was high,
And that’s a thing no Royalist
Could ever yet deny.
Long shameful years have passed since then,
In spite of England’s boast—
But Englishmen were Englishmen,
While Cromwell carved the roast.
And, in my country’s hour of need—
For it shall surely come,
While run by fools who’ll never heed
The beating of the drum.
While baffled by the fools at home,
And threatened from the sea—
Lord! send a man like Oliver—
And let me live to see.
poem by Henry Lawson
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King's Oath
I'm the king
I'm the son of nobody
Due I respect others my family
Take care my people my own blood
Every step of my country is my home
Everything belong to the land
I'll protect them
I don't walk from man's hand
I rule on my own feet
I take pride, I take responsibility
If there's night, let me fall with
I'm the king
I don't last forever
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Constable
Crafty copper
Moments arrested
Portraits in custody
Come along there
Broken cart
You need a stay
In my oily cell
Up to prison London
You shall go
At owners pleasure
To rest and consider
Your pretty crimes
Prisoners tour Paris
So well behaved
A gold medal royal
Gains John
As is his dew
Up to London
Constable finds
A necessary means
To make prudent friends
But fortunate are we
For his real
Pastures, views and
Sublime scenes
Remain on the loose
In Constable country
No grammar school for them
No mercantile father
But free
For you
And me
poem by Jason Palmer
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Scum
I am scum.
Nothing more than a worthless bum.
I crossed the last line.
There is no return.
In the end I'm deeply burned.
Self loathing hatred fills me up.
They replace what I choked out.
I am scum what can be done?
I'd change it all in heartbeat times run.
Stabbed and beaten till all were bleeding.
I am scum I hate myself.
It's no wonder I've never been loved.
I am scum so all can see,
Most ecspecially I know does she.
I retire in this weary state of mind.
I can't take anymore sorrow I'm a crime.
So from this scum I say goodbye.
I never intentionally told a lie.
So forgive me for the things I do.
I'm scum of the earth God hates me too.
poem by Michael McParland
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Speak
Theyve given me a mission
I dont really know the game yet
Im bent on submission
Religion is to blame
Im the new messiah
Death angel with a gun
Dangerous in my silence
Deadly to my cause
Speak to me the pain you feel
Speak the word
The word is all of us
Ive given my life to become what I am
To preach the new beginning
To make you understand
To reach some point of order
Utopia in mind, youve got to learn
To sacrifice, to leave whats now behind
Speak to me the pain you feel
Speak the word
The word is all of us
Speak the word
The word is all of us
Seven years of power
The corporation claw
The rich control the government, the media the law
To make some kind of difference
Then everyone must know
Eradicate the fascists, revolution will grow
The system we learn says were equal under law
But the streets are reality, the weak and poor will fall
Lets tip the power balance and tear down their crown
Educate the masses, well burn the white house down
Speak to me the pain you feel
Speak to me the pain you feel
Speak the word [revolution]
The word is all of us
Speak the word [revolution]
The word is all of us
Speak the word
The word is all of us
Speak the word
The word is all of us
Speak!!!
song performed by by Queensryche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Great events make me quiet and calm; it is only trifles that irritate my nerves.
Queen Victoria in in a letter to King Leopold of Belgium, April 4, 1848
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Clear Voice
The whole world is talking
Drowning out my voice
How can I hear myself
With all this noise
But all this confusion
Just disappears
When I find a quiet place
Where I can hear
(chorus)
One clear voice
Calling out for me to listen
One clear voice
Whispers words of wisdom
I close my eyes
till I find what Ive been missing
If Im very still, I will hear
One clear voice
Im always searching
For which path to take
Sometimes Im so afraid
To make mistakes
From somewhere inside me
Stronger than my fears
Just like the sound of music
To my ears, I hear
Chorus
song performed by by Peter Cetera
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Peddling Round the World
When at first in foreign parts
Was her flag unfurled,
England was a Gipsy lass
Peddling round the world.
Sailing on the Spanish Main—
Everywhere you roam—
Peddling in the Persian Gulf
Things she’d made at home.
Peddling round the world,
Peddling round the world—
England was a Gipsy lass
Peddling round the world.
England never wanted war,
Not on land or sea—
Other nations rising up
Couldn’t let her be.
England only wanted peace,
And the ocean’s breath;
So there came, in course of time,
Queen Elizabeth.
Queen Elizabeth—
Queen Elizabeth—
Came a plain, bad-tempered queen,
Called Elizabeth.
Queen Elizabeth, she called
Drake, and Raleigh too—
Essex, Howard, and the rest
Of the pirate crew;
“See what you can do,” she said.
“England’s feeling sick—
If you don’t, I’ll hang you all!
Better do it quick.”
“Better do it quick,” she said—
“Better do it quick”;
And they knew she’d keep her word,
So they did it quick.
Drake and Raleigh sailed away—
(Only Bess they feared)
Cleared the Spanish Main and singed
The King of Spain his beard—
Singed the King of Spain his beard,
And his hair they curled.
England was a Gipsy’s love
Peddling round the world.
Peddling round the world,
Peddling round the world.
England was a Gipsy’s love
Peddling round the world.
Once again, when Cromwell came,
England wanted room;
So he lowered Holland’s tone,
Smashed the Dutchman’s broom.
Sent a message to Algiers;
Made its meaning plain—
On the way they called once more
On the King of Spain.
On the King of Spain—
On the King of Spain:
Called, to jog his memory,
On the King of Spain.
So the years went round and round,
Over hills and flats—
England was a Gipsy wife—
England had her brats;
Peddling in the China Sea,
Far from English ground;
Doing biz with Mrs. Jap—
Peddling all around.
Peddling all around—
Peddling all around;
Making friends with Mrs. Jap—
Peddling all around.
When the war is past and gone,
With its blood and tears;
And the world may count upon
Peace for fifty years—
When the gory battle-flags
Round their sticks are furled—
Then you’ll see a Gipsy crone
Peddling round the world.
Peddling round the world—
Peddling round the world.
Then you’ll see a Gipsy crone
A-peddling round the world!
Shawl as old as Joseph’s coat,
Hair as white as snow,
Mind as bright as Seventeen—
Eyes still like the sloe—
Peddling in the Southern Seas—
Everywhere you roam—
And she’ll fill her baskets here
With things we’ll make at home.
Things we’ll make at home—
Things we’ll make at home—
Call to fill her baskets here
With things we’ll make at HOME.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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