The Shortness Of Life
And what's a life? A weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.
And what's a life? The flourishing array
Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.
Read on this dial, how the shades devour
My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up the hour;
Alas! the total's but from eight to four.
Behold these lilies, which Thy hands have made
Fair copies of my life, and open laid
To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade!
Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;
My nonaged day already points to noon;
How simple is my suit! how small my boon!
Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile
The time away, or falsely to beguile
My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile.
poem by Francis Quarles
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Related quotes
But a short time to live
Our little hour,—how swift it flies
When poppies flare and lilies smile;
How soon the fleeting minute dies,
Leaving us but a little while
To dream our dream, to sing our song,
To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower,
The Gods—They do not give us long,—
One little hour.
Our little hour,—how short it is
When Love with dew-eyed loveliness
Raises her lips for ours to kiss
And dies within our first caress.
Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame,
Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour,
For Time and Death, relentless, claim
Our little hour.
Our little hour,—how short a time
To wage our wars, to fan our hates,
To take our fill of armoured crime,
To troop our banners, storm the gates.
Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red,
Blind in our puny reign of power,
Do we forget how soon is sped
Our little hour?
Our little hour,—how soon it dies:
How short a time to tell our beads,
To chant our feeble Litanies,
To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds.
The altar lights grow pale and dim,
The bells hang silent in the tower—
So passes with the dying hymn
Our little hour.
poem by Leslie Coulson
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Hotspur: O gentlemen, the time of life is short!
To spend that shortness basely were too long,
If life did ride upon a dial's point,
Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
line from Henry IV, Act V, Scene 2, script by William Shakespeare (1597)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Around The Dial
Radios of the world are tuning in tonight,
Are you on the dial, are you tuned in right?
One of our d.j.s is missing.
Are you listening?
Are you listening to me?
Can you hear me?
Can you hear me clearly?
Around the dial.
Ive been around the dial so many times,
But youre not there.
Somebody tells me that youve been taken off the air.
Well, you were my favorite d.j.,
Since I cant remember when.
You always played the best records,
You never followed any trend.
F.m., a.m. where are you?
You gotta be out there somewhere on the dial.
On the dial.
(are you ready) were going round the dial,
(are you listening) around the dial,
(are you tuned in) around the dial,
(are you searchin) around the dial.
F.m., a.m. where are you?
You gotta be out there somewhere on the dial.
On the dial.
Where did you go mr. d.j.?
Did they take you off the air?
Was it something that you said to the corporation guys upstairs?
It wasnt the pressure,
You never sounded down.
It couldnt be the ratings,
You had the best in town.
Somehow Im gonna find ya, track you down.
Gonna keep on searchin,
Around and around and round and round...
(theyre searchin) around the dial,
(theyre listenin) around the dial,
(poor station) the best in town,
(poor d.j.) who never let us down.
While the critics kept on knocking you,
You just kept on rocking around the dial.
Around the dial.
Ive been searchin for you on my radio.
This time your station really must have gone underground
Somebody said you had a minor nervous breakdown.
Was it something that you heard,
Or something that you saw,
That made you lose your mind,
Did you lose control.
Did you step out of line?
If youre there, give us a sign.
I cant believe that youve been taken off the air.
Think Ill sell my radio now that youre not there.
You never gave in to fashion,
You never followed any trends,
All the record bums tried to hack you up,
But you were honest to the end.
Gonna keep my radio on,
till I know just what went wrong.
The answers out there somewhere on the dial.
On the dial.
Can you hear me (around the dial)
Are you listenin (around the dial)
Are you out there (around the dial)
Can you hear me?
Around the dial.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Playground of Life XIX
One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty
And Love is worth a full century of glory
Given by the frightened weak to the strong.
From that hour comes man's Truth; and
During that century Truth sleeps between
The restless arms of disturbing dreams.
In that hour the soul sees for herself
The Natural Law, and for that century she
Imprisons herself behind the law of man;
And she is shackled with irons of oppression.
That hour was the inspiration of the Songs
Of Solomon, an that century was the blind
Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.
That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the
Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of
Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.
That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that
Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.
One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the
Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a
Century filled with greed and usurpation.
It is at that hour when the heart is
Purified by flaming sorrow and
Illuminated by the torch of Love.
And in that century, desires for Truth
Are buried in the bosom of the earth.
That hour is the root which must flourish.
That hour of meditation, the hour of
Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.
And that century is a life of Nero spent
On self-investment taken solely from
Earthly substance.
This is life.
Portrayed on the stage for ages;
Recorded earthly for centuries;
Lived in strangeness for years;
Sung as a hymn for days;
Exalted but for an hour, but the
Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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You Have Let The Beauty Of The Day Go Over
You have let the beauty of the day go over,
You have let the glory of the noon go by.
Clouds from the West have gathered close and cover
All but a remnant now of our proud sky.
Dumbly the rain beats on our darkened faces.
Hushed are the woods. Alas, for us no bird
Shall sing to--day of pleasure in green places,
No touch shall thrill, no soul of leaves be stirred.
Why did we wait? What faith was ours in fortune?
What was our pride that fate should kneel to us?
Oh, we were fools. Love loves not to importune,
And he is silent here in this sad house.
Alas, dear love, the day for us is ended,
The pleasure of green fields, of streams, of skies.
One hour remains, one only of joy blended
With coming night. Ah, seize it ere it flies.
Draw fast the curtains. Close the door on sorrow.
Shut out the dusk. It only makes us grieve.
Here we may live a life,--and then, to--morrow,
If fate still wills it, we may take our leave.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Dial-a-clich
Further into the fog I fall
Well, I was just
Following you!
When you said :
Do as I do and scrap your fey ways
(dial-a-clich)
Grow up, be a man, and close your mealy-mouth!
(dial-a-clich)
Dial-a-clich
Dial-a-clich
But the person underneath
Where does he go ?
Does he slide by the wayside ?
Or ... does he just die ?
And you find that youve organised
Your feelings, for people
Who didnt like you then
And do not like you now
But still you say :
Do as I do and scrap your fey ways
(dial-a-clich)
Grow up, be a man, and close your mealy-mouth!
(dial-a-clich)
The safe way is the only way !
Theres always time to change, son !
Ive changed
But Im in pain !
Dial-a-clich
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Outcast's Farewell
The sun is banished,
The daylight vanished,
No rosy traces
Are left behind.
Here in the meadow
I watch the shadow
Of forms and faces
Upon your blind.
Through swift transitions,
In new positions,
My eyes still follow
One shape most fair.
My heart delaying
Awhile, is playing
With pleasures hollow,
Which mock despair.
I feel so lonely,
I long once only
To pass an hour
With you, O sweet!
To touch your fingers,
Where fragrance lingers
From some rare flower,
And kiss your feet.
But not this even
To me is given.
Of all sad mortals
Most sad am I,
Never to meet you,
Never to greet you,
Nor pass your portals
Before I die.
All men scorn me,
Not one will mourn me,
When from their city
I pass away.
Will you to-morrow
Recall with sorrow
Him whom with pity
You saw to-day?
Outcast and lonely,
One thing only
Beyond misgiving
I hold for true,
That, had you known me,
You would have shown me
A life worth living -
A life for you.
Yes: five years younger
My manhood's hunger
Had you come filling
With plenty sweet,
My life so nourished,
Had grown and flourished,
Had God been willing
That we should meet.
How vain to fashion
From dreams and passion
The rich existence
Which might have been!
Can God's own power
Recall the hour,
Or bridge the distance
That lies between?
Before the morning,
From pain and scorning
I sail death's river
To sleep or hell.
To you is given
The life of heaven.
Farewell for ever,
Farewell, farewell!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Tonic
Bright sunshine on a winter’s day
is caught and held by naked trees.
Where light and shadow interplay,
like memories which fade away.
As quickly passing years erase
the glory of our younger days.
In youthful years of innocence.
Bright sunshine on a winter’s day,
dispensed by kindly providence.
Softened the sombre shades of grey
with subtle hints and shades of gold
Our winter weary eyes behold.
As we grow up and make our way
from childhood to maturity.
Bright sunshine on a winter’s day
still offers us the surety.
That winter is not permanent
in course of time it must relent.
A fact that cannot be gainsaid.
Which tells us spring is on the way
a sign of better times ahead
Bright sunshine on a winter’s day
Can send the spirits soaring high
to meet the brightness in the sky.
poem by Ivor .e Hogg
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On the Death of Anne Brontë
There's little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave;
I've lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.
Calmly to watch the failing breath,
Wishing each sigh might be the last;
Longing to see the shade of death
O'er those beloved features cast.
The cloud, the stillness that must part
The darling of my life from me;
And then to thank God from my heart,
To thank Him well and fervently;
Although I knew that we had lost
The hope and glory of our life;
And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,
Must bear alone the weary strife.
poem by Charlotte Bronte (1849)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I'll ask a Bluebird…
I'll ask a bluebird
To sing a summer song
Tones so lovely slurred
For life is coming along
Each day and night tender
Of love songs in the air
My thoughts to this surrender
In tunes of moments fair
I'll ask a thrush that plays
Its summer forest songs
Why each of them dallies
To a heart that longs
When breezy are the leaves
Of the wandering hour
With many thoughts of eves
For the meadow flower
Night of late shall come
To every summer singing
Growing on tincturing blossom
An end to their dreams bringing
For love shall fly away
Into another living wave
Where flowers in wind sway
With the new songs to crave
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Man
IN his own image the Creator made,
His own pure sunbeam quicken’d thee, O man!
Thou breathing dial! since thy day began
The present hour was ever mark’d with shade!
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Life Is Lovely All the Year
When the buds are blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day -
Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green - Fal lal la!
Summer's rose - Fal lal la!
It is sad when Summer goes,
Fal la!
Autumn's gold - Fal lal la!
Winter's grey - Fal lal la!
Winter still is far away -
Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope - Fal lal la!
Summer's joy - Fal lal la!
Spring and Summer never cloy,
Fal la!
Autumn, toil - Fal lal la!
Winter, rest - Fal lal la!
Winter, after all, is best -
Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too -
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
Fal la!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Licia Sonnets 28
In time the strong and stately turrets fall,
In time the rose and silver lilies die,
In time the monarchs captive are and thrall,
In time the sea and rivers are made dry;
The hardest flint in time doth melt asunder;
Still living fame in time doth fade away;
The mountains proud we see in time come under;
And earth for age we see in time decay;
The sun in time forgets for to retire
From out the east where he was wont to rise;
The basest thoughts we see in time aspire,
And greedy minds in time do wealth despise.
Thus all, sweet fair, in time must have an end,
Except thy beauty, virtues, and thy friend.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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There You were
There you were
You’re always laughing at me
Is that how life’s supposed to be?
Each night I cry
Don’t tell me you don’t know why
But I rose up to live once more
From the grave of my depression.
You were too blind to see my real worth
But I lived again
There you were abusing me
Torturing my life inside out
I still don’t know why
Is that how life’s supposed to be?
But I rose up to live once more
From the grave of my depression
You were too blind to see my real worth
But I lived again
A day won’t go by
When I think of you
How cruel you were to me
And how I became stronger
Day by day
From the thoughts of you
Giving and not taking
From me, for me
And I rose up to live once more
From the grave of my depression
You were too blind to see my real worth
And I lived again
Now you are helping me
That’s how life’s supposed to be
There you are being a friend
But is it true until the end?
And you raised me up to live once more
From the grave of my depression
You re-gained your sight and saw my worth
And you lived again
There you were
poem by Lyrael Myrna
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A June-Tide Echo
(After a Richter Concert.)
In the long, sad time, when the sky was grey,
And the keen blast blew through the city drear,
When delight had fled from the night and the day,
My chill heart whispered, " June will be here!
" June with its roses a-sway in the sun,
Its glory of green on mead and tree."
Lo, now the sweet June-tide is nearly done,
June-tide, and never a joy for me
Is it so much of the gods that I pray?
Sure craved man never so slight a boon!
To be glad and glad in my heart one day--
One perfect day of the perfect June.
Sweet sounds to-night rose up, wave upon wave;
Sweet dreams were afloat in the balmy air.
This is the boon of the gods that I crave--
To be glad, as the music and night were fair.
For once, for one fleeting hour, to hold
The fair shape the music that rose and fell
Revealed and concealed like a veiling fold;
To catch for an instant the sweet June spell.
For once, for one hour, to catch and keep
The sweet June secret that mocks my heart;
Now lurking calm, like a thing asleep,
Now hither and thither with start and dart.
Then the sick, slow grief of the weary years,
The slow, sick grief and the sudden pain;
The long days of labour, the nights of tears--
No more these things would I hold in vain.
I would hold my life as a thing of worth;
Pour praise to the gods for a precious thing.
Lo, June in her fairness is on earth,
And never a joy does the niggard bring.
Thorn In The Flesh
Thorn beneath the milk-white
Crowned with
In the flesh
Thorns beneath the
Rose without
On the ground
On the stalk
Thousands at her bidding speed
Countless mourn
Die without
Sunbeam in a winter's day
True as the dial to
True as the dial to
True as the dial
To you.
poem by Harry Crosby
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Country Fair
We stood and watched the river flow
We were too young to really know
In the country fair
Oh, in the country fair
We laid out in the long green grass
And never thought that it would pass
In the country fair
In the country fair
On an old, on an old open day
On an old rainshine open day
In the country fair
In the cool night air
In sweet summer time
We counted pebbles in the sand
Sand like time slippin through our hand
In the country fair
In the country fair
On an old, on an old open day
On an old raintrack open day
In the country fair
In the cool night air
In sweet summer time
Hmmm mmmm
On an old open day
On an old
Pinecone open day
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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High Noon
Time’s finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon! And yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.
To those who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than early death.
We cannot count on raveled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields
And toils while daylight lasts. When I bethink
How brief the past, the future still more brief,
Calls on to action, action! Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams,
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.
Have I done nobly? Then I must not let
Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip
Be my reminder in temptations hour,
And keep me silent when I could condemn.
Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin
To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity may shine through them.
Looking back,
My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones
That led the way to knowledge of the truth
And made me value virtue: sorrows shine
In rainbow colours o’er the gulf of years,
Where lie forgotten pleasures.
Looking forth,
Out to the westers sky still bright with noon,
I feel well spurred and booted for the strife
That ends not till Nirvana is attained.
Battling with fate, with men and with myself,
Up the steep summit of my life’s forenoon,
Three things I learned, three things of precious worth
To guide and help me down the western slope.
I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save.
To pray for courage to receive what comes,
Knowing what comes to be divinely sent.
To toil for universal good, since thus
And only thus can good come unto me.
To save, by giving whatsoe’er I have
To those who have not, this alone is gain.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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All Along The Watchtower
There must be some way out of here
Said the joker to the thief
Theres too much confusion here
I cant get no relief
Businessmen they drink my wine
Plowmen dig my earth
None of them know along the line
What any of this is worth
No reason to get excited
The thief, he kindly spoke
There are many here among us
Who think that life is but a joke
But you and i, weve been through that
And that is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now
Because the hour is getting late
All along the watchtower
Princes kept the view
While horsemen came and went
Barefoot servants too
All I got is a red guitar
Three chords
And the truth
All I got is a red guitar
The rest is up to you
Theres no reason to get excited
The thief, he kindly spoke
There are some among us here
Say that life is just a joke
You and i, weve been through that
And that is not our fate (at least today)
So let us not talk falsely now
Because the hour is getting late
Late...
(yeeeaaaaaahhhhhh...)
[until end]
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Mass
No doubt to-morrow I will hide
My face from you, my King.
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon,
And kneel while gray priests sing.
It is not wisdom to forget.
But since it is my fate
Fill thou my soul with hidden wine
To make this white hour great.
My God, my God, this marvelous hour
I am your son I know.
Once in a thousand days your voice
Has laid temptation low.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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