Related quotes: Another battle! and the sounds...

Sedan

Another battle! and the sounds have rolled
By many a gloomy gorge and wasted plain
O’er huddled hills and mountains manifold,
Like winds that run before a heavy rain
When Autumn lops the leaves and drooping grain,
And earth lies deep in brown and cloudy gold.
My brothers, lo! our grand old England stands,
With weapons gleaming in her ready hands,
Outside the tumult! Let us watch and trust
That she will never darken in the dust
And drift of wild contention, but remain
The hope and stay of many troubled lands,
Where so she waits the issue of the fight,
Aloof; but praying “God defend the Right!”

poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

An Autumn Crown

Watch the leaves turn
yellow, red and brown
Changing the sky too
And putting on autumn's crown

And letting in the joy
And happiness of sunshine
And filling the world with
The light and warmth of wine

watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And reflecting serenity and peace
And putting on autumn's crown

And spreading joy and passion
And enthusiasm and hope
And clearing away the dust
And all pain and mope

watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And creating a new life
And putting on autumn's crown

And showing you how to reach
The bright horizon afar
And nature glowing with colors
A twinkling like a star

Watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
Reflecting God's blessings
And putting on autumn's crown.

poem by Seema Chowdhury
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thinking Of What Lies Ahead

Clouds of grey
Lie strewn against bright blue
Dimming the already dim moonlight
The smell of rain permeates the air
The moisture almost tangible
Autumn winds blow red and brown leaves
Around on the floor

Staring at the celing
Glowing stars peep through the curtains
A half-bitten moon resides high in the sky
She waits for sleep to over come her
But her mind turns and works
Thinking about the future
Of what lies ahead

poem by Autumn Winds
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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News of War

Today, while yet the rumour filled the street,
I left your faces troubled with the thought
Of brothers to a bodeful fury wrought;
And, hurrying past a thousand twinkling feet,
With clouded heart a solitude I sought,
The haunt of many leaves--a cool retreat--
And mused of strife with untold interest fraught;
Of homes; of bloody battles to be fought;
Nor stirred till night rose stormy, and the deep
Moaned like some monster shaken in its sleep.
Then doleful sounds came up from lea and lynn
Where rain fell heavy on the gloomy deep,
As if the world, so old and sick of sin,
Had turned her face into the dark to weep.

poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Face Up Face Down

Welcome all my honored guests
To the utimate duel of the best of the best
At my invitation you come to compete
For the honor of suffering the final defeat
Isn't it grand what I've managed to do
By kidnapping those closest to you
I've taken their souls to lay on the line
In a winner take all duel for all time
Let's play the game
I'm sure you all know how
But watch yourselves my foolish friends
You're all in my world now
Face up, Face down. Attack or Defend
Face up, Face down. This battle's to the end
Face up, Face down. Stay on guard
Face up, Face down. Play your strongest card
My arena waits us all
I built it myself, it is just down the hall
I wish this day hadn't come so fast
You see I truly wanted your pain to last
Face up, Face down. Attack or Defend
Face up, Face down. This battle's to the end
Face up, Face down. Stay on guard
Face up, Face down. Play your strongest card
All your cunning strategies, all the tricks you try
Look like merely child's play to my Millennium Eye
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Your turn Yugi-boy
What's wrong now you look so sad?
Losing your soul doesn't feel that bad
Those you love have told me so
And soon my friends, you too will know
Let's play the game
I'm sure you all know how
But watch yourselves my foolish friends
You're all in my world now
Face up, Face down. Attack or Defend
Face up, Face down. This battle's to the end
Face up, Face down. Stay on guard
Face up, Face down. Play your strongest card
Face up, Face down. Attack or Defend
Face up, Face down. This battle's to the end
Face up, Face down. Stay on guard
Face up, Face down. Play your strongest card

song performed by by Yu-Gi-Oh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Urara

Euroka, go over the tops of the hill,
For the ~Death-clouds~ have passed us to-day,
And we'll cry in the dark for the foot-falls still,
And the tracks which are fading away!
Let them yell to their lubras, the Bulginbah dogs,
And say how our brothers were slain,
We shall wipe out our grief in the blood of their chief,
And twenty more dead on the plain -
On the blood-spattered spurs of the plain!
But the low winds sigh,
And the dead leaves fly,
Where our warriors lie,
In the dingoes' den - in the white-cedar glen
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
Urara! Urara!
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!

The Wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
And crawl to their coverts for fear;
But we'll sit in the ashes and let them pass
Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear!
Oh! our hearts will be lonely and low to-night
When we think of the hunts of yore;
And the foes that we sought, and the fights which we fought,
With those who will battle no more -
Who will go to the battle no more!
For the dull winds sigh,
And the dead leaves fly,
Where our warriors lie,
In the dingoes' den - in the white-cedar glen
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
Urara! Urara!
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!

Oh! the gorges and gullies are black with crows,
And they feast on the flesh of the brave;
But the forest is loud with the howls of our foes
For those whom they never can save!
Let us crouch with our faces down to our knees,
And hide in the dark of our hair;
For we will not return where the camp-fires burn,
And see what is smouldering there -
What is smouldering, mouldering there!
Where the sad winds sigh -
The dead leaves fly,
And our warriors lie;
In the dingoes' den - in the white-cedar glen
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
Urara! Urara!
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!

poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Corn Song

HEAP HIGH the farmer’s wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain
Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer’s noon
Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk
Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!

Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth
And bless our farmer girls?

Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly:

But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for His golden corn,
Send up our thanks to God!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Sugar and Gold

Columbus sailed for riches
Pizarro and Cortes sought gold
The living slaves, the dead of Haiti
The Aztecs and the Incas
Haunt their testimony and
Historical foothold

Virginians mined tobacco
Brown leaves lustrous by the fields
Cured by branded bodies
Newly broken in
The sweat and joy entirely
Extracted by the sun

Jackson pledged to the Cherokee
The land would stay under their feet
As long as the grass shall grow
And the rivers run, his promise held
Until the white man with his dogs
Came running to the smell of gold

Heavy leaves of cane
Lacerate the children's hands
As they strip the stands
Working without cease
By heavy furnaces, consumed
By sudden leaps of crystalising flame

Things we may not see
When gold is hidden plain
Sugar underneath the tongue
Sleeping in the cold
Evicted by the company
Imperial Tobacco Road
With time to mine
The provenance of gold.

poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Autumn Is Coming

Autumn is coming
With gentle breezes
And howling winds

Autumn is coming
To change the colors
To red, brown, and gold

Upon the forest floor
Will lie the leaves of all the trees
When Autumn is here

When the days cool
And the nights grow long
With a bright silver moon in the sky

When the sleepiness sets in
We will sleep until
Winter breaks

Autumn is coming

poem by Autumn Winds
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Then There Are The Mountains

On a mountain's peak is there peace?
Mountains that overlook the quiet prairie.
Mountains that borders life in rural counties.
Mountains chiseled by years of wind and rain.
Mountain winds creep keeping all secrets.
Mountains a kin to the lower hills of death.
Mountains at the height of glamour baked in sunshine.
Mountains that reach for more majestic planes.
Mountains giving to the ridges, valleys and cliffs.
Mountains in spring the fulfillment of adventure and dream.
Mountains which can shelter one from storm.
Mountains an enduring symbol in poetry.
Mountains which inhabit the calls of the wild.
Mountains of spectacle, below the bending roads between.
Mountains embracing, magnifying the sounds of river.
Mountains the stellar monuments of time.

poem by William Blackman
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Ye Mariners of England

Ye Mariners of England,
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze,
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe,
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow!
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave,
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow!
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!

Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep:
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow!
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow!
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

poem by Thomas Campbell
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Our State

THE South-land boasts its teeming cane,
The prairied West its heavy grain,
And sunset's radiant gates unfold
On rising marts and sands of gold!
Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State
Is scant of soil, of limits strait;
Her yellow sands are sands alone,
Her only mines are ice and stone!
From Autumn frost to April rain,
Too long her winter woods complain;
Fom budding flower to falling leaf,
Her summer time is all too brief.
Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands,
And wintry hills, the school-house stands,
And what her rugged soil denies,
The harvest of the mind supplies.
The riches of the Commonwealth
Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health;
And more to her than gold or grain,
The cunning hand and cultured brain.
For well she keeps her ancient stock,
The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock;
And still maintains, with milder laws,
And clearer light, the Good Old Cause!
Nor heeds the skeptic's puny hands,
While near her school the church-spire stands;
Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule,
While near her church-spire stands the school.

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On The Big Horn

THE years are but half a score,
And the war-whoop sounds no more
With the blast of bugles, where
Straight into a slaughter pen,
With his doomed three hundred men,
Rode the chief with the yellow hair.
O Hampton, down by the sea!
What voice is beseeching thee
For the scholar's lowliest place?
Can. this be the voice of him
Who fought on the Big Horn's rim?
Can this be Rain-in-the-Face?
His war-paint is washed away,
Hls hands have forgotten to slay;
He seeks for himself and his race
The arts of peace and the lore
That give to the skilled hand more
Than the spoils of war and chase.
O chief of the Christ-like school!
Can the zeal of thy heart grow cool
When the victor scarred with fight
Like a child for thy guidance craves,
And the faces of hunters and braves
Are turning to thee for light?
The hatchet lies overgrown
With grass by the Yellowstone,
Wind River and Paw of Bear;
And, in sign that foes are friends,
Each lodge like a peace-pipe sends
Its smoke in the quiet air.
The hands that have done the wrong
To right the wronged are strong,
And the voice of a nation saith:
'Enough of the war of swords,
Enough of the lying words
And shame of a broken faith!'
The hills that have watched afar
The valleys ablaze with war
Shall look on the tasselled corn;
And the dust of the grinded grain,
Instead of the blood of the slain,
Shall sprinkle thy banks, Big Horn!
The Ute and the wandering Crow
Shall know as the white men know,
And fare as the white men fare;
The pale and the red shall be brothers,
One's rights shall be as another's,
Home, School, and House of Prayer!
O mountains that climb to snow,
O river winding below,
Through meadows by war once trod,
O wild, waste lands that await
The harvest exceeding great,
Break forth into praise of God!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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3 O'clock In The Morning

the rain stopped
and i have just awakened from a deep sleep

it was earlier than usual
and what i heard are the raindrops leaving the last words of their lives

a tapping of the roof
a heave of a sigh

some monotonous sounds of the waves of the shore
not far from where i am writing

the last whispers of the winds from the trees about to shed their last leaves
the sounds of wild ducks leaving knowing that another storm is coming

i think of you
i think of your search of yourself
i think of myself
how i was once broken and destroyed by the changes of the winds
how i picked up the pieces like some leaves scattered in the forest

beyond repair, i write some memories.
weary, i imagine some moments that i may have been at rest with myself.

i think of you. I think about when the rain shall stop forever.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Indian Summer

Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
And all the day the blue-jay calls
Throughout the autumn lands.

Now by the brook the maple leans
With all his glory spread,
And all the sumachs on the hills
Have turned their green to red.

Now by great marshes wrapt in mist,
Or past some river's mouth,
Throughout the long, still autumn day
Wild birds are flying south.

poem by William Wilfred Campbell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Autumn

So still—so still! Only the endless sighing
Of sad Æolian harp-notes overhead;
Only the soft mass-music for the dying;
Only the requiem for the newly dead!

So strangely dim!—the grey mist on the heather,
The chill cloud-twilight in the wind-stripped bowers,
Where gold and scarlet sunlights lay together
On harvest fruit and summer wealth of flowers.

So empty now!—only the dead leaves sifting
The dead brown berries underneath the trees;
Only my fair dead treasures idly drifting
About my footsteps in the autumn breeze.

All over now! No flowers that must be tended
Are left to grow upon the open plain;
No fruits to ripen; for the harvest's ended—
There's no more need for either sun or rain.

The infinite hope, the boundless, strong endeavour,
The love and joy I never thought to sum,
The precious things that were to last for ever—
All gather'd now, and nothing more to come!

Only the shroud of snow, the white star-tapers,
The passionate storm-winds, wailing in the air;
Only the icy rain and tearful vapours,
Only the winter darkness of despair!

* * * * *
So still, so sweet! with tender breezes blowing
Amongst the hills and o'er the Lowland sod,
And golden drifts of dead leaves softly strowing
The seed-graves hollow'd by the hands of God.

So grey and calm! the crimson glory faded
From this low sky, pale blue and purple-barred—
This placid sea, with steel and silver shaded—
This fair earth, now with autumn furrows scarred.

In the decay such chasten'd beauty blending—
Beauty late-born of peace, and hope, and rest,
As in a saintly life when near the ending,
When all its strife and labour has been blest.
The harvest-time is past. But there remaineth
The well-stored treasure-house—the hidden seed
That dead leaves help to nourish, which containeth
The germ of a new life that's life indeed.

poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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New York... Not In Autum

It was a cool, July, and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive? Snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn...Autumn...
Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or has the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Joe Fazio
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Only On This Day...

For: J.L.