Beds To The Front Of Them
'Beds to the front of them,
Beds to the right of them,
Beds to the left of them,
Nobody blundered.
Beamed at by hungry souls,
Screamed at with brimming bowls,
Steamed at by army rolls,
Buttered and sundered.
With coffee not cannon plied,
Each must be satisfied,
Whether they lived or died;
All the men wondered.'
poem by Louisa May Alcott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Beds Too Big Without You
Beds too big without you
Cold wind blows right thru my open door
I cant sleep with your memory
Dreaming dreams of what used to be
When she left I was cold inside
That look on my face was just pride
No regrets no love no tears
Living on my own was the least of my fears
Beds too big without you
The beds too big without you
The beds too big
Without you
Since that day when youd gone
Just had to carry on
I get thru day but late at night
Made love to my pillow but it didnt feel right
Every day, just the same
Old rules for the same old game
All I gained was heartache
All I made was one mistake
Now the beds too big without you
The beds too big without you
The beds too big
Without you
song performed by by Police
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Stand By Your Beds
m gonna keep it in the family
Gotta straighten my face
Wanna keep it in the family
Savin? my disgrace
Like a tick-a time bomb inside ame
Been to the mount, seen the other side
Money back, number one, guaranteed
Sole-satisfied
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Everybody celebrate, stand by your beds
By your beds
Easy access, easy led, stand by your beds
By your beds
Yknow its nothin? new Im telling you
Its always been around
Its the home made milkshake
Apple pies n? lemonade
Never turned down
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Everybody celebrate, stand by your beds
By your beds
Easy access, easy led, stand by your beds
By your beds
Gimme, gimme, gimme it alll
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Everybody celebrate, stand by your beds
By your beds
Easy access, easy led, stand by your beds
By your beds
(rankin, agnew, hardwell......polygram/trinitron)
Published by nazareth (dunfermline) ltd.
Copyright 1994 polydor gmbh, hamburg
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Whose are the little beds, I asked
142
Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled—
And no one made reply.
Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again—
Whose are the beds—the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?
'Tis Daisy, in the shortest—
A little further on—
Nearest the door—to wake the Ist—
Little Leontoden.
'Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster—
Anemone, and Bell—
Bartsia, in the blanket red—
And chubby Daffodil.
Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied—
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.
Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids—
Rhodora's cheek is crimson,
She's dreaming of the woods!
Then turning from them reverent—
Their bedtime 'tis, she said—
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.
poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Em 3
about you
what shall i say about you?
ah, i prefer my
silence
this is my cure about
you
yes, my silence
it shall speak about
you my silence
my very own silence
to speak about your
long silence
now we are at peace
in our silence
both shall speak about
us yes our silence
our marital silence in
the silence of our bed
the root of all our
troubles freud say is in
the silence of our beds
two beds now
four meters apart
speaking in silence
the silence of the house
and the chairs
and the staircases
and the carpets and
the ticks and the
empty glasses or those
cold coffee and
frozen butter.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On Reading a Vast Anthology
Love, death, sleeping
with somebody else's husband
or wife-this
is what poetry is
about-Eskimo, Aztec,
or even Italian
Rinascimento,
or even the high falutin Greeks
or noble Roman-O's.
O the constant turmoil
of the human species-
beds, graves, Spring with its
familiar rosebuds, the wrong beds,
the wrong graves, wars
unremembered & boundaries gained
only to be lost & lost
again
& lost roses whose lost
petals
reminded poets to carpe, carpe
diem with whoever's wife
or husband happened to
be handiest!
O Turmoil & Confusion-
you are my Muses!
O longing for a world
without death, without beds
divided by walls between houses!
All the beds float out to sea!
All the dying lovers wave
to the other dying lovers!
One of them writes on his mistress's skin as he floats.
He is the poet.
Not for this
will his life be spared.
poem by Erica Jong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Wander-Light
And they heard the tent-poles clatter,
And the fly in twain was torn –
'Tis the soiled rag of a tatter
Of the tent where I was born.
And what matters it, I wonder?
Brick or stone or calico? –
Or a bush you were born under,
When it happened long ago?
And my beds were camp beds and tramp beds and damp beds,
And my beds were dry beds on drought-stricken ground,
Hard beds and soft beds, and wide beds and narrow –
For my beds were strange beds the wide world round.
And the old hag seemed to ponder
('Twas my mother told me so),
And she said that I would wander
Where but few would think to go.
"He will fly the haunts of tailors,
He will cross the ocean wide,
For his fathers, they were sailors
All on his good father's side."
Behind me, before me, Oh! my roads are stormy
The thunder of skies and the sea's sullen sound,
The coaster or liner, the English or foreign,
The state-room or steerage the wide world round.
And the old hag she seemed troubled
As she bent above the bed,
"He will dream things and he'll see things
To come true when he is dead.
He will see things all too plainly,
And his fellows will deride,
For his mothers they were gipsies
All on his good mother's side."
And my dreams are strange dreams, are day dreams, are grey dreams,
And my dreams are wild dreams, and old dreams and new;
They haunt me and daunt me with fears of the morrow –
My brothers they doubt me – but my dreams come true.
And so I was born of fathers
From where ice-bound harbours are
Men whose strong limbs never rested
And whose blue eyes saw afar.
Till, for gold, one left the ocean,
Seeking over plain and hill;
And so I was born of mothers
Whose deep minds were never still.
I rest not, 'tis best not, the world is a wide one
And, caged for an hour, I pace to and fro;
I see things and dree things and plan while I'm sleeping,
I wander for ever and dream as I go.
I have stood by Table Mountain
On the Lion at Capetown,
And I watched the sunset fading
From the roads that I marked down,
And I looked out with my brothers
From the heights behind Bombay,
Gazing north and west and eastward,
Over roads I'll tread some day.
For my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways,
And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low;
I'm at home and at ease on a track that I know not,
And restless and lost on a road that I know.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Beds of Fleur-de-Lys
HIGH-LYING, sea-blown stretches of green turf,
Wind-bitten close, salt-colored by the sea,
Low curve on curve spread far to the cool sky,
And, curving over them as long they lie,
Beds of wild fleur-de-lys.
Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and far,
Breaking the green like islands in the sea;
Great stretches at your feet, and spots that bend
Dwindling over the horizon’s end,—
Wild beds of fleur-de-lys.
The light keen wind streams on across the lifts,
Their wind of western springtime by the sea;
The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her
Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir
In beds of fleur-de-lys.
And here and there across the smooth, low grass
Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea;
And bend, and bend, with light robes blown aside,
For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so wide,—
The beds of fleur-de-lys.
poem by Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Metaphor For A Funeral
indeed it is wonderful to entertain
that constant idea that beds are made for
sex,
but i must be deluding myself for a long time
as time
swiftly corrects me
and so shortly,
that beds in fact are made more for the resting place
of the sick and the dying,
the anxious and the depressed,
the restless people engulfing one pill to another
to get the blessings of sleep
soon it will become
another metaphor for
a funeral
and euphemism
for death.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
~Let’s Help Africa~
Don’t offer me,
Luxury suites with
Queenly beds to lay my head,
‘Else I will show you mud huts
In Africa with bamboo beds.
Don’t tell me,
‘Bout the latest fashion,
You think are pretty sweet,
I care more, for children in Africa,
With no shoes on their little feet.
Don’t show me
Breaking news on Television,
And make me cry,
Just give your hand,
Let’s help Africa,
Then you can watch me smile.
poem by Sita Madu Wynn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wake To Peace A Beautiful Sacred New Day
Multiple realities adults children
lie asleep safe in their beds?
All life is beautified sacrament
sacred holy precious to God.
Monsters kill slaughter prey upon men
women children asleep in their beds?
When will such rabid killers murders
wake to realize murder serves not
the omnipotent omnipresent
omniscient will of their loving God?
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Case 795
Tony jones stabbed alice jones
On their first anniversary
Down in dallas, texas
In a small apartment
With nobody present
He pulled out a knife
And he stuck it to her
He left her bleeding
On the floor in the kitchen
With cake on her fingers
And her wedding ring holding
In her hand was a note
That said the wicked must suffer
And he drove off quickly
To his girlfriend's apartment
But who really suffers in the end?
It's easy enough for us to pretend that
Chorus:
Everything's all right with the family
Everything is safe here at home
Everything's all right with the family
The beds are made but there's no sheets on
From the courtroom stand
Tony said he was sorry
That he was sad and mixed up
And he didn't know what he was doing
That he'd always loved alice
And he begged for forgiveness
So he threw himself
On the mercy of the jury
And he told how his father
Had beat and abused him
Back in grade school
In the basement den
And that maybe prison
Was the best thing for him
And he said, "oh god, can you forgive me?" yeah
But who really suffers in the end?
It's easy enough for us all to pretend that
Chorus:
Everything's all right with the family
Everything is safe here at home
Everything's all right with the family
The beds are made but there's no sheets on
How many days does it take to make us weak?
And how many hours do people spend lonely?
In the heart of the heart the family lay dying
The ruin of a nation lies at our feet, yeah
Chorus:
Everything's all right with the family
Everything is safe here at home
Everything's all right with the family
The beds are made but there's no sheets on
Everything's all right with the family
Everything is safe here at home
Everything's all right with the family
The beds are made but there's no sheets on
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Up-Hill
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1858)
Submitted by anonym
Vote! | Copy!
Among Servants
I was led beside the table,
To be contemplated;
I was in great calm,
My combination of food
Persisted in excellence.
I came from the queerest
Of dormitories,
Being hungry was my mission,
As the servants disguised themselves
From my wary eyes.
Unexpected beds arose
In the morning,
The elbow rested further.
The air of the room was
Oppressive, now that I
Left it and carried on.
Life was beginning to be
Lovely.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
1692
(copyright nazareth, tiflis tunes,inc.-ascap)
Mist upon the hill can remember murder,
Mist upon the hill that once flowed with blood,
Helped to cover up an approaching army,
Hid the killing lust in the eyes of men.
Sitting by the fire was a sentry sleeping,
Rolled up in their beds were children that play,
Unsuspecting what was to fall upon them,
None of them would see the dawn next day.
Bloody were the blades that fell on children,
Hate the blinding light tried to kill a name,
The mountains only know all the souls that died there,
Glen coe from that day can recall the shame.
The quiet of the night never gave them warning,
The silence of the hills wouldn't let them know,
They'd never rise again on a mist filled morning,
Never see the sunrise above glen coe.
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
And I Died
Lasses and lads are faster in speed than dads,
Drain them of pressure in the day- in the night the beds.
Love them according to beauty and pride,
As many virtues you can describe and I died.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Case 795 (The Family)
Tony Jones stabbed Alice Jones
On their first anniversary
Down in Dallas, Texas
In a small apartment
With nobody present.
He pulled out a knife
And he stuck it to her.
He left her bleeding
On the floor in the kitchen
With cake on her fingers
And her wedding ring holding.
In her hand was a note
That said the wicked must suffer
And he drove off quickly
To his girlfriend's apartment.
But who really suffers in the end?
It's easy enough for us to pretend that
Everything's all right with the family.
Everything is safe here at home.
Everything's all right with the family.
The beds are made but there's no sheets on.
From the courtroom stand
Tony said he was sorry.
That he was sad and mixed up,
And he didn't know what he was doing,
That he'd always loved Alice
And he begged for forgiveness.
So he threw himself
On the mercy of the jury
And he told how his father
Had beat and abused him
Back in grade school
In the basement den,
And that maybe prison
Was the best thing for him.
And he said, "Oh God, can you forgive me?" yeah
But who really suffers in the end?
It's easy enough for us all to pretend that
Everything's all right with the family.
Everything is safe here at home.
Everything's all right with the family.
The beds are made but there's no sheets on.
How many days does it take to make us weak?
And how many hours do people spend lonely?
In the heart of the heart the family lay dying
The ruin of a nation lies at our feet, yeah.
Everything's all right with the family.
Everything is safe here at home.
Everything's all right with the family.
The beds are made but there's no sheets on.
(Repeat chorus.)
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Uphill
DOES the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Rivulets Flow
A soft drizzle flows in runnels,
and clouds above, in souls exist,
travel in dusk, sky's gray mist,
tear droplets in minds channels.
Graceful form, in dusk appears,
from western horizons so ranks,
next to rivers of oblivion banks,
where shadows neglected tears.
Rain rolls in a mentated stream,
bedewed are the faces of dark,
as noble souls observe and hark,
in worlds where belovers dream.
Rivulets flow from mount slopes,
consenting affections none had,
watering blooms in flower beds,
saluting sweet ranges and hopes.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
There are pastors who won't go to people's sick beds. How can people of God turn their back on the sick, poor and hungry?
quote by James Robinson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Walk In The Park
On a wintry morn, just for a lark,
I went for a morning walk.
All of a sudden I spotted roses bloom.
I stood spellbound watching the hues
And had my daily talk with God,
And said out aloud, Lord
How do you do it?
While we hassled, sit
And moan about life being dreary
At the end of the day when we are weary.
As I walked past flower beds,
In colors- pink, white, violet and red.
Poppy, Calendula, Pansy, Flox
Their smiling upturned faces seem to mock.
They will die in a day or two,
I thought as I saw the petals covered with dew.
They just bloom unaware of their beauty,
Has God sent them to fulfill a duty?
I wonder why we pluck flowers,
And put them in vases.
They belong here
In the flower beds, where
All can bask in their beauty
And forget about their chores and duty.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!