To Frederick Henry Hedge
AT A DINNER GIVEN HIM ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY,
DECEMBER 12, 1885
With a bronze statuette of John of Bologna's Mercury,
presented by a few friends.
FIT emblem for the altar's side,
And him who serves its daily need,
The stay, the solace, and the guide
Of mortal men, whate'er his creed!
Flamen or Auspex, Priest or Bonze,
He feeds the upward-climbing fire,
Still teaching, like the deathless bronze,
Man's noblest lesson,--to aspire.
Hermes lies prone by fallen Jove,
Crushed are the wheels of Krishna's car,
And o'er Dodona's silent grove
Streams the white, ray from Bethlehem's star.
Yet snatched from Time's relentless clutch,
A godlike shape, that human hands
Have fired with Art's electric touch,
The herald of Olympus stands.
Ask not what ore the furnace knew;
Love mingled with the flowing mass,
And lends its own unchanging hue,
Like gold in Corinth's molten brass.
Take then our gift; this airy form
Whose bronze our benedictions gild,
The hearts of all its givers warm
With love by freezing years unchilled.
With eye undimmed, with strength unworn,
Still toiling in your Master's field,
Before you wave the growths unshorn,
Their ripened harvest yet to yield.
True servant of the Heavenly Sire,
To you our tried affection clings,
Bids you still labor, still aspire,
But clasps your feet and steals their wings.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Related quotes
Bronzes
I
The bronze General Grant riding a bronze horse in Linc-
oln Park
Shrivels in the sun by day when the motor cars whirr
by in long processions going somewhere to keep ap-
pointment for dinner and matineés and buying and
selling
Though in the dusk and nightfall when high waves are
piling
On the slabs of the promenade along the lake shore near
by
I have seen the general dare the combers come closer
And make to ride his bronze horse out into the hoofs
and guns of the storm.
II
I cross Lincoln Park on a winter night when the snow
is falling.
Lincoln in bronze stands among the white lines of snow,
his bronze forehead meeting soft echoes of the new-
sies crying forty thousand men are dead along the
Yser, his bronze ears listening to the mumbled roar
of the city at his bronze feet.
A lithe Indian on a bronze pony, Shakespeare seated with
long legs in bronze, Garibaldi in a bronze cape, they
hold places in the cold, lonely snow to-night on their
pedestals and so they will hold them past midnight
and into the dawn.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Sincere Thanks
Sincere thanks to the Africans who,
Made us proud at the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games;
For there their talents were exposed to the world.
Thanks to Kenya who got the total of 14 medals:
Made up of 5 Gold medals,5 Silver medals and 4 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Ethiopia who got the total of 7 medals:
Made up of 4 Gold medals, a Silver medal and 2 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Zimbabwe who got the total of 4 medals:
Made up of a Gold medal and 3 Silver medals.
Thanks to Cameroon who got a single Gold medal,
Thanks to Tunisia who got a single Gold medal,
Thanks to Nigeria who got the total of 4 medals:
Made up of a Silver medal and 3 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Algeria who got 2 medals:
Made up of a Silver medal and a Bronze medal.
Thanks to Morocco who got 2 medals:
Made up of a Siver medal and a Bronze medal.
THanks to South Africa who got a single Silver medal,
Thanks to Sudan who got a single Silver medal,
Thanks to Egypt who got a single Bronze medal,
Thanks to Mauritius who got a single Bronze medal,
And tanks to Togo who also got a single Bronze medal.
You've really made Africa proud and we do thank you all!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Fields Of Gold
There are fields of Gold behind the little house
Filled with the greatest of treasures
Bronze, Gold and Silver
Do you remember?
Remember our childhood, Our life’s
The shinning Silver sparkling in the skies
The brightest Bronze hidden under the ground
The greatest Gold glimmering through the fields
Can you see them?
Picture it in your mind
All the times we danced
Every time we laughed
Where we used to love
Or have you forgotten?
Forgotten the good, Forgotten the bad
Every memory
Every moment
Every word
I wish you’d remember
To turn back time, So you could take me
Take me to the gold
To the fields on a summers day
To our fields, our treasure
The Silver, The Bronze
The Gold
But the treasures gone
The house still remains
The fields just as empty as the day we left
Times have changed
Our life’s have changed
Our Silver gone dull
Our Bronze all rusted
Our Gold long forgotten
It was never there
The winds of time and turns of the earth have seen to that
But I remember
I cry for the children who found the greatest of treasures and those who lost it so soon after
And I dream of dancing and singing and running and laughter, of the treasures that lie in the fields of Gold.
poem by Carrie Halliday
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Bronze Trumpets and Sea Water - On Turning Latin into English
Alembics turn to stranger things
Strange things, but never while we live
Shall magic turn this bronze that sings
To singing water in a sieve.
The trumpets of Cæsar's guard
Salute his rigorous bastions
With ordered bruit; the bronze is hard
Though there is silver in the bronze.
Our mutable tongue is like the sea,
Curled wave and shattering thunder-fit;
Dangle in strings of sand shall he
Who smoothes the ripples out of it.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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Trimmed
Trimmed with saws on their inner and outer faces,
And like the bronze of the craftsmen around the town;
But i am highly skilled and experienced in all kinds of trade,
Fo my love to you is like the bronze works of art.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Trial of the Gods
NEVER nobler was the Senate,
Never grander the debate:
Rome's old gods are on their trial
By the judges of the state!
Torn by warring creeds, the Fathers
Urge to-day the question home—
'Whether Jupiter or Jesus
Shall be God henceforth in Rome?'
Lo, the scene! In Jove's own temple,
As of old, the Fathers meet;
Through the porch, to hear the speeches,
Press the people from the street.
Pontiffs, rich with purple vesture,
Pass from senate chair to chair;
Learned augurs, still as statues—
Voiceless statues, too—are there;
Vestal virgins, white with terror,
Mutely asking—what has come?
What new light shall turn to darkness
Vesta's holy fire in Rome?
Answer, Quindecemvirs! Surely,
Of this wondrous Nazarene
Ye must know, who keep the secrets
Of the prophet Sibylline?
Nay, no word! Here stand the Flamens:
Have ye read the omens, priests?
Slain the victims, white and sable,
Scanned the entrails of the beast?
Priest of Pallas, see! the people
Ask for oracles to-day:
Silent! Priests of Mars and Venus?
Lo, they turn, dumb-lipped, away!
Priest of Jove? Flamen dialis!
Here in Jove's own temple meet
In debate the Roman Senate,
And Jove's priest with timid feet
Stands beyond the altar railing!
Gods, I feel ye frown above!
In the shadow of Jove's altar
Men defy the might of Jove!
Treason riots in the temple
At the sacrilege profound:
Virgins mocked, and augurs banished,
And divinities discrowned!
Hush! Old Rome herself appeareth,
Pleading for the ancient faith:
Urging all her by-gone glory—
That to change the old were death.
Rudely answer the patricians,
Scoffing at the time-worn snare:
Twice a thousand years of sacrifice
Have melted into air;
Twice a thousand years of worship
Have bitterly sufficed
To prove there is no Jupiter!
The Senate votes for Christ!
Not aimless is the story,
The moral not remote:
For still the gods are questioned,
And still the Senates vote.
Men sacrifice to Venus;
To Mars are victims led;
And Mercury is honored still;
And Bacchus is not dead;—
But these are minor deities
That cling to human sight:
Our twilight they—but Right and Wrong
Are clear as day and night.
We know the Truth: but falsehood
With our lives is so inwove—
Our Senates vote down Jesus
As old Rome degraded Jove!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Closer To Us All
Silver and gold!
Bronze and brass;
From me to you to satisfy the muse of your love!
But, the works of the last days are now closer to us all than ever.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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This Wheels On Fire
(dylan)
This wheels on fire
This wheels on fire
This wheels on fire
If your memory serves you well
Were gonna meet again and wait
So Im gonna pack all my things
And sit there for it gets to late
No my ? ? ? will come to you
With another tale to tell
And you know that we shall meet again
If your memory serves you well
Wheels on fire
Rollin down the road
Lets notify my next of kin
This wheel shall explode
If your memory serves you well
I was gonna confiscate your lace
And wrap it up in a sailors knot
And hide it in your case
If I knew for sure that it was yours
But it was so hard to tell
And you know that we shall meet again
If your memory serves you well
Chorus
This wheels on fire
This wheels on fire
This wheels on fire
If your memory serves you well
Youll remember youre the one
That called on me to call on them
To get your favours done
And after every ? ? ? I failed
And there was nothin more to tell
You knew that we should meet again
If your memory serves you well
This wheels on fire
This wheels on fire
This wheels on fire
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Seeing The Diabutsu--At Kamakura, Japan
Long have I searched, Cathedral shrine, and hall,
To find a symbol, from the hand of art,
That gave the full expression (not a part)
Of that ecstatic peace which follows all
Life's pain and passion. Strange it should befall
This outer emblem of the inner heart
Was waiting far beyond the great world's mart-
Immortal answer, to the mortal call.
Unknown the artist, vaguely known his creed:
But the bronze wonder of his work sufficed
To lift me to the heights his faith had trod.
For one rich moment, opulent indeed,
I walked with Krishna, Buddha, and the Christ,
And felt the full serenity of God.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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My Strength
The day my strength desists,
Is the day my time is at an end.
From loving of my shadow
I speak of a darkness to behold.
It is the same darkness that is loved
And sculptured by the lunacy of innocence.
It is the day I stop praying
And a time for forgiveness,
Like a religion and a forfeit,
Like some crime and children to smack.
The day unwinds as if colour is black and
Black was white out of love.
White is the sun, not gold or bronze,
But silver is the moon, not like the white of the sun.
You will stop moving around,
And you will succumb to the pleasures that arrive.
Too many seconds are made by the Lord,
And so many are tied by his string
To uplift our hearts as solid drums of gold,
Being with the best of them, being and being.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Reapers
Sun-Tanned men and women, toiling there together;
Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat,
Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather
Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.
Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure:
Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree tops;
Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure;
Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops;
In the grassy shallows, that no breath is creasing,
Chestnut-coloured cows in the rushes dank
Stand like cows of bronze, save when they flick the teasing
Flies with switch of tail from each quivering flank.
Nature takes a rest-even her bees are sleeping,
And the silent wood seems a church that's shut;
But these human creatures cease not from their reaping
While the corn stands high, waiting to be cut.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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At The Banquet To the Japanese Embassy
AUGUST 2, 1872
WE welcome you, Lords of the Land of the Sun!
The voice of the many sounds feebly through one;
Ah! would 't were a voice of more musical tone,
But the dog-star is here, and the song-birds have flown.
And what shall I sing that can cheat you of smiles,
Ye heralds of peace from the Orient isles?
If only the Jubilee--Why did you wait?
You are welcome, but oh! you're a little too late!
We have greeted our brothers of Ireland and France,
Round the fiddle of Strauss we have joined in the dance,
We have lagered Herr Saro, that fine-looking man,
And glorified Godfrey, whose name it is Dan.
What a pity! we've missed it and you've missed it too,
We had a day ready and waiting for you;
We'd have shown you--provided, of course, you had come--
You 'd have heard--no, you would n't, because it was dumb.
And then the great organ! The chorus's shout
Like the mixture teetotalers call 'Cold without'--
A mingling of elements, strong, but not sweet;
And the drum, just referred to, that 'couldn't be beat.'
The shrines of our pilgrims are not like your own,
Where white Fusiyama lifts proudly its cone,
(The snow-mantled mountain we see on the fan
That cools our hot cheeks with a breeze from Japan.)
But ours the wide temple where worship is free
As the wind of the prairie, the wave of the sea;
You may build your own altar wherever you will,
For the roof of that temple is over you still.
One dome overarches the star-bannered shore;
You may enter the Pope's or the Puritan's door,
Or pass with the Buddhist his gateway of bronze,
For a priest is but Man, be he bishop or bonze.
And the lesson we teach with the sword and the pen
Is to all of God's children, 'We also are men!
If you wrong us we smart, if you prick us we bleed,
If you love us, no quarrel with color or creed!'
You'll find us a well-meaning, free-spoken crowd,
Good-natured enough, but a little too loud,--
To be sure, there is always a bit of a row
When we choose our Tycoon, and especially now.
You'll take it all calmly,--we want you to see
What a peaceable fight such a contest can be,
And of one thing be certain, however it ends,
You will find that our voters have chosen your friends.
If the horse that stands saddled is first in the race,
You will greet your old friend with the weed in his face;
And if the white hat and the White House agree,
You'll find H. G. really as loving as he.
But oh, what a pity--once more I must say--
That we could not have joined in a 'Japanese day'!
Such greeting we give you to-night as we can;
Long life to our brothers and friends of Japan!
The Lord of the mountain looks down from his crest
As the banner of morning unfurls in the West;
The Eagle was always the friend of the Sun;
You are welcome!--The song of the cage-bird is done.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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In Memoriam: Anna Akhmatova, poet
Last Spring I stood
in front of the bronze statue
they’ve put up in your honour
on the banks of the Neva
not far from the prison's red wall
just as, half in jest, you requested it,
never expecting this...
the thaw had just started
and a white snow crystal, already half transparent,
melted in the corner of your bronze eye
as if it were a tear
I watched it slide down Spring's warming bronze,
down past your name on the base,
across the trodden snow of the pavement,
into the Neva whose memory is time itself,
and as it joined the river's flow of breaking, creaking ice and snow
the sunlight caught it, briefly.
The next day
I walked to your dacha in the woods
as the first light rain of Spring
gently washed the birch saplings
and the brown leaves of last autumn now revealed
made a silent carpet for my feet;
and the pale sunlight
caught a raindrop, briefly.
In some future Spring
a poet’s tears fall as gentle rain.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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To The Teachers Of America
TEACHERS of teachers! Yours the task,
Noblest that noble minds can ask,
High up Aonia's murmurous mount,
To watch, to guard the sacred fount
That feeds the streams below;
To guide the hurrying flood that fills
A thousand silvery rippling rills
In ever-widening flow.
Rich is the harvest from the fields
That bounteous Nature kindly yields,
But fairer growths enrich the soil
Ploughed deep by thought's unwearied toil
In Learning's broad domain.
And where the leaves, the flowers, the fruits,
Without your watering at the roots,
To fill each branching vein ?
Welcome! the Author's firmest friends,
Your voice the surest Godspeed lends.
Of you the growing mind demands
The patient care, the guiding hands,
Through all the mists of morn.
And knowing well the future's need,
Your prescient wisdom sows the seed
To flower in years unborn.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Iron Sinew
An iron sinew and a brow bronze!
With bankruptcy in the land of your muse;
But the muse of your love is what i know,
And like the thoughts that appeared to me.
Sterling,
Cheap labour,
Finance,
Large amount of gold,
Bounties! !
But with the muse of imperialism to disturb your plans!
And like an iron sinew and a brow bronze;
But never give up on your dreams.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Baby's Death
A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.
Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.
Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.
The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?
A rose in June's most honied heat,
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.
Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen complete
Since mother's hands first clasped and shod
The little feet.
The little hands that never sought
Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands,
What gift has death, God's servant, brought
The little hands?
We ask: but love's self silent stands,
Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought
To search where death's dim heaven expands.
Ere this, perchance, though love know nought,
Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands,
Where hands of guiding angels caught
The little hands.
The little eyes that never knew
Light other than of dawning skies,
What new life now lights up anew
The little eyes?
Who knows but on their sleep may rise
Such light as never heaven let through
To lighten earth from Paradise?
No storm, we know, may change the blue
Soft heaven that haply death descries
No tears, like these in ours, bedew
The little eyes.
Was life so strange, so sad the sky,
So strait the wide world's range,
He would not stay to wonder why
Was life so strange?
Was earth's fair house a joyless grange
Beside that house on high
Whence Time that bore him failed to estrange?
That here at once his soul put by
All gifts of time and change,
And left us heavier hearts to sigh
'Was life so strange?'
Angel by name love called him, seeing so fair
The sweet small frame;
Meet to be called, if ever man's child were,
Angel by name.
Rose-bright and warm from heaven's own heart he came,
And might not bear
The cloud that covers earth's wan face with shame.
His little light of life was all too rare
And soft a flame:
Heaven yearned for him till angels hailed him there
Angel by name.
The song that smiled upon his birthday here
Weeps on the grave that holds him undefiled
Whose loss makes bitterer than a soundless tear
The song that smiled.
His name crowned once the mightiest ever styled
Sovereign of arts, and angel: fate and fear
Knew then their master, and were reconciled.
But we saw born beneath some tenderer sphere
Michael, an angel and a little child,
Whose loss bows down to weep upon his bier
The song that smiled.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Thoughts In A Wheat-Field
IN his wide fields walks the Master,
In his fair fields, ripe for harvest,
Where the evening sun shines slant-wise
On the rich ears heavy bending;
Saith the Master: 'It is time.'
Though no leaf shows brown decadence,
And September's nightly frost-bite
Only reddens the horizon,
'It is full time,' saith the Master,
The wise Master, 'It is time.'
Lo, he looks. That look compelling
Brings his laborers to the harvest;
Quick they gather, as in autumn
Passage-birds in cloudy eddies
Drop upon the seaside fields;
White wings have they, and white raiment,
White feet shod with swift obedience,
Each lays down his golden palm branch,
And uprears his sickle shining,
'Speak, O Master,--is it time?'
O'er the field the servants hasten,
Where the full-stored ears droop downwards,
Humble with their weight of harvest:
Where the empty ears wave upward,
And the gay tares flaunt in rows:
But the sickles, the sharp sickles,
Flash new dawn at their appearing,
Songs are heard in earth and heaven,
For the reapers are the angels,
And it is the harvest time.
O Great Master, are thy footsteps
Even now upon the mountains?
Are thou walking in thy wheat-field?
Are the snowy-wingèd reapers
Gathering in the silent air?
Are thy signs abroad, the glowing
Of the distant sky, blood-reddened,--
And the near fields trodden, blighted,
Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,--
Sure, it must be harvest time?
Who shall know the Master's coming?
Whether it be at dawn or sunset,
When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears,
Or while noon rides high in heaven,
Sleeping lies the yellow field?
Only, may thy voice, Good Master,
Peal above the reapers' chorus,
And dull sound of sheaves slow falling,--
'Gather all into My garner,
For it is My harvest time.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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At William Maclennan's Grave
Here where the cypress tall
Shadows the stucco wall,
Bronze and deep,
Where the chrysanthemums blow,
And the roses--blood and snow--
He lies asleep.
Florence dreameth afar;
Memories of foray and war,
Murmur still;
The Certosa crowns with a cold
Cloud of snow and gold
The olive hill.
What has he now for the streams
Born sweet and deep with dreams
From the cedar meres?
Only the Arno's flow,
Turbid, and weary, and slow
With wrath and tears.
What has he now for the song
Of the boatmen, joyous and long,
Where the rapids shine?
Only the sound of toil,
Where the peasants press the soil
For the oil and wine.
Spirit-fellow in sooth
With bold La Salle and Duluth,
And La Vérandrye,--
Nothing he has but rest,
Deep in his cypress nest
With memory.
Hearts of steel and of fire,
Why do ye love and aspire,
When follows
Death--all your passionate deeds,
Garnered with rust and with weeds
In the hollows?
God that hardened the steel,
Bid the flame leap and reel,
Gave us unrest;
We act in the dusk afar,
In a star beyond your star,
His behest.
'We leave you dreams and names
Still we are iron and flames,
Biting and bright;
Into some virgin world,
Champions, we are hurled,
Of venture and fight.'
Here where the shadows fall,
From the cypress by the wall,
Where the roses are--
Here is a dream and a name,
There, like a rose of flame,
Rises--a star.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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27 Feet Long
Burned on fire!
Censers and basins;
But 27 feet long is this field of yours,
And it is used in the service of your muse.
Hollow, follow, yellow, fellow, mellow;
With bronze articles to respect your muse,
But she spoke cordially with him.
Wide, hide, tide, side, bide, stride, pride, ride, vide;
But 27 feet long is this field of yours!
And he spoke cordially with her,
Because, a more prominent seat was prepared for her as the fire came around! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Coronation Poem And Prayer
The world has crowned a thousand kings:
But destiny has kept
Her weightiest hour of kingly power
To offer England's son.
The rising bell of Progress rings;
And Truths which long have slept,
Like prophets strange, predicting change,
Before Time's chariot run.
The greatest Empire of the Earth.
Old England proudly stands.
Like arteries her Colonies
Reach out from sea to sea.
She clasps all races in her girth;
Her gaze the world commands;
And far and wide where strong ships ride,
The British Flag floats free.
Oh, never since the stars began
Their round of Cosmic law,
And souls evolved in ways unsolved,
And kingdoms reached their prime
Has Destiny held out to Man
A gift so full of awe,
As England's crown which she hands down
In this stupendous time.
This is a crucial hour, when Fate
Tries Monarchs as by fire.
All rulers must be more than just-
Men starve on bread alone.
Old England's sense of right is great;
But now let her aspire
To feel more love, and build thereof
An everlasting Throne.
The dreaming East, awake at last,
Is asking 'when' and 'why';
Wait not too long nor answer wrong,
Nor in too stern a voice.
Let England profit by her past,
And with her wise reply
Rouse hearts, within her foster kin
To hope, and to rejoice.
True wealth dwells not in things we own,
But in our use of things.
Who would command a conquered land
Must conquer first its heart.
Such might as Man has never known,
And power undreamed by kings,
And boundless strength would come at length
To one who used that art.
For now has dawned the People's day:
A day of great unrest.
Nor king nor creed can still man's need
Of time and space to grow.
All lands must shape a wider way,
For this eternal quest;
And Leisure yield a larger field
Where work-worn feet may go.
The Universe is all a-thrill
With changes imminent.
The World in faith, with bated breath,
Holds free the Leader's place.
And wise is he whose heart and will
At one with Time's intent,
Shall open wide doors long denied
To mothers of the race.
On this round globe, oh, when and where
Were fitter time and scene
For Woman's soul to reach its goal
Than now in England's realm.
Was not the crown its King will wear
Made glorious by its Queen?
And who steered straight its ship of State?
Victoria at the Helm!
Kings have been kings by accident,
By favour and by force,
But right of birth and moral worth,
And Empires rich and broad
For England's King to-day are blent
Like rivers on one course.
But, ah! the light falls searching white
Down from the Throne of God.
Lord of the Earth and heavenly spheres,
Creator of all things,
Thou who hast wrought great worlds from naught,
Give strength to England's son.
Give courage to dispel those fears
That come to even kings,
And for his creed give Love's full mead;
Amen. Thy Will be done.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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