A Wasted Day
Another day let slip! Its hours have run,
Its golden hours, with prodigal excess,
All run to waste. A day of life the less;
Of many wasted days, alas, but one!
Through my west window streams the setting sun.
I kneel within my chamber, and confess
My sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress,
In place of honest joy for work well done.
At noon I passed some labourers in a field.
The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face,
Which shone like copper in the ardent glow.
And one looked up, with envy unconcealed,
Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace,
Yet he was happier, though he did not know.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Related quotes
Tea For One
(page/plant)
How come twenty four hours, baby sometimes seem to slip into days?
Oh twenty-four hours, baby sometimes seem to slip into days
A minute seems like a lifetime, baby when I feel this way
Sittin, lookin at the clock, time moves so slow
Ive been watchin for the hands to move
Until I just cant look no more
How come twenty four hours, baby sometimes seems to slip into days?
A minute seems like a lifetime, baby when I feel this way.
To sing a song for you, I recall you used to say
Oh baby this ones for we two, which in the end is you anyway
How come twenty four hours, baby sometimes slip into days?
A minute seems like a lifetime, baby when I feel this way.
There was a time that I stood tall, in the eyes of other men
But by my own choice I left you woman, and now I cant get back again
How come twenty-four hours, sometimes slip into days?
A minute seems like a lifetime, baby when I feel this way
A minute seems like a lifetime
When I feel this way...i feel this way
song performed by by Led Zeppelin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Day Is Wasted
THE DAY IS WASTED
The day is wasted
I did nothing in it-
Does it really matter?
There have been thousands of days in my life
Almost all of them I cannot recall
Many perhaps most were wasted
So one more is wasted-
What can they to me for it?
What is the punishment for it?
The day is wasted
Some day soon there will be no more days to waste
I will not regret this then-
But now
When I still have my work to do and my name to make
Oy va voy a day is wasted
I'd better do something now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Hours By The Window
Day and night
By the window
Of my mind
There you are
In the courtyard
One last time
The singing of a famous song Ive never heard before
A man without a shadow slowly walking past my door
My mind projects a face soon to be free of misery
The chiming of some distant bell that echoes in my heart
A dance upon the flagstones to the music of the stars
A mothers name that lingers on a soothing summers breeze
All alone I said no prayers today
I couldnt kneel to please the God that failed you
Now youre gone Ill sit and spend each day
Hours by the window
Morning comes
To my rescue
Once again
Whispers in the corridor and footsteps in the hall
My only point of reference now the sunlight on the wall
It draws me to the window where my dreams are memories
A step beyond the line where sunken eyes avert their gaze
An endless tract of time reveals a thousand silent ways
All searching for an answer to lifes deepest mysteries
On the ocean of pure time I sail away
I go and these four walls will not contain me
Maybe there Ill see your face again
Hours by the window
All alone I said no prayers today
I couldnt kneel to please the God that failed you
What Id give to see your face again
Hours by the window
song performed by by Level 42
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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2 Weeks
14 Days left
336 hours
Until the end of this chapter
The chapter of hell in my life
2 weeks until I leave
8 hours a day
8 hours of hell in this school
Dealing with ignorance driven by people
Pushing back judgmental walls
After all 8 years in this prison
All I have is 2 weeks,14 days,336 hours left inside this hellhole
Now I can’t figure out what to do
Skip graduation, or stand on the stage and face the music?
That answer has left me then came back
In just 2 week I’ll be gone never to set foot inside again
In just 14 days I’ll leave and never turn back
In just 336 hours, my face will be erased from this place
2 weeks until I graduate from 8th grade
Why now, it must end sooner
In just 2 months I’ll be in high school
2 weeks…
14 days… 336 hours…
The memory of me will be gone
poem by Marcellus Watts
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Well, to be honest I think I'm a better short story writer than a novelist. Novels I find very hard, hours and hours, weeks and weeks, of conscious thought - whereas short stories slip out painlessly in a few days.
quote by Eric Brown
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Each Day As It Comes
We take each day as it comes
never knowing what we might find.
Some days are filled with sunshine
that brightens up our lives.
Some days are filled with rain
in these we feel life’s pain.
Some days are golden
filled with a warm loving glow
that fills us from head to toe.
Some days are black
when sorrow is rife
and we shed tears through the night.
Always me must take
each day as it comes
never knowing what we might find.
Making the most of what we get
as each day marches through.
We must live our life for now
and take tomorrow when it comes.
Holding on to what we have
for as long as we can.
4 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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Flight Delays (Life Poem)
Sympathyless disbelief when I complain again,
Delays are the balance for the glamour of flying.
Nine hours in Sao Paulo while the ATC strike,
Eight hours in Vienna while new wheel flies in,
Seven sins would be justified by this purgatory,
Six times six hours from CBB to DUB last week,
Five hours sweating in Port au Prince plastic chair,
Four hours for rain in Miami seems not so bad,
Three hours in Shannon for bomb threat search,
Two hours sitting in Seattle with mad dash in Kennedy.
One would be happier walking, swimming or driving.
poem by Ian Beckett
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The House of Life: 71. The Choice, I
Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Surely the earth, that's wise being very old,
Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold
Thy sultry hair up from my face; that I
May pour for thee this golden wine, brim-high,
Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold.
We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours are toll'd,
Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky.
Now kiss, and think that there are really those,
My own high-bosom'd beauty, who increase
Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way!
Through many years they toil; then on a day
They die not,--for their life was death,--but cease;
And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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LXXI The Choice, I
Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Surely the earth, that's wise being very old,
Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold
Thy sultry hair up from my face; that I
May pour for thee this golden wine, brim-high,
Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold.
We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours are toll'd,
Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky.
Now kiss, and think that there are really those,
My own high-bosom'd beauty, who increase
Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way!
Through many years they toil; then on a day
They die not,--for their life was death,--but cease;
And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Farewell Marilyn
Frost on the window, I scratch a face on ice,
that looks like Marilyn Monroe. And the sun
has no power but lit her face, a golden goddess
she is; we see each other for hours before
she begins to fade, streaks of sorrow, but what
can I do, it’s high tide and my ship is about
to set sail for an unknown destination
poem by Oskar Hansen
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An Epiphany In The Car
The gathering black clouds-eerie feeling-
spread over blue sky, putting me in a pensive mood.
Not long after, dark clouds commence
raining and slowly seceded from the rest and leaving
open to view, a silver disk setting in distant west.
Being overcome by flaring orange- red
then and there, the sun falls into the warm arms
of the fiery glow.
Looking into his face, hints of grey down the side that,
seemed to further the water flow down window panes and eyes:
Childhood days were recalled from distant memory of
walking out the sun right into the cool rain.
Too, raindrops on window sounded like Momma's ever whipping tune:
'I told you…beat, beat, beat...not to play in the rain…beat, beat, beat…
'OUCH, 'her lyrics and beating continued hours, it seemed.
Still, we sat in car looking out on the rain, I felt the warm
sunsets and the years of Momma's missed presences.
Closing distance between then and now, still in awe, of blazing
sun to the right, clouds raining tears from distant sky on my left,
and with much effort futhering my own sunset.
poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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Twilight Night
I
We met, hand to hand,
We clasped hands close and fast,
As close as oak and ivy stand;
But it is past:
Come day, come night, day comes at last.
We loosed hand from hand,
We parted face from face;
Each went his way to his own land.
At his own pace,
Each went to fill his separate place.
If we should meet one day,
If both should not forget,
We shall clasp hands the accustomed way,
As when we met
So long ago, as I remember yet.
II
Where my heart is (wherever that may be)
Might I but follow!
If you fly thither over heath and lea,
O honey-seeking bee,
O careless swallow,
Bid some for whom I watch keep watch for me.
Alas! that we must dwell, my heart and I,
So far asunder.
Hours wax to days, and days and days creep by;
I watch with wistful eye,
I wait and wonder:
When will that day draw nigh—that hour draw nigh?
Not yesterday, and not, I think, to-day;
Perhaps to-morrow.
Day after day 'to-morrow' thus I say:
I watched so yesterday
In hope and sorrow,
Again to-day I watch the accustomed way.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Now It's Too Late
it started with
a day of heartbreak
filled with sorrow
and heartache
from a day to a few
fighting back her tears
as time passed by she knew
no more will be her fears
the more it happens
the stronger she grows
colder her heart
she wonders if he knows
hours passed
it turned into days
now it seems
she was just a phase
out of sight
and out of mind
not a thought of him
is now to find
practice makes perfect
and so it goes
neglected too long
her hearts now froze
poem by scarlette Phoenix
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Four hours of makeup, and then an hour to take it off. It's tiring. I go in, I get picked up at two-thirty in the morning, I get there at three. I wait four hours, go through it, ready to work at seven, work all day long for twelve hours, and get it taken off for an hours, go home and go to sleep, and do the same thing again.
quote by Peter Sarsgaard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spring in New Hampshire
Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver-speckled sky,
For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,
Wasting the golden hours indoors,
Washing windows and scrubbing floors.
Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,
The stars too gloriously bright,
For me to spend the evening hours,
When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,
Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.
poem by Claude McKay
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When Every Sunset Counts
Sunset glow how well I know
You're warming rays upon my face
It was not always so
That I adored your glow
In youths and haste
It was a terrible waste
But as the autumns passed
And seasons rushed so fast
I prayed to ease the pace
I long for sunshine on my face
Each spring I wait
Behind the Iron Gate
To hear a robin's song
And knew it won't be long
Before I dance along the sandy shore
I feel the sunset glow
And wished it was forever so.
poem by Ingeborg von Finsterwalde
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You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.
quote by James M. Barrie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by. Yes, but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.
quote by James M. Barrie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Is All About You
1 hour unity,
2 hours peace,
3 hours playing,
4 hours sleeping,
5 hours smiling,
6 hours living,
7 hours trusting in your muse!
For this river is mine and yours foeevers;
And, i want to be close to you always.
1 hour smiling,
2 hours learning,
3 hours thinking,
4 hours with your muse,
5 hours teaching,
6 hours working,
But, the 7th hour comes for me to sleep with you;
Because, this love is all about you! !
And, i want to be with you always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Sonnets LXXIV: LXXV:LXXVI: Old and New Art
I. ST. LUKE THE PAINTER
Give honour unto Luke Evangelist;
For he it was (the aged legends say)
Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray.
Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist
Of devious symbols: but soon having wist
How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day
Are symbols also in some deeper way,
She looked through these to God and was God's priest.
And if, past noon, her toil began to irk,
And she sought talismans, and turned in vain
To soulless self-reflections of man's skill,—
Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still
Kneel in the latter grass to pray again,
Ere the night cometh and she may not work.
II. NOT AS THESE
'I am not as these are,” the poet saith
In youth's pride, and the painter, among men
At bay, where never pencil comes nor pen,
And shut about with his own frozen breath.
To others for whom only rhyme wins faith
As poets,—only paint as painters,—then
He turns in the cold silence; and again
Shrinking, “I am not as these are,” he saith.
And say that this is so, what follows it?
For were thine eyes set backwards in thine head,
Such words were well; but they see on, and far.
Unto the lights of the great Past, new-lit
Fair for the Future's track, look thou instead,—
Say thou instead, “I am not as these are.”
III. THE HUSBANDMEN
Though God, as one that is an householder,
Called these to labour in His vineyard first,
Before the husk of darkness was well burst
Bidding them grope their way out and bestir,
(Who, questioned of their wages, answered, “Sir,
Unto each man a penny:”) though the worst
Burthen of heat was theirs and the dry thirst:
Though God has since found none such as these were
To do their work like them:—Because of this
Stand not ye idle in the market-place.
Which of ye knoweth he is not that last
Who may be first by faith and will?—yea, his
The hand which after the appointed days
And hours shall give a Future to their Past?
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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