Related quotes: Since now from woodland mist...

To the President of Magdalen College, Oxford

Since now from woodland mist and flooded clay
I am fled beside the steep Devonian shore,
Nor stand for welcome at your gothic door,
'Neath the fair tower of Magdalen and May,
Such tribute, Warren, as fond poets pay
For generous esteem, I write, not more
Enhearten'd than my need is, reckoning o'er
My life-long wanderings on the heavenly way:
But well-befriended we become good friends,
Well-honour'd honourable; and all attain
Somewhat by fathering what fortune sends.
I bid your presidency a long reign,
True friend; and may your praise to greater ends
Aid better men than I, nor me in vain.

poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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Related quotes

The One You Thought Was A Friend

The one you thought was a friend not your friend it would seem
For your friend never would erode your self esteem
Or opposite others see fit to put you down
If you call this one your friend you don't have friends in town
A friend such as this in your life you don't need
Since in life it is hard enough for to succeed
Without your so called friend with words belittling you
To the honour of friendship this person is not true
Negative people for to put down others use words as their fuel
And some people with their words can be very cruel
Your friends don't reflect on you in a negative way
And your friend not a friend that does seem sad to say
And the betrayal of one you considered a friend can seem hard to forgive
But we learn from life for as long as we live

poem by Francis Duggan
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What is a Friend?

True friends will never let each other down
True friends will tell each other when they are right or wrong
True friends listen to their problems without casting judgment
True friends are never afraid to tell you like it is

A true friend knows when to say no
A true friend will never flop you
A true friend will be supportive of all you do
A true friend will be there to dry your weeping eyes

A true friend will lend a shoulder for you to cry on
A true friend cares how you are doing
A true friend cares about your day-to-day life
A true friend always calls and checks up on you

A true friend gives of himself/herself without asking for anything in return
A true friend would not lend you money but give you whatever they can
A true friend may argue, fuss, and fight with you but will always be there for you
A true friend forgives you for your shortcomings

A true friend will come to your aid no matter what time of day it is
A true friend doesn’t wait to hear from you to make the first call
A true friend just calls to chitchat with you
A true friend is like a Godsend in times of perils

A true friend is always welcoming
A true would give you the coat off their backs
A true friend knows enough is enough
A true friend will be by your side when you need them the most

A true friend will run an intercept or blockage for you
True friends will CYA for each other
True friends knows that this world wasn’t promised to us
True friends make the best of a bad situation

True friends keeps each others secretes
True friends keeps no secretes from one another
True friends share each other’s lives
A true friend is forever

Are you a true friend?
Ask yourself that question
Can you be a true friend?
Do you deserve a good friend?

There are no goodbyes in life, just hellos

Hello friend

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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One Of These Days

One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
And Im gonna try
And thank them all for the good times together.
Though so apart weve grown.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
And Im gonna thank,
That old country fiddler
And all those rough boys
Who play that rock n roll
I never tried to burn any bridges
Though I know I let some good things go.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
From down in l.a.
All the way to nashville,
From new york city
To my canadian prairie home
My friends are scattered
Like leaves from an old maple.
Some are weak, some are strong.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.

song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Friendships Do Not End Well

The number of friends you have in your life does seem all up to you
And that all friendships do not end well happens to be true
And often at the end of a friendship an enemy is made
And bitterness sets in when by your friend you've been betrayed,
Your friend for life the good and the hard times with you will share
Though friends for life are and have always been rare
Feel lucky if you have one good friend in the town
One who will stand by you when you are feeling down
You know who your friend is when of support you are in need
For a friend at such a time is a true friend indeed
The great gift of true friendship we ought to celebrate
For your true friend more than a friend to you is a soul mate
It is not an uncommon thing to hear one say
The one I thought was my friend my trust did betray.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Emigrant’s Address To America

All hail to thee, noble and generous Land!
With thy prairies boundless and wide,
Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand,
Thy lakes and thy rivers of pride!

Thy forests that hide in their dim haunted shades
New flowers of loveliness rare—
Thy fairy like dells and thy bright golden glades,
Thy warm skies as Italy’s fair.

Here Plenty has lovingly smiled on the soil,
And ’neath her sweet, merciful reign
The brave and long suff’ring children of toil
Need labor no longer in vain.

I ask of thee shelter from lawless harm,
Food—raiment—and promise thee now,
In return, the toil of a stalwart arm,
And the sweat of an honest brow.

But think not, I pray, that this heart is bereft
Of fond recollections of home;
That I e’er can forget the dear land I have left
In the new one to which I have come.

Oh no! far away in my own sunny isle
Is a spot my affection worth,
And though dear are the scenes that around me now smile,
More dear is the place of my birth!

There hedges of hawthorn scent the sweet air,
And, thick as the stars of the night,
The daisy and primrose, with flow’rets as fair,
Gem that soil of soft verdurous light.

And there points the spire of my own village church,
That long has braved time’s iron power,
With its bright glitt’ring cross and ivy wreathed porch—
Sure refuge in sorrow’s dark hour!

Whilst memory lasts think not e’er from this breast
Can pass the fond thoughts of my home:
No! I ne’er can forget the land I have left
In the new one to which I have come!

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Walter Von Der Vogel Weid

Vogelweid the Minnesinger,
When he left this world of ours,
Laid his body in the cloister,
Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.

And he gave the monks his treasures,
Gave them all with this behest:
They should feed the birds at noontide
Daily on his place of rest;

Saying, "From these wandering minstrels
I have learned the art of song;
Let me now repay the lessons
They have taught so well and long."

Thus the bard of love departed;
And, fulfilling his desire,
On his tomb the birds were feasted
By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o'er tower and turret,
In foul weather and in fair,
Day by day, in vaster numbers,
Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches
Overshadowed all the place,
On the pavement, on the tombstone,
On the poet's sculptured face,

On the cross-bars of each window,
On the lintel of each door,
They renewed the War of Wartburg,
Which the bard had fought before.

There they sang their merry carols,
Sang their lauds on every side;
And the name their voices uttered
Was the name of Vogelweid.

Till at length the portly abbot
Murmured, "Why this waste of food?
Be it changed to loaves henceforward
For our tasting brotherhood."

Then in vain o'er tower and turret,
From the walls and woodland nests,
When the minster bells rang noontide,
Gathered the unwelcome guests.

Then in vain, with cries discordant,
Clamorous round the Gothic spire,
Screamed the feathered Minnesingers
For the children of the choir.

Time has long effaced the inscriptions
On the cloister's funeral stones,
And tradition only tells us
Where repose the poet's bones.

But around the vast cathedral,
By sweet echoes multiplied,
Still the birds repeat the legend,
And the name of Vogelweid.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Betrayal

There is this boy I know
Who is my whole entire world.
I am truly lucky
To be his own very special girl.

He doesn't know how much
He means to me;
More than the sky,
More than the sea,
More than the air,
We so ungratefully breathe.
He doesn't know
When he's not there,
The life around me
Becomes completely bare.
Everything else just turns to gray.
No wonder every day is just okay.

Now yet another comes along,
Why must everything always go wrong?
Every day it seems I fight,
For me to be what he thinks at night.
Another girl to take him from me.
There is no way that could possibly be.
I love him more than anyone else ever could.
Who would get in the way of that?
She would...

Our anniversary passed,
With nothing good to last.
I knew she liked you,
But did you know, too?

She kept on flirting,
Inside I was hurting,
Because I knew it must be true.
She really, truly likes you.

I wish she wouldn't care
Not even notice you're there.
Because now I know
I cannot ever let you go.

I've always trusted you
That everything you said was true
Just not her, wouldn't even try.
Has everything she said been a lie?

I knew it all along.
Did I ever do anything wrong?
I know she's your friend
But anything else needs to end.

Just a friend to you,
And that may be true,
But to her something more.
Please let her walk out the door.

I tried to be nice,
Say you could be friends,
For her, that would not suffice.
So now, I want it to end.

It's gone way too far
To go on any longer.
If you stay with her,
Your relationship will just get stronger.

Just let her go!
Do you want her or me?
If you say her
Then let me be.

If you say me
Then let her fall!
Don't care anymore.
I was right, after all.

I should be mad at you
Because you led her on,
Is it possible you could be true?
If not, before long I'll be gone.

Is it too good to be true?
Could you really be mine?
I guess not, though,
Because this is the second time.

Why do you do this to me?
Why do you even care?
Why did you pretend,
You would always be there?

You were my friend.
I trusted you.
I thought you were different.
I thought you were true.

I guess I was mistaken.
I guess I was wrong.
Last thing I have to say,
Is I knew all along.

You liked him,
You used me,
To get even closer,
How stupid could you be?

There'll be no apologies,
Or 'Wait that isn't fair.'
Life isn't fair.
And guess what?
I don't care.

poem by Mystykka Mysterious
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A Fond Farewell

the litebrite's now black and white
cause you took apart a picture that wasn't right
pitch burning on a shining sheet
the only maker that you want to meet
a dying man in a living room
who's shadow paces the floor
who'll take you out in the open door
this is not my life
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
it's not what i'm like
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
who couldn't get things right
fond farewell to a friend
he said really i just wanna dance
good and evil matched perfect it's a great romance
i can deal with some physic pain
if it'll slow down my higher brain
veins full of disappearing ink
vomiting in the kitchen sink
disconnecting from the missing link
this is not my life
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
it's not what i'm like
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
who couldn't get things right
fond farewell to a friend
i see you're leaving me and taking up with the enemy
the cold comfort of the in between
a little less than a human being
a little less than a happy high
a little less than a suicide
the only things that you really tried
this is not my life
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
it's not what i'm like
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
who couldn't get things right
fond farewell to a friend
this is not my life
it's just a fond farewell to a friend

song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fond Farewell

The litebrite's now black and white
Cause you took apart a picture that wasn't right
Pitch burning on a shining sheet
The only maker that you'd want to meet
The dying man in a living room
Who's shadow paces the floor
Who'll take you out in the open door
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
He said really I just wanna dance
Good and evil matched perfect it's a great romance
I can deal with some psychic pain
If it'll slow down my higher brain
Veins full of disappearing ink
Vomiting in the kitchen sink
Disconnecting from the missing link
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
I see you're leaving me and taking up with the enemy
The cold comfort of the in between
A little less than a human being
A little less than a happy high
A little less than a suicide
The only things that you really tried
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend

song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Poets and Bad Poets

Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.

Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.

Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind

Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.

Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.

Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.

Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.

All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.

Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.

Some poets take criticism and don't mind.

Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.

Some poets write poetry to get love.

Some poets love to write poetry.

Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind

Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind

Some poets live only after they die.

Some poets have much to say but can't articulate

Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand

So which one of these am I?

I guess I am all of these and none of these

and no matter what my description

I intend to keep doing what I do:

Write. Right

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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Where prayer meets praise

Where does prayer end, and praise begin?
Can there really be distinction?

In prayer, we believe, we call upon the gods,
those forces greater than our smaller selves,
to give us what we feel we sadly lack;

In praise, we ask them nothing; simply dedicate
our inner selves to honour all we feel of worth;
honour, laud and magnify those highest qualities
that mortal minds conceive as boundless life..

Within us, then, some prior knowledge grown
of what we feel should govern our full life!

And now the blissful sages speak to us
and tell us that the heavens which we seek
are equally inside our very selves,
awaiting recognition and acknowledgement;

so what does that imply? That what we call upon
with prayer, must be answered; for it’s there
within already – courage, strength or love;

and what we praise, is, too, all there within:
we praise ourselves, while thinking of ourselves
as other than ourself.. now, is this strange? or beautiful -
beyond all beauty: good beyond all good?
and true, for all hearts know the truth of truth?

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Love Is Passion / U Have to Sing It to Get It

love is passon love is true
love need to come and find you
whenever i'm on a walk i want to scream
and sout its another
lovely day in the naberhood
in the naboerhood
in the naboerhood
its another lovely day in the naborhood
in the naborhood
in the naborhood
its another lovely day in the naberhooooooooood
of paso rubles californa ooh yaaaaaaaaa
i want to come and hang it with my friends and me
with my friends and me
with my friends and me
i want to come and hang it with my friends and me
with my friends and me
with my friends and me
i want to come and hang it with my friends and meeeeeeee
have a picnic by the ocean shore i wan't it to be just me and you
just me and you
just me and you
have a picnic by the ocean shore i wan't it to be just me and you
just me and you
just me and you
have a picnic by the ocean shore i wan't it to be just me and yoooouuuu
its another lovely day by the beach and shore
by the beach and shore
by the beach and shore
its another lovely day by the beach and shore
by the beach and shore
by the beach and shore
its another lovely day by the beach and shooooorrrreee
of morrow bay
its a good life with my best friends and me
with my best friends and me
with my best friends and me
its a good life with my best friends and me
with my best friends and me
with my best friends and me
its a good life with my best friends and meeeeeeeeee
ooooooohhhhhhh yaaahhh
ok lets go its another lovely daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy! !
in the naboerhoooooooooooooooooood yah

by the way u have to sing it to get it ok thanks

poem by Valya Madden
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See and Share

The gleam of moonlight on the sea.
The sun’s heat haze across the moor,
are both of them a part of me.
Seen through the ever open door

to my own world of fantasy.
Where my wild spirit can explore.
a different reality,
providing memories I store.

Recording them as poetry,
so I can share them with my friends
Who praise my versatility.
Here, inspiration never ends.

I do not write my poetry.
How can I make you understand,
it is my poetry writes me.
Fresh new tales from fairy land

That’s where I always long to be.
But even I obey the rules
Sometimes I do act sensibly
to prove that poets are not fools.

We have the power to break free
From physics rules of gravity
Describe the wonders that we see
with pristine perfect clarity.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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AN EPITAPH On his most honoured Friend Richard Earl of Dorset

Let no profane ignoble foot tread neer
This hallow'd peece of earth, Dorset lies here.
A small sad relique of a noble spirit,
Free as the air, and ample as his merit;
Whose least perfection was large, and great
Enough to make a common man compleat.
A soul refin'd and cull'd from many men,
That reconcil'd the sword unto the pen,
Using both well. No proud forgetting Lord,
But mindful of mean names and of his word.
One that did love for honour, not for ends,
And had the noblest way of making friends
By loving first. One that did know the Court,
Yet understood it better by report
Then practice, for he nothing took from thence
But the kings favour for his recompence.
One for religion, or his countreys good
That valu'd not his Fortune nor his blood.
One high in fair opinion, rich in praise;
And full of all we could have wisht, but dayes.
He that is warn'd of this, and shall forbear
To vent a sigh for him, or lend a tear;
May he live long and scorn'd, unpiti'd fall,
And want a mourner at his funerall.

poem by Henry King
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Of English Verse

Poets may boast, as safely vain,
Their works shall with the world remain;
Both, bound together, live or die,
The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his lines should long
Last in a daily changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails;
And as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art;
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets that lasting marble seek
Must carve in Latin or in Greek;
We write in sand, our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers lost!
Years have defaced his matchless strain,
And yet he did not sing in vain.

The beauties which adorned that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.

This was the generous poet's scope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their fame.

Verse, thus designed, has no ill fate
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-lived as present love.

poem by Edmund Waller
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True friendship multiplies the good in life and divides its evils. Strive to have friends, for life without friends is like life on a desert island... to find one real friend in a lifetime is good fortune; to keep him is a blessing.

quote by Baltasar Gracian
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The House of Clay

THERE was a house, a house of clay,
Wherein the inmate sat all day,
Merry and poor;
For Hope sat with her, heart to heart,
Fond and kind, fond and kind,
Vowing he never would depart, --
Till all at once he changed his mind:
"Sweetheart, good by!" He slipped away
And shut the door.
But Love came past, and, looking in,
With smile that pierced like sunbeam thin
Through wall, roof, floor,
Stood in the midst of that poor room,
Grand and fair, grand and fair,
Making a glory out of gloom: --
Till at the window mocked cruel Care:
Love sighed; "All lose, and nothing win?" --
He shut the door.
Then o'er the close-barred house of clay
Kind clematis and woodbine gay
Crept more and more;
And bees hummed merrily outside,
Loud and strong, loud and strong,
The inner silentness to hide,
The patient silence all day long;
Till evening touched with finger gray
The bolted door.
Most like, the next step passing by
Will be the Angel's, whose calm eye
Marks rich, marks poor:
Who, fearing not, at any gate
Stands and calls, stands and calls;
At which the inmate opens straight, --
Whom, ere the crumbling clay-house falls,
He takes in kind arms silently,
And shuts the door.

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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The English Way

After the fight at Otterburn,
Before the ravens came,
The Witch-wife rode across the fern
And spoke Earl Percy's name.

'Stand up-stand up, Northumberland!
I bid you answer true,
If England's King has under his hand
A Captain as good as you?'

Then up and spake the dead Percy-
Oh, but his wound was sore!
'Five hundred Captains as good,' said he,
'And I trow five hundred more.

'But I pray you by the lifting skies,
And the young wind over the grass,
That you take your eyes from off my eyes,
And let my spirit pass.'

'Stand up-stand up, Northumberland!
I charge you answer true,
If ever you dealt in steel and brand,
How went the fray with you?'

'Hither and yon,' the Percy said;
'As every fight must go;
For some they fought and some they fled,
And some struck ne'er a blow.

'But I pray you by the breaking skies,
And the first call from the nest,
That you turn your eyes away from my eyes,
And let me to my rest.'

'Stand up-stand up, Northumberland!
I will that you answer true,
If you and your men were quick again,
How would it be with you?'

'Oh, we would speak of hawk and hound,
And the red deer where they rove,
And the merry foxes the country round,
And the maidens that we love.

'We would not speak of steel or steed,
Except to grudge the cost;
And he that had done the doughtiest deed
Would mock himself the most.

'But I pray you by my keep and tower,
And the tables in my hall,
And I pray you by my lady's bower
(Ah, bitterest of all!)

'That you lift your eyes from outen my eyes,
Your hand from off my breast,
And cover my face from the red sun-rise,
And loose me to my rest!'

She has taken her eyes from out of his eyes-
Her palm from off his breast,
And covered his face from the red sun-rise,
And loosed him to his rest.

'Sleep you, or wake, Northumberland-
You shall not speak again,
And the word you have said 'twixt quick and dead
I lay on Englishmen.

'So long as Severn runs to West
Or Humber to the East,
That they who bore themselves the best
Shall count themselves the least.

'While there is fighting at the ford,
Or flood along the Tweed,
That they shall choose the lesser word
To cloke the greater deed.

'After the quarry and the kill-
The fair fight and the fame-
With an ill face and an ill grace
Shall they rehearse the same.

'Greater the deed, greater the need
Lightly to laugh it away,

Shall be the mark of the English breed
Until the Judgment Day!'

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Always There Will Be Something To Write

for as long as the grain of sand is in the mouth
of the mother pearl so there will be pearls

it is the pain that makes it
it is the wound that makes the scar
it is the blur that makes the eyes
work hard to see
it is the haze and the mist
that make us stand and wait and carefully see
to find what is there
when the light of the sun finally comes

it is what is inside me
that i cannot just tell you
that makes me write
and for as long as i am muted by your presence
i will always have something to write

for as long as my tongue is tied
and nothing slips from there
i will always write

because there is no other outlet
no vent
for as long as i fear your wrath
i must continue to write

from the bondage of my teeth and tongue
my hands and mind
shall find its way to freedom

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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