Related quotes: 'O He's suffering

The Telegram

'O He's suffering - maybe dying - and I not there to aid,
And smooth his bed and whisper to him! Can I nohow go?
Only the nurse's brief twelve words thus hurriedly conveyed,
As by stealth, to let me know.

'He was the best and brightest! - candour shone upon his brow,
And I shall never meet again a soldier such as he,
And I loved him ere I knew it, and perhaps he's sinking now,
Far, far removed from me!'

- The yachts ride mute at anchor and the fulling moon is fair,
And the giddy folk are strutting up and down the smooth parade,
And in her wild distraction she seems not to be aware
That she lives no more a maid,

But has vowed and wived herself to one who blessed the ground she trod
To and from his scene of ministry, and thought her history known
In its last particular to him - aye, almost as to God,
And believed her quite his own.

So great her absentmindedness she droops as in a swoon,
And a movement of aversion mars her recent spousal grace,
And in silence we two sit here in our waning honeymoon
At this idle watering-place….

What now I see before me is a long lane overhung
With lovelessness, and stretching from the present to the grave.
And I would I were away from this, with friends I knew when young,
Ere a woman held me slave.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Related quotes

Long Ago

I loved a maiden, long ago,
She held within her hand my fate;
And in the ruddy sunset glow
We lingered at the garden gate.

The splendor of the western skies
Lay in a halo on her hair.
I gazed with worship in her eyes,
And deemed her true and knew her fair.

'Good night,' I said, and turned away;
She held me with her subtle smile.
I saw her red lips whisper 'stay,'
And so I lingered yet awhile.

'I love you, love you, sweet!' I said,
She laughed, and whispered, 'I love you.'
I kissed her small mouth, ripe and red,
And knew her fair, and deemed her true.

'Twas very, very long ago,
And I was young, and so was she;
My faith as love was strong, for oh!
The maid was all the world to me.

But as the sunset died away
And left the heavens cold and blue,
So died my dream of love one day.
The maid was only fair,
not
true.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Kargil Warfare

Words shall never describe
what a soldier is
with a family brave
loosing in wars
all they have
yet smiling to the nation's pride

such is what a soldier is
for when they came with guns and arms
the soldier faced it all
heads held high
for the nation
he was ready to die

such is the sacrifice a soldier makes
and yes!
words shall never describe
what a soldier is

Kargil was the place
this time the fight was for mother land
the soldier could not be held
he marched
without fear
smoke rose high
there on the dusty land
fought the soldier
with no fear of death

he knew beneath
he had to win
and yes he did
his land he saved
but lost many his friends

and we salute
bow our head
for our words shall never describe
what a soldier is.

poem by Areena Arora
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Silence

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths,
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities --
We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" --
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.

And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Soldier's Ghost

I bled for you - would you for me?

I blessed a skin in blazing fuel
Then took a bullet in a duel of
‘He or I to Die.'

I often question ‘Why? '
Do you?

My country was my life to give -
Would you for country cease to live?
Sinking in a mire of death,
You have no choice -
So while you're still alive,
Rejoice!

I cried in failure - did you care?
And as I waned, were you aware of
What I did -?
Fighting for my country while you hid
Behind your comfort back at home?

Still relaxed?
My wife and child are fading at the tomb.

Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier soldier soldier war
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
war war war war war war war war war war war war
war war war war war war war war war war war war
war war war war war war war war war war war war

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Thought

Into the skies, one summer's day,
I sent a little Thought away;
Up to where, in the blue round,
The sun sat shining without sound.

Then my Thought came back to me.—
Little Thought, what did you see
In the regions whence you come?
And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.

But she breathed of what was there,
In the pure bright upper air;
And, because my Thought so shone,
I knew she had been shone upon.

Next, by night a Thought I sent
Up into the firmament;
When the eager stars were out,
And the still moon shone about.

And my Thought went past the moon
In between the stars, but soon
Held her breath and durst not stir,
For the fear that covered her;
Then she thought, in this demur:

'Dare I look beneath the shade,
Into where the worlds are made;
Where the suns and stars are wrought?
Shall I meet another Thought?

'Will that other Thought have wings?
Shall I meet strange, heavenly things?
Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights,
Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?'

Then my Thought began to hark
In the illuminated dark,
Till the silence, over, under,
Made her heart beat more than thunder.

And my Thought, came trembling back,
But with something on her track,
And with something at her side;
Nor till she has lived and died,
Lived and died, and lived again,
Will that awful thing seem plain.

poem by William Brighty Rands
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song performed by by New Edition
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At The Grave Of The Unknown Soldier

He was a brave soldier he died young and brave
And for more than six decades he lay in his grave
And still at the dawning of each war memorial day
At his grave site a young bugler the last post does play.

Known as the Unknown Soldier one without a name
Still he had a mum and a dad just the same
And when he did not return home when the fighting was done
They grieved at their loss and they wept for their son.

The war to end all wars of all wars 'tis said
But more wars are fought and we have more war dead
And at the grave of the unknown soldier the last post is played
And to honour the war dead another parade.

Old war men do tell us young soldiers fight and die
For freedom and liberty that is a lie
They went to war when young they are now old and gray
Some grow old not wiser some are known to say.

That they were fighting for freedom and justice they believed to be true
And they were quite gallant to give them their due
But many deprived of their human rights in the World of today
And that does seem a very sad thing for to say.

With heads bowed old men showing their years in gray
At the grave of the Unknown Soldier at the dawn of the day
In silence do listen as a young bugler the last post does play
For one who fought and died in a war far away.

poem by Francis Duggan
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409

Shes real fine my 409
Shes real fine my 409
My 409
Well I saved my pennies and I saved my dimes
(giddy up giddy up 409)
For I knew there would be a time
(giddy up giddy up 409)
When I would buy a brand new 409
(409, 409)
Giddy up giddy up giddy up 409
(giddy up giddy up 409)
Giddy up 409
(giddy up giddy up 409)
Giddy up 409
(giddy up giddy up 409)
Giddy up 40...
Nothing can catch her
Nothing can touch my 409
409 ooooo
(giddy up giddy up oooo)
(giddy up giddy up oooo)
(giddy up giddy up oooo)
(giddy up giddy up)
When I take her to the track she really shines
(giddy up giddy up 409)
She always turns in the fastest times
(giddy up giddy up 409)
My four speed dual quad posi-traction 409
(409, 409, 409, 409)
Giddy up giddy up giddy up 409
(giddy up giddy up 409)
Giddy up 409
(giddy up giddy up 409)
Giddy up 409
(giddy up giddy up 409)
Giddy up 40...
Nothing can catch her
Nothing can touch my 409
(409 409 409 409)
Giddy up 409
(409 409 409 409)
Giddy up 409
(409 409 409 409)

song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dream

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.

On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.

Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd
At soldiers once - but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.

Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.

A long, long crowd - where each seem'd lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look'd my way;
She linger'd a moment - she might not stay.

How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!

On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remembered then,

And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears a moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That eve morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.

poem by William Allingham
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Hard For Them to Believe

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
As if my thoughts,
Could not produce my deeds.
As if my efforts,
Did not match where I lived.
Since I was born and lived in the ghetto.
And I should not be aware or know,
Of those things I did!

As If my blackness was for them limited!
Like it was for friends I had,
And some relatives.
All believing then I was trying to be white...
And not the black neighborhood kid!
Who did for me,
What I knew was right!

They believed I should be,
That kind to clown and be down to Earth.
And not have a mind as creative as mine!
With dreams to fulfill...
That broke down barriars and walls,
Others believed I existed behind!
And not to know my own value or worth.
Or reach for heights...
Few I knew took effort to climb!

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
I am not asked 'that' question anymore.

Today,
Some try to downplay...
My affect!
But I had always known,
To be grateful to be blessed.
And let God handle the rest!

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
Of course I knew.
From the very beginning.
But the few who did not know...
Now they do too!

And nothing has changed...
From where I live,
To what I do.
And that is a fact...
Hard for them to believe!
That I can say who I am.
Be who I am.
Stay where I am and know it!
AND achieve!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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War Nurse

She was just another war nurse
She could strike a noble pose
Caring for our young boys when a bullet laid them low
She would hover over them and cry
And pull the cover over them when theyd die
She was just another lonesome lady, lover, sister of the gun
And though france would call her darling,
She was a nurse neath the rising sun
She knew no hells or heavens, or harbors or havens
She was every mother, sister, wife and lover
Whose love a soldier boy was savin
She believed in the birth of the broad sword
She was not a shielded one
Though france would call her darlin
She was nurse neath the rising sun
She was a soldiers shrapnel sweetheart, direct from the combat zone
She was a reincarnation o fthe virgin mary
She was the hooker down in san antone
And though her heart was somewhere in iceland
Commanding the dawn patrol
Blessed in this blood and stitched into these bones
The war nurse left her soul
Blessed in this blood and stitched into these bones
The war nurse left her soul

song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let Her Fly

When I met woman
She was above the earth
Looking over the land

Smooth she was...
Wings spread to full length
A smile that would melt butter

You could see how she loved...Flying.
Upside down she flew...
Loop-DE-loop she flew...

Racing the wind...
And laughing...
How warm her heart

When greeting you...
Sharing the air with one was her pleasure... then we flew off to a place distance to her...

She knew not but...trusted me.
Spreaded her inner wings...
Taking me to an upper air pocket...

I knew not of such...
Acceleration...
Her enthusiastic play was so alien...

But an altering experience,
Showing me what makes her soar...
Pampering me all the while.

Showed me what makes hot-air...
Long beautiful air-pockets...
She raced them with ease...

She was teaching me how to enjoy her world...
I refused...without knowing.
I would not let her fly again...

I wanted her and what she knew with me...
And only me.
I killed her inner spirit...

And never knew.
I am man...I ask you (Woman) to forgive me
For wanting you and your gift...

Not seeing you as a prise....you the person...
I have killed your spirit...I knew it not
I am man not a thinker...sigh...forgive me.

poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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Gliding In The Air

A bird is wrestling the wind with its feathers,
Even then the flight is smooth, as smooth as the air.

Best of the eagles are against the flight of others,
Eventually they look like a mouth, as smooth as the air.

A strange spectacle has been captured in the rain,
After a bird, not reptile, does fly south, as smooth as the air.

When strangers bespeak a multifarious journey through the air,
I gather it is more than just levitation or youth, as smooth as the air.

I love the young journey to the east,
A happy rhythm up north, as smooth as the air.

Why do we hesitate to look powerful?
When we glide in the sky, as smooth as the air.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Laus Deo

IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands.
At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.
The bed of state is hung with crape--the grand old bed where she was
wed--
And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.
Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain'd door,
And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o'er the silent floor,
And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;

'Touch him not,' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'
'O my own dear mistress,' the ancient Nurse did say,
'Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch'd him where he
lay.'
'Seven long days and seven long nights,' the hoary Steward said;
'Seven long days and seven long nights,' groan'd the Warrener gray;
'Seven,' said the old Henchman, and bow'd his aged head;
'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'
Then a father Priest they sought,
The Priest that taught her all she knew,
And they told him of her loss.
'For she is mild and sweet of will,
She loved him, and his words are peace,
And he shall heal her ill.'
But her watch she did not cease.
He bless'd her where she sat distraught,
And show'd her holy cross,--
The cross she kiss'd from year to year--
But she neither saw nor heard;
And said he in her deaf ear
All he had been wont to teach,
All she had been fond to hear,
Missall'd prayer, and solemn speech,
But she answer'd not a word.
Only when he turn'd to speak with those who wept about the bed,
'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'
Then how sadly he turn'd from her, it were wonderful to tell,
And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well,
And he lean'd o'er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low,
'He is not dead, but sleepeth,' said the Priest, and smooth'd his
brow.
'Sleepeth?' said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face!
'He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.'
'He is better,' said the Priest, and call'd her maidens round.
With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child;
O Nurse!' she sigh'd, 'O Nurse!' she cried 'O Nurse!' and then she
smiled,
And then she wept; with that they drew
About her, as of old;
Her dying eyes were sweet and blue,
Her trembling touch was cold;
But she said, 'My maidens true,
No more weeping and well-away;
Let them kill the feast.
I would be happy in my soul.
"He is better," saith the Priest;
He did but sleep the weary day,
And will waken whole.
Carry me to his dear side,
And let the halls be trim;
Whistly, whistly,' said she,
'I am wan with watching and wail,
He must not wake to see me pale,
Let me sleep with him.
See you keep the tryst for me,
I would rest till he awake
And rise up like a bride.
But whistly, whistly!' said she.
'Yet rejoice your Lord doth live;
And for His dear sake
Say Laus, Domine.'
Silent they cast down their eyes,
And every breast a sob did rive,
She lifted her in wild surprise
And they dared not disobey.
'Laus Deo,' said the Steward, hoary when her days were new;
'Laus Deo,' said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows;
'Laus Deo,' the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee.
The old Nurse moved her lips in vain,
And she stood among the train
Like a dead tree shaking dew.
Then the Priest he softly stept
Midway in the little band,
And he took the Lady's hand.
'Laus Deo,' he said aloud,
'Laus Deo,' they said again,
Yet again, and yet again,
Humbly cross'd and lowly bow'd,
Till in wont and fear it rose
To the Sabbath strain.
But she neither turn'd her head
Nor 'Whistly, whistly,' said she.
Her hands were folded as in grace,
We laid her with her ancient race
And all the village wept.

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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To Olinthus Gregory, On Hearing Of The Death Of His Eldest Son, Who Was Drowned As He Was Returning By Water To His Father’s House At Woolrich

IS there a spot where Pity's foot,
Although unsandalled, fears to tread,
A silence where her voice is mute,
Where tears, and only tears, are shed?
It is the desolated home
Where Hope was yet a recent guest,
Where Hope again may never come,
Or come, and only speak of rest.

They gave my hand the pictured scroll,
And bade me only fancy there
A parent's agony of soul,
A parent's long and last despair;
The sunshine on the sudden wave,
Which closed above the youthful head,
Mocking the green and quiet grave,
Which waits the time-appointed dead.

I thought upon the lone fire-side,
Begirt with all familiar thought,
The future, where a father's pride
So much from present promise wrought:
The sweet anxiety of fears,
Anxious from love's excess alone,
The fond reliance upon years
More precious to us than our own:

All past—then weeping words there came
From out a still and darkened room,
They could not bear to name a name
Written so newly on the tomb.
They said he was so good and kind,
The voices sank, the eyes grew dim;
So much of love he left behind,
So much of life had died with him.

Ah, pity for the long beloved,
Ah, pity for the early dead;
The young, the promising, removed
Ere life a light or leaf had shed.
Nay, rather pity those whose doom
It is to wait and weep behind,
The father, who within the tomb
Sees all life held most dear enshrined.

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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An Unmarked Festival

There's a feast undated, yet
Both our true lives hold it fast,--
Even the day when we first met.
What a great day came and passed,
--Unknown then, but known at last.

And we met: You knew not me,
Mistress of your joys and fears;
Held my hand that held the key
Of the treasure of your years,
Of the fountain of your tears.

For you knew not it was I,
And I knew not it was you.
We have learnt, as days went by.
But a flower struck root and grew
Underground, and no one knew.

Day of days! Unmarked it rose,
In whose hours we were to meet;
And forgotten passed. Who knows,
Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet,
At the coming of your feet?

One mere day, we thought; the measure
Of such days the year fulfills.
Now, how dearly would we treasure
Something from its fields, its rills,
And its memorable hills.

poem by Alice Meynell
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We've Not Learned From War History The Facts Never Lie

We've not learned from war history the facts never lie
For God and for Country many still fight and die
The flowers do not bloom brighter on the dead soldier's grave
As the one who died of old age and was not known to be brave.

With the words we've not learned from war history
I happen to be one of those who agree
One war leads to another it does seem to me
And we still have War Memorial day in the twenty first century.

Where there is mistrust between people hatred come to the boil
In war over borders and war over oil
And in wars over God far too many have died
To antiquated thinking many do remain tied.

Out of war and it's suffering many heroes are made
And to honour the war dead another parade
And for as long as those who glorify war do have things their own way
The flower of peace will never see light of day.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Rover's Adieu

weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green—
No more of me ye knew,
My Love!
No more of me ye knew.
'This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.'
—He turn'd his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said 'Adieu for evermore,
My Love!
And adieu for evermore.'

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Around The Plynth

(rod stewart, ron wood)
Woken up on mornings such as this
And thought exactly the same as Im thinking now.
Every night for a year Ive slept alone.
Cold damp room looks worse than me, no no no
Got a fear of death that creeps on every night.
I know I wont die soon, but then again I might,
Water down the drain, Im wasting away.
And doctors cant help me a ghost of a man thats me, no no
Water down the drain goes to the sea,
The pattern of my life keeps a-haunting me.
Moisture from the ocean fills the sky,
Come on down to the ground as the time goes by, no no no no no
Slow down there
I never found out the reason why
Why my parents had to lie
About the place that I was born
And from my hometown I was torn
At the tender age of four
I was livin by a homemade law
I never knew when it was to be laid
My desires are never displayed
I never knew what it was to be loved
I never knew what it was to be laid
I never knew what it was to win
I never knew what it was to be loved, nonono
Ah, get on up there
I never knew what it was to be loved
I never knew what it was to be laid
Nonononono
Slow down there

song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What I Feel about Love

I'll never meet the love of my life.
All I do is wonder why.
Somtimes I think it's you.
Because you make me happy instead of blue.
I wonder sometimes what those three words really mean.
To me there all just a dream.
if anyone ever really meant those three words don't you think people would be happy in so called love.
I'll tell you this no relationship flies as smooth as a dove.
the next thing you know the one you loved dies.
all you do is cry cry cry.
I wish I knew how love felt inside.
But I know I won't and alone I die.

poem by Jean Pullman
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En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Telegram

Related quotes

Long Ago

Kargil Warfare

Silence

Soldier's Ghost

The Thought

Old Friends

At The Grave Of The Unknown Soldier

409

A Dream

Hard For Them to Believe

War Nurse

Let Her Fly

Gliding In The Air

Laus Deo

To Olinthus Gregory, On Hearing Of The Death Of His Eldest Son, Who Was Drowned As He Was Returning By Water To His Father’s House At Woolrich

An Unmarked Festival

We've Not Learned From War History The Facts Never Lie

The Rover's Adieu

Around The Plynth

What I Feel about Love

En.Citatepedia®.ro

The Telegram

Related quotes

Long Ago

Kargil Warfare

Silence

Soldier's Ghost

The Thought

Old Friends

At The Grave Of The Unknown Soldier

409

A Dream

Hard For Them to Believe

War Nurse

Let Her Fly

Gliding In The Air

Laus Deo

To Olinthus Gregory, On Hearing Of The Death Of His Eldest Son, Who Was Drowned As He Was Returning By Water To His Father’s House At Woolrich

An Unmarked Festival

We've Not Learned From War History The Facts Never Lie

The Rover's Adieu

Around The Plynth

What I Feel about Love

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