En.Citatepedia^®.ro

On King Arthur's Round Table at Winchester

Where Venta's Norman castle still uprears
Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss,
And scatter'd flinty fragments clad in moss,
On yonder steep in naked state appears;
High hung remains, the pride of war-like years,
Old Arthur's board: on the capacious round
Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd,
In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.
Though join'd by magic skill, with many a rhyme,
The Druid frame, unhonour'd, falls a prey
To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time,
And fade the British characters away;
Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime
Those chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay.

poem by Thomas Warton Jr.
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The Wizard

I can read what's going through your mind,
I can see what you hide in your eyes,
yeas, I'm gonna put a spell on you,
Just to see exactly what you'll do
I'm a wizard
and there's magic in the air
I'm a sinner
and my friend you'd best beware
there's magic everywhere
can you see the formal in the sky?
time like water flows by till we die
every moment wasted leaves its mark
the setting sun leaves us standing in the dark
I'm a wizard
and there's magic in the air
I'm a sinner
and my friend you'd best beware
I'm a wizard
and there's magic in the air
I'm a sinner
and my friend you'd best beware
there's magic everywhere
One must forgive them noisy rushing fools
Who have no time for natures natural schools
They cannot see the life that's in their hands
Like ghosts they disappear across the land
I'm a wizard
And there's magic in the air
I'm a sinner
And my friend you'd best beware
I'm a wizard
And there's magic in the air
I'm a capturer
And my friend you'd best beware
There's magic everywhere
I'm a wah wah wah wah w-w-w-w-wizard
I'm a s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sinner
I'm a wah wah wah wah w-w-w-w-wizard
I'm a s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sinner
I'm a wah wah wah wah w-w-w-w-wizard
I'm a s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sinner
I'm a wah wah wah wah w-w-w-w-wizard
I'm a s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sinner
I'm a wizard

song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Woman Of Rhyme

She is not what you'd call beautiful though still in her prime
And to those who know her she is known as The Woman of Rhyme
In Local Literary circles not even one of note
As she does not fit the bill of the Modern Poet.

But the rhyme from her gushes and it races along
And in five minutes flat she can pen you a song
And though not classified as a poet her verse is not doggerel
And with her gift of rhyme one might say she does well.

Some fifty years ago she would have known fame
And her's would have been a great Literary name
But rhyme it would seem has passed it's use by date
And what's now seen as old fashioned was once seen as great.

Even the best of the Local modern poets seem strangers to renown
But then such is life in a football mad Town
In the pubs the names of famed poets and artists they never recall
Their small talk mostly of sports, footballers and football.

For what she is good at she is not recognized
But having said that I am not really surprised
since rhyme verse has long passed it's glorious time
And none to applaud the young Woman of Rhyme.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Mechanism of Man, Wizard and Immortal

Man are from the soil
That's why man live and grow on the land
Man are weak but warm

Wizard are from the stone
That's why wizard seem amazing and strong
But wizard are brittle and stubborn

Immortal are from cloud and water
They can't be touched but always there
Immortal are eternal and fair

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Indian Mutiniy

British infants who were nobly born
Were from their bleeding mother's bosom torn
And with the bayonet dashed upon the street
There left to lie for native dogs to eat.

But the British Lion he soon o'erthrew
Both the high and the low Hindoo ;
Now they respect the Christian laws
For fear of British Lion's paws.

poem by James McIntyre
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The riders of the plains

Who is it lacks the knowledge? Who are the curs that dare
To whine and sneer that they do not fear the whelps in the Lion's lair?
But we of the North will answer, while life in the North remains,
Let the curs beware lest the whelps they dare are the Riders of the Plains;
For these are the kind whose muscle makes the power of the Lion's jaw,
And they keep the peace of our people and the honour of British law.

A woman has painted a picture,--'tis a neat little bit of art
The critics aver, and it roused up for her the love of the big British heart.
'Tis a sketch of an English bulldog that tigers would scarce attack,
And round and about and beneath him is painted the Union Jack.
With its blaze of colour, and courage, its daring in every fold,
And underneath is the title, "What we have we'll hold."
'Tis a picture plain as a mirror, but the reflex it contains
Is the counterpart of the life and heart of the Riders of the Plains;
For like to that flag and that motto, and the power of that bulldog's jaw,
They keep the peace of our people and the honour of British law.

These are the fearless fighters, whose life in the open lies,
Who never fail on the prairie trail 'neath the Territorial skies,
Who have laughed in the face of the bullets and the edge of the rebels' steel,
Who have set their ban on the lawless man with his crime beneath their heel;
These are the men who battle the blizzards, the suns, the rains,
These are the famed that the North has named the "Riders of the Plains,"
And theirs is the might and the meaning and the strength of the bulldog's jaw,
While they keep the peace of the people and the honour of British law.

These are the men of action, who need not the world's renown,
For their valour is known to England's throne as a gem in the British crown;
These are the men who face the front, whose courage the world may scan,
The men who are feared by the felon, but are loved by the honest man;
These are the marrow, the pith, the cream, the best that the blood contains,
Who have cast their days in the valiant ways of the Riders of the Plains;
And theirs is the kind whose muscle makes the power of old England's jaw,
And they keep the peace of her people and the honour of British law.

Then down with the cur that questions,--let him slink to his craven den,--
For he daren't deny our hot reply as to "who are our mounted men."
He shall honour them east and westward, he shall honour them south and north,
He shall bare his head to that coat of red wherever that red rides forth.
'Tis well that he knows the fibre that the great North-West contains,
The North-West pride in her men that ride on the Territorial plains,--
For of such as these are the muscles and the teeth in the Lion's jaw,
And they keep the peace of our people and the honour of British law.

poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Written at Stonehenge

Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle!
Whether by Merlin's aid, from Scythia's shore,
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile
T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile:
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore:
Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil,
To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,
Rear'd the rude heap: or, in thy hallow'd round,
Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line;
Or here those kings in solemn state were crown'd:
Studious to trace thy wondrous origine,
We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.

poem by Thomas Warton Jr.
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Obviously it's my second senior event, and I'm tired obviously coming back from the British Open, from surgery, which was priority No. 1, did that successfully, and each week since the British Open I've felt in pretty good control of my golf game.

quote by Greg Norman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hes The Wizard

Written & composed: charlie smalls
Sweet thing, let me tell you bout
The world and the way things are;
Youve come from a different place
And I know youre traveled far.
Now that you told me what it is,
Id better point you towards the wiz
Chorus :
Hes the wiz...
Hes the man, hes the only one
Who can give your wish right to ya.
Hes the wizard...
Hell send you back through time
By runnin magic through ya.
All of the super powers his.
Listen and Ill tell you where he is.
Hes the wiz and he lives in oz
Hes the wizard,
Theres the way to the emerald city,
Now thats not too far, is it?
Hes the wizard,
Just take you dilemma child,
And lay it on the wizard.
Hell fix you a drink thatss
Bubble and foam-
And in a flash you will be home
Hes the wiz,
Hes the wizard of oz,
Hes got magic up his sleeve;
Hes the wizard,
And you know without his help
twould be impossible to leave.
Fantastic powers at his command,
And Im sure that he will understand
Hes the wiz,
And he lives in oz;
Hes the wizard! hes the wizard!
Hes the wizard!!!

song performed by by Michael Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Conservative Health Care after Edmund Spenser The Faerie Queen Book II

See British youth war weary with unemployment
was by Cameron's coalition lately led away,
with wretched miseries, and woefull truth,
were to employers made a hopeless prey.
Time witness bears to beings' brief buffet
except for rich who, well insured for years,
waste while the poor essentials lack - dismay
Increased by Bill of Commons and of Peers
dismemb'ring N.H.S. with crocodile tears.

The weary Britons, whose war-hable youth
Was by Maximian lately led away,
With wretched miseries, and woefull ruth,
Were to those Pagans made an open pray,
And dayly spectacle of sad decay:
Whom Romane warres, which now foure hundred years,
And more had wasted, could no whit dismay;
Till by consent of Commons and of Peares,
They crowned the second Constantine with ioyous tears.

(29 February 2012)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Great Three

At one time when the country was ruled by creul british
there came the Tremendous three
who were on mission to make our country free
they distributed templates
to stop their mission
the british called simon commission
they knew it was test of the best
against simon they made protest
but it proved them costly
as their leader was beaten by sticks
furious by their behaviour
it was time to teach british lesson
The officer guilty deserved the punishment
it was justice
After some days
once again the british at its creulity
for their pleasure
they were going with train of treasure
the Revolutionaries decide to do justice
they steal the train
The british pass bill
which made sure that the farmers will not get justice
it was test of best
as they protest
in the Assembly they throw bomb
the british catch the tremendous three
the punishment they get is hanged till death
but fear is stranger to them
as they happily hang themselves
and they still say
long live the revolution
vande mataram
I proud to be indian

poem by Rohan Bendre
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Lines Upon My Sister’s Portrait

The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea,
Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea:
I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er,
I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more.
I stood upon the donjon keep—it is a sacred place,—
Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race;
Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field:
There ne'er was nobler cognizance on knightly warrior's shield.

The first time England saw the shield 'twas round a Norman neck,
On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck.
A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings' fatal fray—
St. Willibald for Bareacres! 'twas double gules that day!
O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald! in many a battle since
A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince!
At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers,
The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears!

'Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing:
Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing!
Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us,
And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus!
O knights, my noble ancestors! and shall I never hear
St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear?
I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride,
And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side!

Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine!
Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line:
Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls,
The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls.
Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile,
'Twere sinful to be happy, 'twere sacrilege to smile.
I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob
I'll muse on other days, and wish—and wish I were—A SNOB.

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Slow Burn

Here shall we live in this terrible town
Where the price for our minds
Shall squeeze them tight like a fist
And the walls shall have eyes
And the doors shall have ears
But well dance in their dark
And theyll play with our lives
Like a slow burn
Leading us on and on and on
Like a slow burn
Turning us round and round and round hark who are we
So small in times such as these
Slow burn
Slow burn
Oh, these are the days
These are the strangest of all
These are the nights
These are the darkest to fall
But who knows?
Echoes in tenement halls
Who knows?
Though the years spare them all
Like a slow burn
Leading us on and on and on
Like a slow burn
Twirling us round and round
And upside down
Theres fear overhead
Theres fear overground
Slow burn
Slow burn
Like a slow burn
Leading us on and on and on
Like a slow burn
Turning us round and round and round and here are we
At the center of it all
Slow burn
Slow burn
Slow burn

song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gray

The loud, apt epithet, applying sure;
The dim-drawn image, artfully obscure;
The perfect stanza, framed of words as choice
And round as pearls, yet liquid to the voice;
A pith of phrase, and musical array
Of numbers;—these are the prime charms of Gray.

The naked majesty and open wonder
Of true sublimity heaped in lines of thunder;
That artless grace wherewith the olden time
Dandled the happy infancy of Rhyme;
That negligent melody which shames the trick
Of wire-drawn verse, and verse-drawn rhetoric:
These in our rich old Bards abound; but these
To Gray were literary heresies.

poem by Charles Harpur
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Revival

SO I went wrong,
Grievously wrong, but folly crushed itself,
And vanity o’ertoppling fell, and time
And healthy discipline and some neglect,
Labour and solitary hours revived
Somewhat, at least, of that original frame.
Oh, well do I remember then the days
When on some grassy slope (what time the sun
Was sinking, and the solemn eve came down
With its blue vapour upon field and wood
And elm-embosomed spire) once more again
I fed on sweet emotion, and my heart
With love o’erflowed, or hushed itself in fear
Unearthly, yea celestial. Once again
My heart was hot within me, and, me seemed,
I too had in my body breath to wind
The magic horn of song; I too possessed
Up-welling in my being’s depths a fount
Of the true poet-nectar whence to fill
The golden urns of verse.

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough (1839)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Amoretti LXXV: One Day I Wrote Her Name

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise."
"Not so," (quod I) "let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew."

poem by Edmund Spenser
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Dance Naked

I want you to dance naked
So I can see you
Id like to get to know you
You dont have to act naughty
Spin it round and round
Spin it round and round and round
I want you to dance naked
I promise I wont touch you
I promise to tell no one, no
I want you to dance naked
Spin it round and round
Spin it round and round and round
Spin it round and round
I want you to dance naked
If you like ill join you
I want to enjoy your body
I want to hear all your secrets
I want to know if you like me
As much as I like you
I want you to dance naked
But only if you want to
Spin it round and round
Spin it round and round and round
Spin it round and round
I want you to dance naked
So I can see you
Id like to get to know you
But only if you want to
Spin it round and round
Spin it round and round and round
Spin it round and round
Spin it round and round and round
I want you to dance naked

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Does Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat?

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the louns beware, Sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir:
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a Foreign Foe
On British ground to rally!
We'll ne'er permit a Foreign Foe
On British ground to rally!

O let us not, like snarling curs,
In wrangling be divided,
Till, slap! come in an unco loun,
And wi' a rung decide it!
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang ourselves united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!
No! never but by British hands
Shall British wrangs be righted!

The Kettle o' the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loun
Shall ever ca'a nail in't.
Our father's blude the Kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By Heav'ns! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!
By Heav'ns! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!

The wretch that would a tyrant own,
And the wretch, his true-born brother,
Who would set the Mob aboon the Throne,
May they be damn'd together!
Who will not sing "God save the King,"
Shall hang as high's the steeple;
But while we sing "God save the King,"
We'll ne'er forget The People!
But while we sing "God save the King,"
We'll ne'er forget The People!

poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Strange Magic

Youre sailing softly through the sun
In a broken stone age dawn.
You fly so high.
I get a strange magic,
Oh, what a strange magic,
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic,
Got a strange magic.
Youre walking meadows in my mind,
Making waves across my time,
Oh no, oh no.
I get a strange magic,
Oh, what a strange magic,
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic,
Got a strange magic.
Oh, Im never gonna be the same again,
Now Ive seen the way its got to end,
Sweet dream, sweet dream.
Strange magic,
Oh, what a strange magic,
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic,
Got a strange magic.
Its magic, its magic, its magic.
Strange magic,
Oh, what a strange magic,
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic.
Strange magic strange magic
Oh, what a strange magic strange magic
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic.
Strange magic strange magic
Oh, what a strange magic strange magic
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic,
Got a strange magic,
You know I got a strange magic,
Yeah, I got a strange magic,
Oo-o-o-oo, strange magic. (fade)

song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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4th of JULY

Hello hot dog and fireworks for ‘Independence Day'

Stars and Stripes flying forever to stay

Goodbye British rule Goodbye
Hello... it's the 4th July
Born on this magic day

Freedom for the U S of A

poem by Ken e Hall
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Lines On The Expected Invasion, 1803

COME ye--who, if (which Heaven avert!) the Land
Were with herself at strife, would take your stand,
Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's side,
And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your pride--
Come ye--who, not less zealous, might display
Banners at enmity with regal sway,
And, like the Pyms and Miltons of that day,
Think that a State would live in sounder health
If Kingship bowed its head to Commonwealth--
Ye too--whom no discreditable fear
Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless tear,
Uncertain what to choose and how to steer--
And ye--who might mistake for sober sense
And wise reserve the plea of indolence--
Come ye--whate'er your creed--O waken all,
Whate'er your temper, at your Country's call;
Resolving (this a free-born Nation can)
To have one Soul, and perish to a man,
Or save this honoured Land from every Lord
But British reason and the British sword.

poem by William Wordsworth
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