As I was walking
As I was walking,
Thyme sweet to my nose,
Green grasshoppers talking,
Rose rivalling rose:
And wing, like amber,
Dispread in light,
As from bush to bush
Linnet took flight:
Master Rabbit I saw
In the shadow-rimmed mouth
Of his sandy cavern,
Looking out to the South.
'Twas dew-tide coming;
The turf was sweet
To nostril, curved tooth,
And wool-soft feet.
Sun was in West;
Crystal in beam
Of its golden shower
Did his round eye gleam.
Lank human was I,
And a foe, poor soul—
Snowy flit of a scut,
He was into his hole,
And—stamp, stamp, stamp!
Through dim labyrinths clear,
The whole world darkened,
A murderer near.
poem by Walter de la Mare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Sonnet: Postal Stamp History
Sonnet: Postal Stamp History
The postal stamp started in England (1840)
And was destined to spread around the world.
It would soon reach as far as Brazil,
As the momentum continued to swirl.
It reached the United States of America
In the year of eighteen-forty five.
And a winner throughout the centuries
The postal stamp is very much alive.
The price of the first stamp was one cent.
But today, it would cost forty-four
And with so many rate hikes in between,
I am very sure that there will be more.
And as long as there is mail to send,
The postal stamp will never come to end.
poem by Walterrean Salley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bush Hay
The stamp of Scotland is on his face,
But he sailed to the South a lad,
And he does not think of the black bleak hills
And the bitter hard youth he had;
He thinks of a nearer and dearer past
In the bright land far away,
When the teams went up and the teams came down,
In the days when they made bush hay.
The fare was rough and the bush was grim
In the “years of his pilgrimage”,
But he gained the strength that is still with him
In his hale, late middle age.
He thinks of the girl at the halfway inn
They use as a barn to-day—
Oh, she was a dumpling and he was thin
In the days when they made bush hay.
The ration teams to the Bathurst Plains
Were often a fortnight full.
And they branched all ways in the early days
And back to the port with wool.
They watched for the lights of old Cobb & Co.
That flashed to the West away,
When drivers drove six on a twelve-mile stage
In the days when they made bush hay.
He has made enough, and he’s sold his claim,
And he goes by the morning train,
From the gold-field town in the sultry West
To his home by the sea again,
Where a bustling old body’s expecting him
Whose hair is scarcely grey,
And she was the girl of the halfway house
In the days when they made bush hay.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lincoln did more than any other man to put the stamp of righteousness, to put the stamp of compassion, on the name of America.
quote by Henry Cabot Lodge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Sleepwalkers
See them over there
See them moving down the road
Their arms held out ahead
And their eyes, their eyes are closed
Don't make any noise
Cry out loud or stamp your feet
You'll wake the girls and boys
Who are walking in their sleep
Every night they throw aside their blankets
Swing their feet down
Stand up and move out to the street
Like they're under a spell
And together they roam across the country
And they're walking in their sleep
You'll recognize them when you see
Their rumpled hair and stocking feet
It seems like they want something
But we don't know what it is
But here they come again
Yes, here they come again
Move aside and let the people go by
They don't see you
Thinking that they're home in their beds
They must not be disturbed
When they're wandering all across the country
And they're walking in their sleep
Perhaps when they awake
They'll remember everything
They'll think it was a dream
It will be forgotten then
But don't make any noise
Cry out loud or stamp your feet
You'll wake the girls and boys
Who are walking in their sleep
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Pool
COME with me, follow me, swift as a moth,
Ere the wood-doves waken.
Lift the long leaves and look down, look down
Where the light is shaken,
Amber and brown,
On the woven ivory roots of the reed,
On a floating flower and a weft of weed
And a feather of froth.
Here in the night all wonders are,
Lapped in the lift of the ripple's swing,–
A silver shell and a shaken star,
And a white moth's wing.
Here the young moon when the mists unclose
Swims like the bud of a golden rose.
I would live like an elf where the wild grapes cling,
I would chase the thrush
From the red rose-berries.
All the day long I would laugh and swing
With the black choke-cherries.
I would shake the bees from the milkweed blooms,
And cool, O cool,
Night after night I would leap in the pool,
And sleep with the fish in the roots of the rush.
Clear, O clear my dreams should be made
Of emerald light and amber shade,
Of silver shallows and golden glooms.
Sweet, O sweet my dreams should be
As the dark, sweet water enfolding me
Safe as a blind shell under the sea.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
(Love Poem) Bitter Sweet Rose
Bitter sweet rose will you be mine?
Or am I wasting my time?
Bitter sweet rose you smell divine.
Do you have a succulent kiss?
Is it something I've already missed?
Bitter sweet rose what gives?
Is it how we must live?
Bitter sweet rose will you answer my questions?
Are you devote?
Do you stray when your bored?
Will you doubt?
Is what you want something more?
Bitter sweet rose are you keeping score?
Will you try something new?
Will you lock your door?
Do your lips taste like dew?
Bitter sweet rose do you want to go?
Do you love the snow?
Is this right?
Is this what you want tonight?
Bitter sweet rose, oh my bitter rose.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Choice
When skies are blue and days are bright
A kitchen-garden's my delight,
Set round with rows of decent box
And blowsy girls of hollyhocks.
Before the lark his Lauds hath done
And ere the corncrake's southward gone;
Before the thrush good-night hath said
And the young Summer's put to bed.
The currant-bushes' spicy smell,
Homely and honest, likes me well,
The while on strawberries I feast,
And raspberries the sun hath kissed.
Beans all a-blowing by a row.
Of hives that great with honey go,
With mignonette and heaths to yield
The plundering bee his honey-field.
Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage
And the delicious mint and sage,
Rosemary, marjoram, and rue,
And thyme to scent the winter through.
Here are small apples growing round,
And apricots all golden-gowned,
And plums that presently will flush
And show their bush a Burning Bush.
Cherries in nets against the wall,
Where Master Thrush his madrigal
Sings, and makes oath a churl is he
Who grudges cherries for a fee.
Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here
Shall Beauty make her pomander,
Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothes
That wrap her as the leaves the rose.
Take roses red and lilies white,
A kitchen garden's my delight;
Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves,
And its tall cote of irised doves.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Of The Rose Bush
This homely bush doth to mine eyes expose
A very fair, yea, comely ruddy rose.
This rose doth also bow its head to me,
Saying, Come, pluck me, I thy rose will be;
Yet offer I to gather rose or bud,
Ten to one but the bush will have my blood.
This looks like a trapan,[34] or a decoy,
To offer, and yet snap, who would enjoy;
Yea, the more eager on't, the more in danger,
Be he the master of it, or a stranger.
Bush, why dost bear a rose if none must have it.
Who dost expose it, yet claw those that crave it?
Art become freakish? dost the wanton play,
Or doth thy testy humour tend its way?
Comparison.
This rose God's Son is, with his ruddy looks.
But what's the bush, whose pricks, like tenter-hooks,
Do scratch and claw the finest lady's hands,
Or rend her clothes, if she too near it stands?
This bush an emblem is of Adam's race,
Of which Christ came, when he his Father's grace
Commended to us in his crimson blood,
While he in sinners' stead and nature stood.
Thus Adam's race did bear this dainty rose,
And doth the same to Adam's race expose;
But those of Adam's race which at it catch,
Adam's race will them prick, and claw, and scratch.
poem by John Bunyan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Linnet
Upon this leafy bush
With thorns and roses in it,
Flutters a thing of light,
A twittering linnet.
And all the throbbing world
Of dew and sun and air
By this small parcel of life
Is made more fair;
As if each bramble-spray
And mounded gold-wreathed furze,
Harebell and little thyme,
Were only hers;
As if this beauty and grace
Did to one bird belong,
And, at a flutter of wing,
Might vanish in song.
poem by Walter de la Mare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sweet Reprieve Rose
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
That was thrown on the battle field for my soul
The inevitable mortal wound waits for me on yonder hill
As the dawn breaks on the time transcribed for me
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
When he was first enclosed
For three dark days and three lonely nights
Until he returned unto the light
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
When we are first enclosed
Waiting for his trumpet to blow
And for all of his people to be called home
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
poem by Brian Kilpatrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Red Rose
The little red rose tapped at my window—
Tapped at my window long years ago;
Glad would I run then, trip to the shadow,
Who was in hiding well did I know.
Last night I, nodding, heard at the casement
Soft knock-a-knocking come on the pane.
'Hush! 'Tis the lost rose taps at my window—
Red rose, oh, sweet rose, come back again!'
Listless I moved then, laughed at my fancies—
Wept at my fancies of years ago.
Slow went a-seeking who was in hiding,
Who came a-tapping—how should I know?
Pushed wide the window, leaned to the silence—
'Red rose, oh, sweet rose, come back again!'
'Twas but a dead branch, broken and brown branch,
Soft knock-a-knocking there on the pane.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Olive Of Peace
Now sheath'd is the Sword that was wild as the blast:
The Tempest of Slaughter and Terror is past;
Old ALBION her Neighbour all smilingly hails—
For the OLIVE of PEACE blooms again in our Vales!
Beam on the day,
Thou Olive gay:
'Matchless is he
Who planted thee;
And mayst thou like him immortal be!'
Divinest of Olives, O, never was seen
A bloom so enchanting, a verdure so green!
Sweet, sweet do thy Beauties entwiningly smile
In the Vine-tree of France and the Oak of our Isle!
Beam on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
Long, long did thy envied Exotic delay,
'Till the voice of HUMANITY charm'd thee away;
And here, ever here mayst thou bloom in repose,
As firm as our Oak-tree, and gay as the Rose!
Bloom on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
Let ALCIDES his Poplar of Majesty prize,
And VENUS her Myrtle exalt to the skies:
FRANCE and ALBION excell all the Gods of old Greece—
For they crown their wise heads with the OLIVE of PEACE!
Bloom on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
The delicate Lily may gracefully mount,
And the Pink all her charms with the Rainbow recount;
Green, green is the Olive on ALBION'S brow,
And the Lily and Pink to the Olive must bow!
Bloom on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
Thou Olive divine, may Eternity's Sun
Beam warm where thy roots thro' the ages shall run;
The Dew of Affection 'light soft where they twine,
And the Love of an Universe stamp thee divine!
Bloom on the day,
Thou Olive gay:
'Matchless was he
Who planted thee;
And mayst thou like him immortal be!'
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Barbriallen
It was in the merry month of May
When green bugs were a-swelling
Sweet William on his death bed lay
For the love of Barbriallen
He sent his servant to the town
The place where she'd been dwelling
Say master dear has sent me here
If your name be Barbriallen
And slowly, slowly she got up
And slowly she went to him
And all she said when she got there
Young man I think you are dying
Oh, don't you remember the other day
When we where in a tavern
You drank your health to the ladies there
And you slided Barbriallen
He turned his face unto the wall
He turned his back upon her
Adieu, adieu to all my friends
Be kind to Barbriallen
She looked to the east, she looked to the west
She saw his corpse a-coming
Oh, put him down for me she cried
That I may gaze upon him
The more she looked, the more she grieved
She bursted it out in crying
Oh, pick me up and carry me home
For I feel like I am dying
They buried sweet Willy in the old church yard
And Barbara in the new one
From Willy's grave there grew a rose
From Barbara's a green briar
They grew and they grew on the old church wall
And could not grow no higher
And there they tied in a true love's knot
The rose bush and the briar
song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Cafes In Damascus
LANGUIDLY the night-wind bloweth
From the gardens round,
Where the clear Barrada floweth
With a lulling sound.
Not the lute-note's sweet shiver
Can such music find,
As is on a wandering river,
On a wandering wind.
There the Moslem leaneth, dreaming
O'er the inward world,
While around the fragrant steaming
Of the smoke is curled.
Rising from the coffee berry,
Dark grape of the South;
Or the pipe of polished cherry,
With its amber mouth.
Cooled by passing through the water,
Gurgling as it flows—
Scented by the Summer's daughter,
June's impassioned rose.
By that rose's spirit haunted
Are the dreams that rise,
Of far lands, and lives enchanted,
And of deep black eyes.
Thus with some sweet dream's assistance,
Float they down life's stream;
Would to heaven our whole existence
Could be such a dream!
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Cliff Dwelling
There sandy seems the golden sky
And golden seems the sandy plain.
No habitation meets the eye
Unless in the horizon rim,
Some halfway up the limestone wall,
That spot of black is not a stain
Or shadow, but a cavern hole,
Where someone used to climb and crawl
To rest from his besetting fears.
I see the callus on his soul
The disappearing last of him
And of his race starvation slim,
Oh years ago - ten thousand years.
poem by Robert Frost
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Rose Bush's Life
have you ever seen a rose bush
grow over a period of time
well it gets bigger and
a lot more complected,
as it grows and expands
it starts as a seed
and with the right care and time
it develops into a bush
but with the wrong amount the bush is not heathy
and may die
that’s the same with a baby
we start as a egg in our mothers tummy
with the right amount of care and 9mounts
we sprout into the world
young, healthy and a able body baby
but if we are not taken care of properly then
we may not live
a rose bush sprouts many different roses
during it’s life time
as if they are sections of there life
generations
of there life time
our lives look and act
like a rose bush
also it starts with one seed
you
then we sprout up and
make our own lives
with a family and
that spouts other things off of us
husband, wife, kids, and grand kids
our lives are like a
rose bushes life
for a rose bushes
are our lives
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In The Gardens Of Shushan
BE pitiful ! Her lips have touched this cool
Clear stream that sets the long green leaves astir.
The very doves that dream beside the pool
Sang their soft notes to her.
For her these doors that claim the amorous south,
Bound in red bronze and stayed with cedar-wood.
And here the bees sought honey from her mouth,
So like a flower she stood.
For her the globed pomegranates grew, and all
Sweet savoury fruits rose perfect from their flower.
Here has her soul known silence and the fall
Of each enchanted hour.
Under her feet all beauty was laid low,
In her deep eyes all beauty was made clear.
When the king called her through the evening glow,
'O Vashti, I am here !'
Still the sweet wells return to me her face,
Still her lost name on every wind is blown.
The shadows and the silence of this place
Are hers alone.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
At a time when our moral standing in the world has been weakened by a rubber stamp Justice Department that placed the Bush Administration above the law, we now need someone who is objective and independent. And, make no mistake, Eric Holder is independent.
quote by Debbie Wasserman Schultz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Rosalie
Of the sweet smell of a rose,
Of the coming of a baby into this world;
Rise up and look!
For her name is Rosalie.
A red rose into the world so sweet,
The love from a lady in red;
Red roses, red roses!
Of the pink ladies to visit the world;
Rosalie, welcome to the world so sweet.
To be born and be named Rosalie,
Dated on the 23.03.2006;
Welcome into the world so sweet!
To you the roses bloomed,
To you a joy is praised,
Mathias and Verena are your parents;
And beauty was your day of birth.
Like the sweet smell of a rose,
You were born on your grandmother's birth date;
So let the pink around you bring up the roses like,
The sweet aroma around you too.
Rosalie, Rosalie, Rosalie! !
Enter into the world so sweet and,
We will remember this day always.
You are the sweet smell of a rose,
Like the coming of a baby into this world;
For, we will rise and look!
And your name is Rosalie.
Welcome into the world so sweet,
Of the pink ladies to swing the muse like your type and,
Rest on the sweet aroma lying invisible ever around you;
For you have made our day by receiveing you into this world!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A lot of newspapers say, Terence Stamp is playing himself and we're as bored as he is.
quote by Terence Stamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!