To Sir Joshua Reynolds
Dear President, whose art sublime
Gives perpetuity to time,
And bids transactions of a day,
That fleeting hours would waft away
To dark futurity, survive,
And in unfading beauty live,--
You cannot with a grace decline
A special mandate of the Nine,
Yourself, whatever task you choose,
So much indebted to the Muse.
Thus say the sisterhood :-- We come;
Fix well your pallet on your thumb,
Prepare the pencil and the tints,
We come to furnish you with hints.
French disappointment, British glory,
Must be the subject of the story.
First strike a curve, a graceful bow,
Then slope it to a point below;
Your outline easy, airy, light,
Filled up becomes a paper kite.
Let independence, sanguine, horrid,
Blaze like a meteor in the forehead:
Beneath (but lay aside your graces)
Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces,
Each with a staring, steadfast eye,
Fixed on his great and good ally.
France flies the kite -- 'tis on the wing--
Britannia's lightning cuts the string.
The wind that raised it, ere it ceases,
Just rends it into thirteen pieces,
Takes charge of every fluttering sheet,
And lays them all at George's feet.
Iberia, trembling from afar,
Renounces the confederate war;
Her efforts and her arts o'ercome,
France calls her shattered navies home:
Repenting Holland learns to mourn
The sacred treaties she has torn;
Astonishment and awe profound
Are stamped upon the nations round;
Without one friend, above all foes,
Britannia gives the world repose.
poem by William Cowper
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Related quotes
The Kite The Wind Took As If A Poem
You bought the kit,
couldn’t wait for Mum to clear the table
to spread its bits and pieces out
didn’t your Dad help you? Yes, of course –
those were the good times..
‘your Dad’… do we ever really realise
they had a life of their own,
not merely extras in the drama
of your life?
the wooden struts cut to length,
the careful, don’t hurry Michael cotton wound
around the glue, and then more glue,
put the top back on again Michael
or you’ll be sorry when you come to use it again…
what’s again, in a boy’s life? …
that special waterproofed paper
finally in place; Mum’s hair-dryer
cautiously used to tauten
the bright kite’s sail
not too near Michael,
read the instructions…
it’s alive now, the kite,
the two of you waiting
to learn about wind, even
what you thought a mere light breeze…
what strength! on that first outing
on the beach or in the park;
the mere light breeze
which as your kite sailed up there in the sky,
dipping, soaring around the other kites
like a half learned, half graceful dance
which the wind wrote
but you did not listen fully to:
a sudden pull of wind, a parting
somewhere between string and kite…
no longer your kite; now
it’s the wind’s kite
sailing off into the blue
to meet the clouds perhaps
was it your Dad, after
he too had been silent-sad,
or was it Mum as she wiped your face who said
the wind, the sky, loved it too much
to give it back
and so with poems.
Throw away the box and stuff
but keep the glue, it may, like memory,
come in useful
next time
and so with poems.
The wind, the sky,
deserve them for their own;
they can go further, faster, they’re more strong
than you;
let go the string, now, as it falls to earth;
watch the bright kite
till it's out of sight;
was it ever yours?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Dear Motherland Of France
DEDICATED TO THE MEN AND WOMEN OF FRANCE
Our Motherland, dear Motherland,
The source of beauty and of Art,
Who but thy children understand
The love which permeates each heart!
We see, through rainbow-tints of tears,
Thy glory of a thousand years.
O country of the Great and Free,
We live for thee, we live for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.
O Motherland, both blithe and brave,
What magic lies in thy name-France!
Yet can thy radiant mien be grave,
And stern thy ever-smiling glance.
And when thy sons and daughters know
That enemies would lay thee low
And dim thy fame on land and sea,
We fight for thee, we fight for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.
Dear Motherland of joy and mirth,
Dear Motherland of faith divine,
A thousand years the wondering earth
Has seen thy star in splendour shine.
Still shall it see that star of France
Its splendour and its light enhance.
Dear Motherland, when it need be
We die for thee, we die for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Republican Genius Of Europe
Emporers and kings! in vain you strive
Your torments to conceal--
The age is come that shakes your thrones,
Tramples in dust despotic crowns,
And bids the sceptre fail.
In western worlds the flame began:
From thence to France it flew--
Through Europe, now, it takes its way,
Beams an insufferable day,
And lays all tyrants low.
Genius fo France! pursue the chace
Till Reason's laws restore
Man to be Man, in every clime;--
That Being, active, great, sublime
Debas'd in dust no more.
In dreadful pomp he takes his way
O'er ruin'd crowns, demolish'd thrones--
Pale tyrants shrink before his blaze--
Round him terrific lightenings play--
With eyes of fire, he looks then through,
Crushes the vile despotic crew,
And Pride in ruin lays.
poem by Philip Freneau
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Kite Fight
Kite to kite
Fly the sky...
Suddenly
Kite to kite
Fight the sky...
One kite cut
Another kite...
with out nife...
One kite flying
Another kite...
Pass away to fly...
Not for kite
Life also same...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Kite Song
I flew a kite, I held on tight to its string.
Each time I go anywhere, I held on tight.
In the middle of the night I woke up in fright,
Thinking maybe in my dream I let go of my kite.
When I was in a restaurant, talking to my friends,
Watching their mouths move faster and faster.
I thought of the kite that was flying in the sky
And made sure that my hand was holding the string.
That was a long time ago,
Many skies went by since then.
Now my hands stopped holding anything
And Ive learnt to take a walk instead.
Then one day in the evening light,
I saw something strange shining bright.
The sky was dark, with swarms of larks,
And in the midst of it all, yes, it was my kite.
How did the kite get there, Ill never know,
Floating away among the clouds to where nobody knows.
I held my gun with both my hands,
Slowly aiming at the shining dot.
The shot went off, the dot blew off,
Since then Ive never seen the kite again.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To His Grace The Duke Of Buckingham And Normanby, At The Camp Before Philipsburgh.
Return, brave Youth! suspend thy Martial Fire,
Nor, like great Berwick, in the Field expire.
Illustrious Exile! thou art gone at last;
Thy Toils, and various Dangers now are past:
The royal Blood, which flow'd in Berwick's Veins,
Is now pour'd out on hostile German Plains:
But tho' in Dust thy mortal Part be laid,
Yet shall thy dear--bought Laurels never fade:
Tho' to a foreign Prince's Service ty'd,
You liv'd with Glory, and with Glory dy'd.
MUSE, look not back, nor vainly mourn the Fate,
Which robb'd Britannia of an Arm so great.
On the sad Scene may Princes turn their Eye;
And from Oppression's fatal Footsteps fly;
Of arbitrary Pow'r the Danger see,
To British Monarchs the forbidden Tree;
Which, like the first, forbid by Pow'r divine,
Hurts not themselves alone, but taints their Line.
SHEFFIELD, since martial Ardor fires your Breast,
Make Albion only in that Ardor blest;
Nor yet by War alone exalt thy Name;
Give Science her hereditary Claim:
Return, brave Youth! your longing Country grace;
Think what you owe Britannia, and your Race.
poem by Mary Barber
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Kite
Come up and be a kite
Beelzebub is aching in my belly-o.
My feet are heavy and Im rooted in my wellios.
And I want to get away and go
From all these mirror windows.
I look at eye level, it isnt good enough.
And then I find it out when I take a good look up.
Theres a hole in the sky with a big eyeball
Calling me:
Come up and be a kite,
On a diamond flight!
A diamond kite, a diamond kite.
Ooh, what a diamond!
A diamond kite
On a diamond flight.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the moon, over the moon!
I feel a rush along my body, like a bullet.
Im 2-d after a push-and-pull feeling.
And I want to get back to safe home:
I love the homeland dome.*
I got no limbs, Im like a feather on the wind.
Well, Im not sure if I want to be up here, at all.
And Id like to be back on the ground,
But I dont know how to get down--down--down!
Come up and be a kite,
On a diamond flight!
A diamond kite, a diamond kite.
Ooh, what a diamond!
A diamond kite
On a diamond flight.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the moon, over the moon!
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flying High
My oh my!
What a gorgeous day to fly
Let's release that puffer kite
High in the crystal clear blue sky
We're running out of string
Send that kid on his bike
To the hobby shop to get more
What do you mean, what for?
Why, to fly that kite
Beyond the clouds, earth and universe
The wind is perfect today
We can do this beyond the moon and stars
oops! string broke over passing cars
Where is it now?
Where the past kite fliers now fly
My, oh my!
How high, this kite did, fly
poem by Matt Mondschein
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Beneath The Heights...
Beneath the heights
Flying along the tracks of floating rain clouds
My kite flies not caring for me ever.
Behind the kite my thread trails.
My hands hold it ever.
When the clouds begin to rain my kite sways
But as the sky clears he smiles.
I am not seen by him still.
Beneath my kite my thread shudders.
My hands hold it ever.
Above the heaven`s zenith
He flies, he alone flies.
Far down in the earth`s nadir
I stand alone holding my thread.
Beneath me the tremor begins...
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Americanisation
Britannia needs no Boulevards,
No spaces wide and gay:
Her march was through the crooked streets
Along the narrow way.
Nor looks she where, New York's seduction,
The Broadway leadeth to destruction.
Britannia needs no Cafes:
If Coffee needs must be,
Its place should be the Coffee-house
Where Johnson growled for Tea;
But who can hear that human mountain
Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?
She needs no Russian Theatre
Where Father strangles Mother,
In scenes where all the characters
And colours kill each other--
Her boast is freedom had by halves,
And Britons never shall be Slavs.
But if not hers the Dance of Death,
Great Dostoievsky's dance,
And if the things most finely French
Are better done in France--
Might not Americanisation
Be best applied to its own nation?
Ere every shop shall be a store
And every Trade a Trust . . .
Lo, many men in many lands
Know when their cause is just.
There will be quite a large attendance
When we Declare our Independence.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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And For All My Questions My Friend Has An Answer
you have seen the kite flying in the air
and you believe it
you have not seen the wind but you feel it just the same and you name it
as the wind
and you accept it as the wind that exists in reality
because it lifts the kite
i feel God like the wind, i see myself like the kite
there is this divinity that sticks on the stick and string and paper
lifting me up
like a child to the skies above
i do not have power
it is the wind which has it and the wind has it because the owner of the wind
has bestowed up it the power
yes the wind that you do not see but you just feel
my friend, i am not ashamed to tell you about angels
neither am i ashamed to tell you about the existence of the owner of the angels
He is our God and He loves us
why do you insist on flying away like a bird?
why?
believe and be loved
love and learn to love some more, and be a believer forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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to connect himself to God
to make this divine connection
from his human
ity
he writes a poem about a kite that a child makes
from sticks and paper
and some paste
to stick them in together
like a symbolism
of body and soul
and the child puts the paper tail
as rudder
of this kite and then he runs to the field
to find the wind to give his kite a lift
to the skies
high spirited like his soul
and his body
wanting to be with
God up there
after this i will ask him,
the child
(or the child in him)
or simply him the man who who writes a poem about a kite
lifting itself up with the wind of his beaufiful words:
do you feel something divine?
was there something divine in this poem about a kite?
did you feel God?
did you see him up in the skies above?
you tell me about angels, now tell me, my friend
about the presence of God
tell me more, about this kite this flight this wind
do not mention anything about power
i am always this suspicious believer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Now Art has lost its mental Charms
Now Art has lost its mental Charmst
France shall subdue the World in Arms
So spoke an Angel at my birth
Then said Descend thou upon Earth
Renew the Arts on Britains Shore
And France shall fall down and adore
With works of Art their Armies meet
And War shall sink beneath thy feett
But if thy Nation Arts refuse
And if they scorn the immortal Muse
France shall the arts of Peace restore
And save thee from the Ungrateful shoret
Spirit who lovst Brittannias Islet
Round which the Fiends of Commerce smilet
[unfinished]
[Dedication to Blake's Illustrations to Blair's Grave, printed 1808]
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Americanisation
Britannia needs no Boulevards,
No spaces wide and gay:
Her march was through the crooked streets
Along the narrow way.
Nor looks she where, New York's seduction,
The Broadway leadeth to destruction.
Britannia needs no Cafes:
If Coffee needs must be,
Its place should be the Coffee-house
Where Johnson growled for Tea;
But who can hear that human mountain
Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?
She needs no Russian Theatrey
Mere Father strangles Mother,
In scenes where all the characters
And colours kill each other--
Her boast is freedom had by halves,
And Britons never shall be Slavs.
But if not hers the Dance of Death,
Great Dostoievsky's dance,
And if the things most finely French
Are better done in France--
Might not Americanisation
Be best applied to its own nation?
Ere every shop shall be a store
And every Trade a Trust . . .
Lo, many men in many lands
Know when their cause is just.
There will be quite a large attendance
When we Declare our Independence.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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I have a kite
a kite fly too high, is but a dream to see
see it with me, fly it to see, feel it
with me, all are just the way to
be with me
a kite flies, lies a tie that flies
a wonderful kite, soar high above to
the sky so high, surfing to the heaven
it see
a kite that brings, the thing to be,
brings it with me
a day that i know, where it go, hold
me so dearly, and leave with me
for that kite that fly is me....
poem by Antonio Liao
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How Do You Expect This Kite To Fly In The Wind?
my friend, how do you expect this kite to fly in the wind
its long tail is disconnected from its body like a tree without roots
its paper is thin, its skeletons too soft to stand against the wind
how do you expect to live in freedom,
on uncut navels, on shallow disappointments, on shaky guts,
my friend, to live in freedom
like the kite, we too must go against the wind
the stronger winds against us are much better
much wanted
we shall then fly so high against the wind that gives us the lift
and when we gain the heights
up there, we look on all the things
so little before us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dawgs of War
Comes the British bulldog first—solid as a log—
He’s so ugly in repose that he’s a handsome dog;
Full of mild benevolence as his years increase;
Silent as a china dog on the mantelpiece.
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
To the thick of Britain’s foes—
Enemies behind him close—
(
Silence for a while
).
Comes a very different dog—tell him at a glance.
Clipped and trimmed and frilled all round. Dandy dog of France.
(Always was a dandy dog, no matter what his age)
Now his every hair and frill is stiff as wire with rage.
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
While behind him France’s foes
Reel and surge and pack and close.
(
Silence for a while
.)
Next comes Belgium’s market dog—hard to realise.
Go-cart dog and barrow dog—he’s a great surprise.
Dog that never hurt a cat, did no person harm;
Friendly, kindly, round and fat as a “Johnny Darm.”
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
At the flank of Belgium’s foes
Who could not behind him close—
(
Silence for a while
).
Next comes Servia’s mongrel pup—mongrel dawgs can fight;
Up or down, or down or up, whether wrong or right.
He was mad the other day—he is mad today,
Hustling round and raising dust in his backyard way.
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
’Twixt the legs of Servia’s foes,
Biting tails and rearmost toes—
(
Silence for a while
.)
There are various terrier dawgs mixed up in the scrap,
Much too small for us to see, and too mad to yap.
Each one, on his frantic own—heard the row commence—
Tore with tooth and claw a hole in the backyard fence.
No one called, but in they go,
Dogs with many a nameless woe,
Tripping up their common foe—
(
Silence for a while
).
From the snows of Canada, dragging box and bale,
Comes the sledge-dog toiling on, sore-foot from the trail.
He’ll be useful in the trench, when the nose is blue—
Winter dog that knows the French and the English too.
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
At his father’s country’s foes,
And his mother’s country’s foes.
(
Silence for a while
.)
See, in sunny Southern France a dog that runs by sight,
Lean and yellow, sharp of nose, long of leg and light,
Silent and bloodthirsty, too; Distance in his eyes,
Leaping high to gain his view, the Kangaroo Dog flies!
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and up he goes,
Lands amongst his country’s foes—
And his country’s country’s foes;
While they sway and while they close—
(
Silence for a while
).
See across the early snow, far across the plain,
Where the clouds are grey and low and winter comes again;
By the sand-dune and the marsh—and forest black and dumb—
As dusky white as their winter’s night, the Russian wolf-hounds come!
(
Silence for a while
.)
poem by Henry Lawson
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Vive La France!
With echoing effect colourful bon-fires were burning
To celebrate National Day of France in Pondicherry
That kept the crowd in the beach spell bound for long!
The erstwhile colony of France is this French town
Full of European architectural beauty and green park
People like to enjoy by cosmopolitan culture forever!
Most civilised country in the world France preached
Democracy by the famous slogans of Rousseau like
Liberty, Equality and Fraternity India cherishes most!
Bon ami of French culture and international brotherhood
Of India keep both the countries natural friends forever
Flourishing humanism as an example to all world nations!
Vive la France French nationals along with Indians say
To strength the bond between two bon ami forever and ever!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Maiden Flight
The wind on top of the mountain
Is just right for flying my kite.
No, it’s not a store bought item
I made it from old newspapers,
Elmer’s glue and old balsa wood
Spine and spar sticks from last years kite.
Now here I am again ready
To launch it on its maiden flight.
I hope the tail isn’t too long;
The bridle string is sufficient.
Well, here goes! Come on baby fly!
That’s it! You want more string? Up! Up!
Easy does it! Straighten out babe!
That’s it! That’s it! You’re on your own.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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The Young Woman From Paris In France
The one with brown eyes and brown hair her Hometown is Paris in France
She has such a sweet singing voice and to music she loves to dance
She is in her twenty fourth year and happy in her single life
For some very lucky young man she will make a beautiful wife.
Her accent is easy to love like the lilt to a beautiful song
Of her voice one never could tire I'd listen to her all day long
To this Town she's like a breath of fresh air not many French people live here
Except for the rare tourist who stop for a break from travel I meet one perhaps once a year.
She has such an old World charm and she has such a beautiful face
And she doesn't find it hard for to smile a woman of charm and grace
'Twould be nice if here she did settle but in our Town I know she won't stay
The young woman from Paris in France from home she is so far away.
She says she will go home next year in beautiful May of the Spring
In the green parks of Paris in France she will hear the birds whistle and sing
And on the verandah of her old home with family and friends out of the glare of the sunshine
She will sing along in the sing song as she enjoys a glass of good French made wine.
poem by Francis Duggan
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