Favourite poems or quotations therefrom

[DP Kilfo]

Young boy asks a traveller at a railway Station.....May I carry your case sir?....Traveller..How did you know I was going to Court.?

Judge to Defendant,where ever up before me , Defendant ,why what time do you get up .

[quinner]

Judge to Defendant,where ever up before me , Defendant ,why what time do you get up .

'
Judge to defendant, You have been sentenced to hang by the neck until you are dead, then turns to the escorts and says ''take him down'' ...defendant then says, I haven't been hung yet your honour''

[Vico2]

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills

When all at once I heard a voice

GET AWAY FROM THOSE BLEEDIN DAFFODILLS .

I love it

[Vico2]

Vico, i remember my father reading that out and said "the guy that wrote that had Gallstones" he said there was a connection. Any idea what it was, that is if he was being serious.

Sorry Kell I did not see your reply. As far as I can gather it was serious referring to the tiredness of writing, in the belief that he was divinely inspired to do so and also feeling that he was connecting the present and past generations. The monks took their writing very seriously

[Vico2]

A lovely poem by Khlil Gibran


And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

[kellier]

Sorry Kell I did not see your reply. As far as I can gather it was serious referring to the tiredness of writing, in the belief that he was divinely inspired to do so and also feeling that he was connecting the present and past generations. The monks took their writing very seriously

Ive since found out the gallstones connection as the writing had something to do with St Gall.

[Twobob]

Judge to the accused .... " Do you recognise the court " , to which the accused replied .... " Nah , ya get it painted " .

[Vico2]

lA prostitute was arrested and brought to court for soliciting. She was uncooperative and casual in her replies to the judge. Finally the judge said - Miss Murphy do you recognise this court.

Her reply was - yes sir I recognise every one of yiz

[Vico2]

I am posting the following poem as a tribute to Joan Mack. She use to do a bit of writing herself, she was also very spiritual. I think she would like it

On Death


Kahlil Gibran
1883 –
1931

Then Almitra spoke, saying, We would ask now of Death.
And he said:
You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?
The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?
Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

From The Prophet (Knopf, 1923). This poem is in the public domain.

[Vico2]

On Pain

Kahlil Gibran
1883 –
1931And a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.


From The Prophet (Knopf, 1923). This poem is in the public domain.

[Vico2]

This is a sad poem written by Leo Marks after his son was killed in the war. He sent the poem to Violetta Szabo as part of a code. She was caught on her first mission.

The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours.

The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause.

For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours.^[1]

[DP Kilfo]

I just wish that that world was twice as big and half of it was still unexplored, Sir David Attenborough. I enjoyed a BBC1 tribute to him this evening, one playback of a Gekeo in a life or death chase from Snakes the music provided by the BBC orchestra.

[Vico2]

An Irish Airman forsees his death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.^[3]

[Vico2]

Poem written to honour Robert Emmet

Oh! Breathe Not His Name

Melody - "The Brown Maid"

Thomas Moore, 1808, from Irish Melodies, vol. 1

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid: Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. 2. But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

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[Vico2]

ARBOUR HILL
Robert Emmet (1778 - 1803)
"No rising column marks this spot,
Where many a victim lies;
But, oh! the blood which here has streamed
To Heaven for justice cries.
"It claims it on the oppressor's head
Who joys in human woe,
Who drinks the tears by misery shed,
And mocks them as they flow.
"It claims it on the callous judge,
Whose hands in blood are dyed,
Who arms injustice with the sword,
The balance throws aside.
"It claims it for his ruined isle,
Her wretched children's grave:
Where withered Freedom droops her head,
And man exists - a slave.
"Oh, Sacred Justice, free this land
From tyranny abhorred;
Resume thy balance and thy seat,
Resume-but sheath, thy sword.
"No retribution should we seek -
Too long has horror reigned;
By Mercy marked may Freedom rise,
By Cruelty unstained.
"Nor shall a tyrant's ashes mix
With those our martyred dead;
This is the place where Erin's sons
In Erin's cause have bled.
"And those who here are laid at rest,
Oh, hallowed be each name
Their memories are for ever blest -
Consigned to endless fame.
"Unconsecrated is this ground,
Unblessed by holy hands;
No bell here tolls its solemn sound,
No monument here stands.
"But here the patriot's tears are shed,
The poor man's blessing given;
These consecrate the virtuous dead,
These waft their fame to heaven."

---

written by Emmet on the burying ground of Arbour Hill, in Dublin,
where the bodies of insurgents shot in 1798 were interred.