From near thy vicinity, from near thy distance (do I call), remain here, do not follow do not follow the Fathers of yore Firmly do I fasten thy life's breath.
Quotes about yore (16 Quotes)
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
Oh, Georgia booze is mighty fine booze, The best yuh ever poured yuh, But it eats the soles right offen yore shoes, For Hell's broke loose in Georgia.
The King beneath the mountains, The King of carven stone, The lord of silver fountains Shall come into his own His crown shall be upholden, His harp shall be restrung, His halls shall echo golden To songs of yore re-sung. The woods shall wave on mountains And grass beneath the sun His wealth shall flow in fountains And the rivers golden run. The streams shall run in gladness, The lakes shall shine and burn, All sorrow fail and sadness At the Mountain-king's return.
Not as ours the books of old - Things that steam can stamp and fold; Not as ours the books of yore - Rows of type, and nothing more.
Great hail we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore Bring us hither your sun and your summers And renew our world as of yore You shall teach us your song's new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, And a singer who sings no more.
Still for us where Cottons mather In the spring the Willas cather As of yore.
There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it and they bring with them the flavour of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more home-bred, social, and joyous than at present.
An artist wished to paint a face, The symbol of innocence and joy He sought a child for his ideal, And drew the likeness of a boy. Long years passed on. The artist now A gray old man, one picture more Designed to make, and call it Guilt A contrast to the child of yore. He went into a dungeon dark, Its cold walls damp with slime. And painted a wretched man chained there, Condemned to death for crime. Beside the other he placed the last And when he learned the prisoner's name, He found the innocent, laughing child, And the hardened man, were but the same. Montagu Gere.
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
A Tragic Story --- William M. Thackeray There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore But wondered much, and sorrowed more, Because it hung behind him. He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him. Says he, Ah, the mystery I've found-- I'll turn me round, --he turned him round But still it hung behind him. Then round and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin In vain--it mattered not a pin-- The pigtail hung behind him. And right, and left, and round about, And up, and down, and in, and out He turned but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him. And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist, and twirl, and tack, Alas Still faithful to his back, The pigtail hangs behind him.
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore.
To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land.
But Satan now is wiser than of yore, and tempts by making rich, not making poor.
The naturalists of yore esteemed the ocean to be a treasury of wonders, and sought therein for monstrosities and organisms contrary to the law of nature, such as they interpreted it.
Nay you wonder while they mock, And when they are reminded, they mind not, And when they see a sign they incite one another to scoff, And they say This is nothing but clear magic What when we are dead and have become dust and bones, shall we then certainly be raised, Or our fathers of yore Say Aye and you shall be abject.