A Quote by Leigh Hunt
Oh for a seat in some poetic nook, Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook!
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
I've sucked way too much cement for this year. Bad juju rising off them city sidewalks. I need to babble with a brook or two, inhale starlight, make friends with some trees.
Success is happiness. People say, "Oh that sounds corny." No matter how rich you are you can only sit your ass in one seat at a time. You have to be comfortable in that seat.
Soft as Memnon's harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touched by light, with heavenly warning Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice Minds us of our better choice.
I've written some poetry, but...songs have to be more poetic, and I've really gotten to this non-poetic sort of writing.
I'd love to drive a Lamborghini, but I think it's hard when the pedals are way down in there, and you sit real low, but I've come up with some pedal extensions. I actually sit in a kids' car seat that my old boss put this beautiful leather wrap around, and it looks just like a Corvette seat that sits on top of my leather Corvette seat.
Simplest of blossoms! To mine eye
Thou bring'st the summer's painted sky;
The May-thorn greening in the nook;
The minnows sporting in the brook;
The bleat of flocks; the breath of flowers;
The song of birds amid the bowers;
The crystal of the azure seas;
The music of the southern breeze;
And, over all, the blessed sun,
Telling of halcyon days begun.
Poetic language is singularly appropriate for recounting the life of the king who is traditionally accepted as the author of the poetic psalms, some of which are included in the narrative.
Trees there were, old as trees can be, huge and grasping with hearts black as sin. Strange trees that some said walked in the night.
GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .
I'm thinking about the idea of poetic license. People say that about certain writers: "Oh, the grammar sucks, but it's just the poetic license." We accept it as being an art form of sorts: the incorrect rearrangement of meaningful things. Unlike sciences, literature as art relies on societal acceptance of a certain vocabulary. We're just making sounds out of our mouths if we don't both accept that what I'm saying has very significant meanings, and I'm accurately targeting what vocabulary I use and how I arrange each word.
This is not a brook [Bach means "brook" in German], it's an ocean.
Opera combines pretty basic theater and poetry, but the storyline itself is actually quite poetic and, after some digital research, taking that actual content and seeing it as undeniably poetic.
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still.
When I was in high school, I hid in the back seat of an old boyfriend's car when he was out with another girl. He finally found me, but not until after he had made out with her for an hour.
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