Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Peter Pink-Howitt

Quote by Peter Pink-Howitt

“Unless, by chance, you long: To hear the Soporific susurrating Tumbling bumble Bees at glean in Myriad-hued meadows Or the startling Murmuration of Starlings curling Shadows Athwart the twilit sky; To scent the earthy musk arising Whenever tear shaped water falls From heaven To cleanse the dust That blinds us (Sharp coppery hint Of a spilt heart)”

Quote by Peter Pink-Howitt

Book:Ethics of Life: freedom and diversity
Create image

Work

Ethics of Life: freedom and diversity

Browse quotes and source details for this work. more

Author

Peter Pink-Howitt

Browse famous quotes and profile details for Peter Pink-Howitt. more

You May Also Like

“There is a maid, demure as she is wise, With all of April in her winsome eyes, And to my tales she listens pensively, With slender fingers clasped about her knee, Watching the sparrows on the balcony. Shy eyes that, lifted up to me, Free all my heart of vanity; Clear eyes, that speak all silently, Sweet as the silence of a nunnery— Read, for I write my rede for you alone, Here where the city's mighty monotone Deepens the silence to a symphony— Silence of Saints, and Seers, and Sorcery. Arms and the Man! A noble theme, I ween! Alas! I can not sing of these, Eileen— Only of maids and men and meadow-grass, Of sea and fields and woodlands, where I pass; Nothing but these I know, Eileen, alas! Clear eyes that, lifted up to me, Free all my soul from vanity; Gray eyes, that speak all wistfully— Nothing but these I know, alas! R. W. C. April, 1896.”

PoetPoemDedicationRobert W ChambersThe Mystery Of Choice
Book:The Mystery Of Choice
Create image

“Seal with a seal of gold The scroll of a life unrolled; Swathe him deep in his purple stole; Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal, Drops of gold in each scented fold. Crimson wings of the Little Death, Stir his hair with your silken breath; Flaming wings of sins to be, Splendid pinions of prophecy, Smother his eyes with hues and dyes, While the white moon spins and the winds arise, And the stars drip through the skies. Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Seal his sight and stifle his breath, Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed; From north to north, from west to west, Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies, And the ghosts of God arise.”

PoetryPoetPoemRobert W ChambersThe Messenger
Book:The Messenger
Create image