1. You may write me down in history With your bitter twisted lies You may trod me down in the very dirt And still like the dust I'll rise.
Ben Harper and Maya Angelou
2. The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out like shining from shook foil? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wearsman's smudge and sharesman's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
Gerard Manley Hopkins— 1877. 'God's Grandeur'.
3. Booth died blind and still by faith he trod, Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God.
(Nicholas) Vachel Lindsay— 1913 General Booth Enters Into Heaven, 'General Booth Enters Into Heaven'
4. Waste of Blood, and waste of Tears, Waste of youth's most precious years, Waste of ways the saints have trod, Waste of Glory, waste of God, War!
'Woodbine Willie'— (1919) More Rough Rhymes of a Padre, 'Waste'.
5. Asked if he had ever conducted any Stockhausen, he said, "No, but I once trod in some."
6. Wild was the day; the wintry seaMoaned sadly on New England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land.
William Cullen Bryant— The Twenty-Second of December, st. 1.
7. Going as if he trod upon eggs.
Robert Burton— Section 2, member 3.
8. I won a noble fame; But with a sudden frown, The people snatched my crown, And, in the mire, trod down My lofty name.
Theodore Tilton— Sir Marmaduke's Musings, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919).
9. From Stirling Castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled; Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said "my winsome marrow," "Whatever betide, we'll turn aside, And see the braes of Yarrow.
William Woodsworth— Yarrow Unvisited, st. 1.
10. ’Twas on a sunny summer day I trod a mighty city’s street, And when I started on my way My heart was full of fancies sweet; But soon, as nothing could be seen, But countenances sharp and keen, Nought heard or seen around but told Of something bought or something sold, And none that seemed to think or care That any save himself was there.
Arthur Hugh Clough— An Incident, st. 1 (1836).
11. You shall not pile, with servile toil, Your monuments upon my breast, Nor yet within the common soil Lay down the wreck of power to rest, Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was “the scourge of God.
Edward Everett— "The Dirge of Alaric, the Visigoth" In The New Monthly Magazine and Literary Journal Vol. V, No. 25 (January-June 1823), p. 64.
12. Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
Gerard Manley Hopkins--God's Grandeur, lines 5-8
13. Even as he trod that day to God, So walked he from his birth, In simpleness, and gentleness and honor And clean mirth.
Rudyard Kipling, Barrack Room Ballads, Dedication to Wolcott Balestier. (Adaptation of an earlier one).
14. But let the good old corn adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God!
John Greenleaf Whittier, The Corn-Song: Quoted in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), Lemma "Agriculture" p. 18-19.
15. Cinderella's lefts and rights To Geraldine's were frights, And I trow The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now.
Frederick Locker-Lampson, To My Mistress's Boots.
16. Death's but a path that must be trod, if man would ever pass to God.
Thomas Parnell, Night-Piece on Death, line 67.
17. Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod.
Jean Ingelow, Reflections.
18. Going as if he trod upon eggs.
Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621), Part III. Sect, II. Memb. 3; reported as a proverb in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 640.
19. Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod, They have left unstained, what there they found, Freedom to worship God.
Felicia Hemans, Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
20. Nathless the sacred shrine is holy yet, With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod. Take off your shoes as by the burning bush, Before the mystery of death and God.
Emma Lazarus, In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport