Flow rate and pressure drop relationship poems

flow rate and pressure drop relationship poems

(1) Bernoulli's equation relates the pressure to the velocity for a fluid of The Bernoulli's equation is a momentum based force relation and was derived the flow rate/discharge and the head loss of 3 particular flow measuring. Free Essay: Abstract This experiment of the friction loss along a several flow rates to understand relationship between pressure drop and flow. Read hundreds of poems, written by young Power Poets, that employ imagery. I clean the blood drops off the floor, Then I wrap my wound. .. I was young, falling back into the pressure, But I felt a hand, Reaching for me, and . A Serenity of Marriage .. Where could I start, it all starts with a song that flows from the heart.

I am as brisk I am as brisk As a bottle of wisk-k Ey and as nimble Give me women, wine, and snuff Give me women, wine and snuff You may do so sans objection Till the day of resurrection; For bless my beard they aye shall be My beloved trinity.

Specimen of an Induction to a Poem Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry; For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. Not like the formal crest of latter days But bending in a thousand graceful ways; So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Could charm them into such an attitude.

We must think rather, that in playful mood, Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight, To show this wonder of its gentle might. I must tell a tale of chivalry; For while I muse, the lance points slantingly Athwart the morning air: And from her own pure self no joy dissembling, Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. Sometimes, when the good knight his rest would take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests.

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, Leaps to the honors of a tournament, And makes the gazers round about the ring Stare at the grandeur of the ballancing?

The poems of John Keats

How sing the splendour of the revelries, When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees? And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield, Where ye may see a spur in bloody field?

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces; Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens: Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry: Or wherefore comes that steed so proudly by?

Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight Rein in the swelling of his ample might? Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh My daring steps: Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers; Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. A Fragment Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake; His healthful spirit eager and awake To feel the beauty of a silent eve, Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave; The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, And smiles at the far clearness all around, Until his heart is well nigh over wound, And turns for calmness to the pleasant green Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean And show their blossoms trim. Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow, Delighting much, to see it half at rest, Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, The widening circles into nothing gone.

And now the sharp keel of his little boat Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, And glides into a bed of water lillies: Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.

Near to a little island's point they grew; Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore Went off in gentle windings to the hoar And light blue mountains: These, gentle Calidore Greeted, as he had known them long before. The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress; Whence ever and anon the jay outsprings, And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn Its long lost grandeur: The little chapel with the cross above Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, That on the window spreads his feathers light, And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.

Green tufted islands casting their soft shades Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades, That through the dimness of their twilight show Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow Of the wild cat's eyes, or the silvery stems Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught A trumpet's silver voice.

Friends very dear to him he soon will see; So pushes off his boat most eagerly, And soon upon the lake he skims along, Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song; Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly: His spirit flies before him so completely. And now he turns a jutting point of land, Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, Before the point of his light shallop reaches Those marble steps that through the water dip Now over them he goes with hasty trip, And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors Anon he leaps along the oaken floors Of halls and corridors.

What a kiss, What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand! How tremblingly their delicate ancles spann'd! Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, While whisperings of affection Made him delay to let their tender feet Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent And whether there were tears of languishment, Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye All the soft luxury That nestled in his arms.

A dimpled hand, Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers Of whitest cassia, fresh from summer showers And this he fondled with his happy cheek As if for joy he would no further seek; When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond Came to his ear, like something from beyond His present being: Amid the pages, and the torches' glare There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair Of his proud horse's mane: So that the waving of his plumes would be High as the berries of a wild ash tree, Or as the winged cap of Mercury.

His armour was so dexterously wrought In shape, that sure no living man had thought It hard, and heavy steel: Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated; The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted All the green leaves that round the window clamber, To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.

Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel, Gladdening in the free and airy feel Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond Is looking round about him with a fond And placid eye, young Calidore is burning To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm From lovely woman while brimful of this, He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss, And had such manly ardour in his eye, That each at other look'd half staringly; And then their features started into smiles Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles.

Softly the breezes from the forest came, Softly they blew aside the taper's flame; Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower; Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower; Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone; Lovely the moon in ether, all alone Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, As that of busy spirits when the portals Are closing in the west; or that soft humming We hear around when Hesperus is coming.

Sweet be their sleep. To one who has been long in city pent To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

flow rate and pressure drop relationship poems

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

flow rate and pressure drop relationship poems

There warm my breast with patriotic lore, Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's bier — Till their stern forms before my mind arise Perhaps on the wing of poesy upsoar, Full often dropping a delicious tear, When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. To a Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert; — when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer graceful it grew As is the wand that queen Titania wields.

I could be content Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging Yet do I often warmly burn to see And float with them about the summer waters.

To My Brother George Many the wonders I this day have seen The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the laurel'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean; — The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been. E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.

But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea? To My Brother George Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely, Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely That I should never hear Apollo's song, Though feathery clouds were floating all along The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, The golden lyre itself were dimly seen That the still murmur of the honey bee Would never teach a rural song to me That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay, Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; A sudden glow comes on them, naught they see In water, earth, or air, but poesy. It has been said, dear george, and true I hold it, That when a Poet is in such a trance, In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance, Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel, And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, Is the swift opening of their wide portal, When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, Whose tones reach naught on earth but Poet's ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, And view the glory of their festivals Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream; Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run Like the bright spots that move about the sun; And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar Pours with the lustre of a falling star.

Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers, Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers; And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose. All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses, Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses, As gracefully descending, light and thin, Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, When he upswimmeth from the coral caves, And sports with half his tail above the waves. These wonders strange he sees, and many more, Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.

Should he upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue With all its diamonds trembling through and through? Or the coy moon, when in the waviness Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, And staidly paces higher up, and higher, Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?

These are the living pleasures of the bard But richer far posterity's award.

Why PRESSURE is inversely proportional to the VELOCITY of a dynamic fluid? - Physics - zorthus-2018

What does he murmur with his latest breath, While his proud eye looks through the film of death? The sage will mingle with each moral theme My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem With lofty periods when my verses fire him, And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.

Lays have I left of such a dear delight That maids will sing them on their bridal night. Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, And form'd a snowy circle on the grass, And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, A bunch of violets full blown, and double, Serenely sleep — she from a casket takes A little book, — and then a joy awakes About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears; One that I foster'd in my youthful years The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep, Gush ever and anon with silent creep, Lured by the innocent dimples.

To sweet rest Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, Be lull'd with songs of mine. Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions, Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, And warm thy sons! At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain When some bright thought has darted through my brain Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.

As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.

[OTA] The poems of John Keats

Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd employment Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.

E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades, Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. On one side is a field of drooping oats, Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats; So pert and useless, that they bring to mind The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.

And on the other side, outspread, is seen Ocean's blue mantle streak'd with purple, and green. Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest; For when no more he spreads his feathers free, His breast is dancing on the restless sea. Now I direct my eyes into the west, Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest Why westward turn?

To Charles Cowden Clarke Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, He slants his neck beneath the waters bright So silently, it seems a beam of light Come from the Galaxy anon he sports, — With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, Or ruffles all the surface of the lake In striving from its crystal face to take Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

But not a moment can he there insure them, Nor to such downy rest can he allure them; For down they rush as though they would be free, And drop like hours into eternity.

Just like that bird am I in loss of time, Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent, I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; Still scooping up the water with my fingers, In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

flow rate and pressure drop relationship poems

Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; That you first taught me all the sweets of song The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine; What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, And float along like birds o'er summer seas; Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness; Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.

Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly Up to its climax and then dying proudly? Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load? Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram? Shew'd me that epic was of all the king, Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?

You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell; The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell Upon a tyrant's head.

What my enjoyments in my youthful years, Bereft of all that now my life endears? And can I e'er these benefits forget? And can I e'er repay the friendly debt? No, doubly no; — yet should these rhymings please, I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease For I have long time been my fancy feeding With hopes that you would one day think the reading Of my rough verses not an hour misspent; Should it e'er be so, what a rich content! Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires In lucent Thames reflected — warm desires And morning shadows streaking into slimness Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water; To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter; To feel the air that plays about the hills, And sips its freshness from the little rills; To see high, golden corn wave in the light When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white, As though she were reclining in a bed Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed — No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures The air that floated by me seem'd to say Write!

And so I did. When many lines I'd written, Though with their grace I was not oversmitten, Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. Such an attempt required an inspiration Of peculiar sort, — a consummation; — Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been Verses from which the soul would never wean But many days have past since last my heart Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart; By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd; Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd What time you were before the music sitting, And the rich notes to each sensation fitting; Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes That freshly terminate in open plains, And revel'd in a chat that ceased not When at night-fall among your books we got No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — Nor when reluctantly I took my hat; No, nor till cordially you shook my hand Mid-way between our homes — your accents bland Still sounded in my ears, when I no more Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.

Sometimes I lost them, and then found again; You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain. That well you know to honour — " Life's very toys With him, " said I, " will take a pleasant charm; It cannot be that ought will work him harm.

These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might — Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good night. How many bards gild the lapses of time How many bards gild the lapses of time! A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will in throngs before my mind intrude But no confusion, no disturbance rude Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.

So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store; The songs of birds — the whisp'ring of the leaves — The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves With solemn sound, — and thousand others more, That distance of recognizance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. On First Looking into Chapman's Homer Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair For I am brimfull of the friendliness That in a little cottage I have found; Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress, And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour Give me a golden pen, and let me lean On heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far; Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen The silver strings of heavenly harp atween And let there glide by many a pearly car, Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, And half discovered wings, and glances keen.

The while let music wander round my ears, And as it reaches each delicious ending, Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres For what a height my spirit is contending! To My Brothers Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals, And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, Upon the lore so voluble and deep, That aye at fall of night our care condoles.

This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice That thus it passes smoothly, quietly. Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise May we together pass, and calmly try What are this world's true joys, — ere the great voice, From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.

Addressed to Haydon Highmindedness, a jealousy for good, A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, In noisome alley, and in pathless wood And where we think the truth least understood, Oft may be found a " singleness of aim "That ought to frighten into hooded shame A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood.

How glorious this affection for the cause Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly! What when a stout unbending champion awes Envy, and Malice to their native sty? Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause, Proud to behold him in his country's eye.

flow rate and pressure drop relationship poems

Conversely, if the fluid is flowing down hill from an elevation of 75 ft to 25 ft, the result would be negative and there will be a Pressure Change due to Velocity Change Fluid velocity will change if the internal flow area changes.

For example, if the pipe size is reduced, the velocity will increase and act to decrease the static pressure. If the flow area increases through an expansion or diffuser, the velocity will decrease and result in an increase in the static pressure.

If the pipe diameter is constant, the velocity will be constant and there will be no change in pressure due to a change in velocity. As an example, if an expansion fitting increases a 4 inch schedule 40 pipe to a 6 inch schedule 40 pipe, the inside diameter increases from 4. If the flow rate through the expansion is gpm, the velocity goes from 9. The change in static pressure across the expansion due to the change in velocity is: In other words, pressure has increased by almost 0.

Pressure Change due to Head Loss Since head loss is a reduction in the total energy of the fluid, it represents a reduction in the capability of the fluid to do work. Head loss does not reduce the fluid velocity consider a constant diameter pipe with a constant mass flow rateand it will not be effect the elevation head of the fluid consider a horizontal pipe with no elevation change from inlet to outlet.

Therefore, head loss will always act to reduce the pressure head, or static pressure, of the fluid.