Confessions without contrition, and prayers without intentions are time lost.
Sicilian proverbs
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True Confessions
Before you tell me to go, Ive got to let you know
How youre makin my temperature rise
I let you use me, you tried to abuse me, you tell me youre not very nice
Im not your social security, Im not your star opportunity, yeah
Oh baby, you can have me absolutely, wont you give me
True confessions, true confessions, true confessions
Thats all Im askin for, yeah
I do things to make you crazy inside
And baby thats one thing you know you cant hide
You ask me why, whats your confession
Well baby, the truth is, youre in my possession tonight
True confessions, true confessions, true confessions
Thats all Im askin for, yeah
Im not your social security, Im not your star opportunity, yeah
Oh baby, you can have me absolutely, wont you give me
True confessions, true confessions, true confessions (repeats out)
song performed by Kiss
Added by Lucian Velea
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But For Being Lost
As black imbued black, so was rendered the pitch of darkness
That befogged this godforsaken yard of graves -
And too the dank, ‘til now forgotten chapel that
Did little to grace these forlorn grounds.
Yet here stood I, seemingly first to tread this weed-ridden soil
Since times of yore when life had erstwhile blessed this land.
But for being lost in solitude - as does a country wanderer -
Would I not have happened across this morbid landscape.
And though detail rendered barely visible to my naked eye –
For desperately had the moon tried to break through this jet fog –
A sense of something suffused the place.
Was it those tormented spirits desperate for absolution,
Or perhaps the gargoyles teasing me on whether they be of stone or living flesh?
I was drawn to the oak door as it enticingly opened in passage for me.
The organ called from down the nave and through the pale orange of unsteady light
- that which could only be mustered from the few discoloured, moribund candles.
Could I also hear a distant choir of stern voices, as if in effort to scold me?
As I approached, those tarnished pipes came into view.
Standing erect with gothic pride, they bore down on me with patronising air -
Exaggerated by the disjointed sneering of minor chords,
As if to state that insignificant I had henceforth no grant of solace.
In answer, I steadied my rocking legs and racing mind to wonder of this scenario.
And in doing so, I found myself waking from a cramped dream –
Whence the message dawned: mine had been such a claustrophobic life.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Time To Feel Forlorn and Reconstruct What's Torn
There's a designated time in the universe for everything:
A time to limit, a time to expand.
A time to rise, time to lower and lend a hand.
A time to maintain, a time to abandon.
A time to develop, a time to rest at random.
A time to communicate, a time for silence.
A time to kiss your enemy, a time to concede wins.
A time to spite, a time to please.
A time for respite, a time to tease.
A time to process, a time to confess.
A time to do more. A time to do less.
A time to dominate. A time to captivate.
A time to plunge. A time to resurface straight.
A time to maximise. A time to minimise.
A time to diminish. A time to optimise.
A time to sacrifice. time to insist on rights.
A time to be selfish. A time to be concerned about plights.
A time to be big. A time to be small.
A time to care for a special one. A time to love all.
A time to add dimension. A time to simplify.
A time to advocate egalitarianism.
A time to exult.
A time to default.
A time to be accepting of imperfect humanism.
A time to enhance. A time to simplify.
A time to criticise. A time to dignify.
A time to produce. A time to use.
A time to relent. A time to refuse.
A time to demand. A time to give.
A time to die. a time to live.
A time to survive. A time to admit defeat.
A time to lie. A time to walk on your feet.
A time to compete. A time to not.
A time to remember. A time to concede you forgot.
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poem by Hercolena Oliver
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Not at a Loss Chord - after Adelaide Anne Procter – A Lost Chord
Not at a Loss Chord
Playing one day with my organ,
I was blissful – not ill at ease -
while five fingers wandered wildly
web-cams recording each wheeze.
I know the spot vibrating,
less what I was dreaming then,
but I strummed with both will and spirit
and an “Oh My God! Amen! ”
Adrenaline flowed not vainly
from heart to crimson palm,
as it coursed both veins and spirit
with little akin to calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow,
like love overcoming strife;
it seem[en]ed orgasmic echo
to tune discordant life.
It linked all perplexèd meanings
into one perfect peace,
and trembled away into silence
although I was loth to cease.
I have sought, and I seek not vainly,
that one G spot divine,
which linked my soul to the organ
so manifestly mine.
La petite morte delightful
strikes shivering molten core,
as this little verse insightful
calls for en corps encore!
It may be that Death's bright angel
will speak in that chord again,
for it’s surely in seventh Heaven
one sings “Oh My God! Amen! ”
Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord
8 April 2007
ROBIN Jonathan 1947_2006 robi3_1338_proc1_0001 PXY_MXX Not at a Loss Chord_Playing one day with my organ
A Lost Chord
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Confessions Pt. 2
Confessions Part II"
Watch this...
[Chorus:]
These are my confessions
Just when I thought I said all I can say
My chick on the side said she got one on the way
These are my confessions
Man I'm thrown and I dont know what to do
I guess I gotta give part 2 of my confessions
If I'm gonna tell it then I gotta tell it all
Damn near cried when I got that phone call
I'm so throwed and I don't know what to do
But to give you part 2 of my confessions
[Verse 1]
Now this gon' be the hardest thing I think I ever had to do
Got me talkin' to myself askin' how I'm gon' tell you
'bout that chick on part 1 I told ya'll I was creepin' with, sleepin' with
Said she's 3 months pregnant and she's keepin' it
The first thing that came to mind was you
Second thing was how do I know if it's mine and is it true
Third thing was me wishin' that I never did what I did
How I ain't ready for no kid and bye bye to our relationship
[Chorus]
[Verse 2]
Sittin here stuck on stupid, tryna figure out
When, what, and how I'mma let this come out of my mouth
Said it ain't gon' be easy
But I need to stop thinkin', contemplatin'
Be a man and get it over with (over with)
I'm ridin' in my whip
Racin' to her place
Talkin' to myself
Preparin' to tell her to her face
She open up the door and didn't want to come near me
I said "one second baby please hear me"
[Chorus]
[Breakdown]
This by far is the hardest thing I think I've ever had to do
To tell you, the woman I love
That I'm having a baby by a woman that I barely even know
I hope you can accept the fact that I'm man enough to tell you this
And hopefully you'll give me another chance
This ain't about my career
This ain't about my life
It's about us
Please
[Chorus]
song performed by Usher
Added by Lucian Velea
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Paradise Lost: Book X
Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood
Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above
Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd
The stonie from thir hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerat grow instead, that sighs now breath'd
Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer
Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight
Then loudest Oratorie: yet thir port
Not of mean suiters, nor important less
Seem'd thir Petition, then when th' ancient Pair
In Fables old, less ancient yet then these,
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha to restore
The Race of Mankind drownd, before the Shrine
Of Themis stood devout. To Heav'n thir prayers
Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious windes
Blow'n vagabond or frustrate: in they passd
Dimentionless through Heav'nly dores; then clad
With incense, where the Golden Altar fum'd,
By thir great Intercessor, came in sight
Before the Fathers Throne: Them the glad Son
Presenting, thus to intercede began.
See Father, what first fruits on Earth are sprung
From thy implanted Grace in Man, these Sighs
And Prayers, which in this Golden Censer, mixt
With Incense, I thy Priest before thee bring,
Fruits of more pleasing savour from thy seed
Sow'n with contrition in his heart, then those
Which his own hand manuring all the Trees
Of Paradise could have produc't, ere fall'n
From innocence. Now therefore bend thine eare
To supplication, heare his sighs though mute;
Unskilful with what words to pray, let mee
Interpret for him, mee his Advocate
And propitiation, all his works on mee
Good or not good ingraft, my Merit those
Shall perfet, and for these my Death shall pay.
Accept me, and in mee from these receave
The smell of peace toward Mankinde, let him live
Before thee reconcil'd, at least his days
Numberd, though sad, till Death, his doom (which I
To mitigate thus plead, not to reverse)
To better life shall yeeld him, where with mee
All my redeemd may dwell in joy and bliss,
Made one with me as I with thee am one.
To whom the Father, without Cloud, serene.
All thy request for Man, accepted Son,
Obtain, all thy request was my Decree:
But longer in that Paradise to dwell,
The Law I gave to Nature him forbids:
Those pure immortal Elements that know
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poem by John Milton
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A Lost Day
Lost is the day in which you have not found fulfillment in any area: work, private, or social.
Lost is the day in which you have not found a reason to smile: not about others, and not about yourself.
Lost is the day in which you have not been of any service: neither to others, nor to yourself.
Lost is the day in which you have not shared some love with another living creature.
Lost is the day in which you did not dedicate one positive thought to yourself.
Lost is the day in which your laziness prevented you to be constructive.
Lost is the day in which you allowed the setbacks and failures of the world to get the best of you.
Lost is the day in which you allowed your jealousy to conquer your compassion.
Lost is the day in which you undertook any act with a devious intention.
Lost is the day in which your mind prevailed your heart.
Lost is the day in which you allowed material gain to determine your decisions.
Lost is the day in which you sought out a prey among the vulnerable.
Lost is the day in which you discarded empathy.
Lost is the day in which you preferred ignorance, through discrimination of any kind, to embracement of equality.
Lost is the day in which you got lost in backbiting and any other kind of meanness directed toward another.
Lost is the day in which you failed to recognize the lesson in even the most dreadful experience.
Lost is the day in which you ignored the voice of your intuition.
Lost is the day in which you did not prioritize the ones you love over material gain.
Lost is the day in which you lowered yourself to hypocrisy.
Lost is the day in which you deliberately brought pain upon another living creature.
Lost is the day in which you allowed hope to get lost.
Lost is the day in which you forgot where you came from.
Lost is the day in which you forget where you're going.
Lost is the day in which you allowed an estrangement between your mind, your body, and your soul.
Lost is the day in which you were not creative.
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poem by Joan Marques
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems
March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan
Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.
Sincerely,
George W. Bush
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.
They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.
The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.
They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.
The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.
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poem by Tom Zart
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The Borough. Letter IV: Sects And Professions In Religion
'SECTS in Religion?'--Yes of every race
We nurse some portion in our favour'd place;
Not one warm preacher of one growing sect
Can say our Borough treats him with neglect:
Frequent as fashions they with us appear,
And you might ask, 'how think we for the year?'
They come to us as riders in a trade,
And with much art exhibit and persuade.
Minds are for Sects of various kinds decreed,
As diff'rent soils are formed for diff'rent seed;
Some when converted sigh in sore amaze,
And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze;
Others again will change to each extreme,
They know not why--as hurried in a dream;
Unstable, they, like water, take all forms,
Are quick and stagnant; have their calms and storms;
High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow,
Then muddily they move debased and slow;
Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow.
Yet none the cool and prudent Teacher prize.
On him ther dote who wakes their ectasies;
With passions ready primed such guide they meet,
And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat;
'Tis he who wakes the nameless strong desire,
The melting rapture and the glowing fire;
'Tis he who pierces deep the tortured breast,
And stirs the terrors never more to rest.
Opposed to these we have a prouder kind,
Rash without heat, and without raptures blind;
These our Glad Tidings unconcern'd peruse,
Search without awe, and without fear refuse;
The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ,
Call forth their spleen, and exercise their wit;
Respect from these nor saints nor martyrs gain,
The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain:
And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view,
Of that which must be tried, and doubtless may be true.
Friends of our Faith we have, whom doubts like these,
And keen remarks, and bold objections please;
They grant such doubts have weaker minds oppress'd,
Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest.
'But still,' they cry, 'let none their censures spare.
They but confirm the glorious hopes we share;
From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies,
With five-fold triumph sacred Truth shall rise.'
Yes! I allow, so Truth shall stand at last,
And gain fresh glory by the conflict past: -
As Solway-Moss (a barren mass and cold,
Death to the seed, and poison to the fold),
The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid,
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poem by George Crabbe
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Canto the First
I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Courtship of Miles Standish
I
MILES STANDISH
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.
Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Coastal Confessions
Well I'm a tidal pool explorer
From the days of my misspent youth.
I believe that down on the beach
Where the sea gulls preach
Is where the Chinese buried the truth.
So I dig in the sand
with my misguided hands
and if I dig deep enough
Hell I just might dig it up.
Talking about treasure
Talking about pleasure
Talking about love
Now I'm a reader of the night sky
And a singer of inordinate tunes.
That's how I float across time
Living way past my prime
Like a long lost baby's balloon.
So I hang on to the string
Work that whole gravity thing
But when my space ship goes pop
Back to the earth I will drop
Into the sea
Or the limbs of a tree
Or the wings of my love
And I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Maybe invent me a story or two
I've got coastal confessions to make
How bout you
How bout you
They say that time is like a river
And stories are the key to the past
But now I'm stuck in between
Here at my typing machine
Trying to come up with some words that will last.
It's so easy to see that we live history
And if I just find the beat
I know I land on my feet
I always do
Hadn't got a clue
Does it comes from above.
And I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Maybe invent me a story or two
I've got coastal confessions to make
How bout you
How bout you
Let's go to church, Sonny...
(Bridge)
So bless me father, yes I have sinned.
Given the chance I'll probably do it again
I don't need absolution
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song performed by Jimmy Buffett
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Idols
An Ode
Luce intellettual, piena d' amore
Prelude
Lo, the spirit of a pulsing star within a stone
Born of earth, sprung from night!
Prisoned with the profound fires of the light
That lives like all the tongues of eloquence
Locked in a speech unknown!
The crystal, cold and hard as innocence,
Immures the flame; and yet as if it knew
Raptures or pangs it could not but betray,
As if the light could feel changes of blood and breath
And all--but--human quiverings of the sense,
Throbs of a sudden rose, a frosty blue,
Shoot thrilling in its ray,
Like the far longings of the intellect
Restless in clouding clay.
Who has confined the Light? Who has held it a slave,
Sold and bought, bought and sold?
Who has made of it a mystery to be doled,
Or trophy, to awe with legendary fire,
Where regal banners wave?
And still into the dark it sends Desire.
In the heart's darkness it sows cruelties.
The bright jewel becomes a beacon to the vile,
A lodestar to corruption, envy's own:
Soiled with blood, fought for, clutched at; this world's prize,
Captive Authority. Oh, the star is stone
To all that outward sight,
Yet still, like truth that none has ever used,
Lives lost in its own light.
Troubled I fly. O let me wander again at will
(Far from cries, far from these
Hard blindnesses and frozen certainties!)
Where life proceeds in vastness unaware
And stirs profound and still:
Where leafing thoughts at shy touch of the air
Tremble, and gleams come seeking to be mine,
Or dart, like suddenly remembered youth,
Like the ache of love, a light, lost, found, and lost again.
Surely in the dusk some messenger was there!
But, haunted in the heart, I thirst, I pine.--
Oh, how can truth be truth
Except I taste it close and sweet and sharp
As an apple to the tooth?
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poem by Robert Laurence Binyon
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A Letter From Li Po
Fanfare of northwest wind, a bluejay wind
announces autumn, and the equinox
rolls back blue bays to a far afternoon.
Somewhere beyond the Gorge Li Po is gone,
looking for friendship or an old love's sleeve
or writing letters to his children, lost,
and to his children's children, and to us.
What was his light? of lamp or moon or sun?
Say that it changed, for better or for worse,
sifted by leaves, sifted by snow; on mulberry silk
a slant of witch-light; on the pure text
a slant of genius; emptying mind and heart
for winecups and more winecups and more words.
What was his time? Say that it was a change,
but constant as a changing thing may be,
from chicory's moon-dark blue down the taut scale
to chicory's tenderest pink, in a pink field
such as imagination dreams of thought.
But of the heart beneath the winecup moon
the tears that fell beneath the winecup moon
for children lost, lost lovers, and lost friends,
what can we say but that it never ends?
Even for us it never ends, only begins.
Yet to spell down the poem on her page,
margining her phrases, parsing forth
the sevenfold prism of meaning, up the scale
from chicory pink to blue, is to assume
Li Po himself: as he before assumed
the poets and the sages who were his.
Like him, we too have eaten of the word:
with him are somewhere lost beyond the Gorge:
and write, in rain, a letter to lost children,
a letter long as time and brief as love.
II
And yet not love, not only love. Not caritas
or only that. Nor the pink chicory love,
deep as it may be, even to moon-dark blue,
in which the dragon of his meaning flew
for friends or children lost, or even
for the beloved horse, for Li Po's horse:
not these, in the self's circle so embraced:
too near, too dear, for pure assessment: no,
a letter crammed and creviced, crannied full,
storied and stored as the ripe honeycomb
with other faith than this. As of sole pride
and holy loneliness, the intrinsic face
worn by the always changing shape between
end and beginning, birth and death.
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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Growth of Love
1
They that in play can do the thing they would,
Having an instinct throned in reason's place,
--And every perfect action hath the grace
Of indolence or thoughtless hardihood--
These are the best: yet be there workmen good
Who lose in earnestness control of face,
Or reckon means, and rapt in effort base
Reach to their end by steps well understood.
Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the pains
Of one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,
--Even as a painter breathlessly who stains
His scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve--
Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,
Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.
2
For thou art mine: and now I am ashamed
To have uséd means to win so pure acquist,
And of my trembling fear that might have misst
Thro' very care the gold at which I aim'd;
And am as happy but to hear thee named,
As are those gentle souls by angels kisst
In pictures seen leaving their marble cist
To go before the throne of grace unblamed.
Nor surer am I water hath the skill
To quench my thirst, or that my strength is freed
In delicate ordination as I will,
Than that to be myself is all I need
For thee to be most mine: so I stand still,
And save to taste my joy no more take heed.
3
The whole world now is but the minister
Of thee to me: I see no other scheme
But universal love, from timeless dream
Waking to thee his joy's interpreter.
I walk around and in the fields confer
Of love at large with tree and flower and stream,
And list the lark descant upon my theme,
Heaven's musical accepted worshipper.
Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud
'Twixt things and me is quash'd in our new truce;
And nature now dearly with thee endued
No more in shame ponders her old excuse,
But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,
So kindly hath she grown to her new use.
4
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poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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The Golden Legend: IV. The Road To Hirschau
PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE, _with their attendants, on
horseback._
_Elsie._ Onward and onward the highway runs
to the distant city, impatiently bearing
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of
hate, of doing and daring!
_Prince Henry._ This life of ours is a wild aeolian
harp of many a joyous strain,
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail,
as of souls in pain.
_Elsie._ Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart
that aches and bleeds with the stigma
Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can
comprehend its dark enigma.
_Prince Henry._ Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure
with little care of what may betide;
Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon
that rides by an angel's side?
_Elsie._ All the hedges are white with dust, and
the great dog under the creaking wain
Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the
horses toil and strain
_Prince Henry._ Now they stop at the wayside inn,
and the wagoner laughs with the landlord's daughter,
While out of the dripping trough the horses distend
their leathern sides with water.
_Elsie._ All through life there are wayside inns,
where man may refresh his soul with love;
Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed
by springs from above.
_Prince Henry._ Yonder, where rises the cross of
stone, our journey along the highway ends,
And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the
broad green valley descends.
_Elsie._ I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten
road with its dust and heat;
The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer
under our horses' feet.
(_They turn down a green lane._)
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Pharsalia - Book V: The Oracle. The Mutiny. The Storm
Thus had the smiles of Fortune and her frowns
Brought either chief to Macedonian shores
Still equal to his foe. From cooler skies
Sank Atlas' daughters down, and Haemus' slopes
Were white with winter, and the day drew nigh
Devoted to the god who leads the months,
And marking with new names the book of Rome,
When came the Fathers from their distant posts
By both the Consuls to Epirus called
Ere yet the year was dead: a foreign land
Obscure received the magistrates of Rome,
And heard their high debate. No warlike camp
This; for the Consul's and the Praetor's axe
Proclaimed the Senate-house; and Magnus sat
One among many, and the state was all.
When all were silent, from his lofty seat
Thus Lentulus began, while stern and sad
The Fathers listened: 'If your hearts still beat
With Latian blood, and if within your breasts
Still lives your fathers' vigour, look not now
On this strange land that holds us, nor enquire
Your distance from the captured city: yours
This proud assembly, yours the high command
In all that comes. Be this your first decree,
Whose truth all peoples and all kings confess;
Be this the Senate. Let the frozen wain
Demand your presence, or the torrid zone
Wherein the day and night with equal tread
For ever march; still follows in your steps
The central power of Imperial Rome.
When flamed the Capitol with fires of Gaul
When Veii held Camillus, there with him
Was Rome, nor ever though it changed its clime
Your order lost its rights. In Caesar's hands
Are sorrowing houses and deserted homes,
Laws silent for a space, and forums closed
In public fast. His Senate-house beholds
Those Fathers only whom from Rome it drove,
While Rome was full. Of that high order all
Not here, are exiles. Ignorant of war,
Its crimes and bloodshed, through long years of peace,
Ye fled its outburst: now in session all
Are here assembled. See ye how the gods
Weigh down Italia's loss by all the world
Thrown in the other scale? Illyria's wave
Rolls deep upon our foes: in Libyan wastes
Is fallen their Curio, the weightier part
Of Caesar's senate! Lift your standards, then,
Spur on your fates and prove your hopes to heaven.
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poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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Stranger In My Own Home Town
(words & music by percy mayfield)
Im like a stranger
Like a stranger in my own home town
Im like a stranger
Like a stranger in my own home town
My so called friends stopped being friendly
Oh but you cant keep a good man down
Oh no, cant get him down
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago
But my home town wont accept me
Just dont feel welcome here no more
My home town wont accept me
Just dont feel welcome here no more
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago, yes I did
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago
But my home town wont accept me
Just dont feel welcome here no more
Im like a stranger, like a stranger in my own home town
Yeah, Im like a stranger, like a stranger in my own home town
My so called friends stopped being friendly
Oh but you cant keep a good man down
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago, yes I did
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago
My so called friends stopped being friendly
Oh but you cant keep a good man down
Im like a stranger, like a stranger in my own home town
Im like a stranger, like a stranger in my own home town
My so called friends stopped being friendly
Oh but you cant keep a good man down
song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stranger In My Own Home Town (Undubbed Master)
I'm like a stranger
Like a stranger in my own home town
I'm like a stranger
Like a stranger in my own home town
My so called friends stopped being friendly
Oh but you can't keep a good man down
Oh no, can't get him down
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago
But my home town won't accept me
Just don't feel welcome here no more
My home town won't accept me
Just don't feel welcome here no more
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago, yes I did
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago
But my home town won't accept me
Just don't feel welcome here no more
I'm like a stranger, like a stranger in my own home town
Yeah, I'm like a stranger, like a stranger in my own home town
My so called friends stopped being friendly
Oh but you can't keep a good man down
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago, yes I did
I came home with good intentions
About 5 or 6 years ago
My so called friends stopped being friendly
Oh but you can't keep a good man down
I'm like a stranger, like a stranger in my own home town
I'm like a stranger, like a stranger in my own home town
My so called friends stopped being friendly
Oh but you can't keep a good man down
song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Best Of Intentions
I had big plans for our future
Said I'd give you the whole world somehow
I tried makin' good on that promise
Thought I'd be so much further by now
Never could build you a castle
Even though you're the queen of my heart
But I've had the best of intentions from the start
Now some people think I'm a loser
'Cause I seldom get things right
But you make me feel like a winner
When you wrap me in your arms so tight
Please tell me you will remember
No matter how much I do wrong
That I had the best of intentions all along
Chorus:
I gave you a ring
And I promised you things
I always thought we'd do
But my best-laid plans
Slipped right through my hands
To show my love for you
And if you could read my heart
Then you'd know without exception
It was all with the best of intentions
Chorus
So here I am asking forgiveness
And praying that you'll understand
Don't think I take you for granted
Girl, I know just how lucky I am
Though you deserve so much better
You won't find devotion more true
'Cause I've had the best of intentions
Girl, I've had the best of intentions
Yes, I've had the best of intentions loving you
song performed by Travis Tritt
Added by Lucian Velea
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