Hurrying has no blessing.
Kenyan proverbs
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Related quotes
Crazy-mazy Lee! Buzzy-fuzzy Bee Lost in Marathon Battle!
Flash it back, flash it back! Many moons ago - Sun is the god,
Stars are angels yet the moon is the lord;
Nature is the empire of plants and flowers.....
Trees and fruits danced in nature’s showers!
Belting along, bucketing along in a long race,
Hurrying up and zipping up with a weather beaten face.
Oho! Things connected to original universe are supreme,
Yahoo! Flowing brooks, waves in the sea instilled hope in him,
Nature comforted primitive clan;
The same cosmos is he! Yet destroyed by the advanced man.
Belting along, bucketing along in a long race,
Hurrying up and zipping up with a weather beaten face.
Oops! Sunday changed to Monday,
Monday to Saturday – human live changes every day;
Bingo! Hamlets changed to Towns in the same way!
Towns to cities, everything changes for a new-way;
Belting along, bucketing along in a long race,
Hurrying up and zipping up with a weather beaten face.
By Jove! There is no time to appreciate the god's creation
And comprehend sky’s commotion in the life of apprehension.
Holystone! Holy Man trapped in artificiality, lost his future!
Far away from nature, is this human creature!
Belting along, bucketing along in a long race,
Hurrying up and zipping up with a weather beaten face.
Traveling to the east, flying to the west,
sailing on the water and locomotion on the motor,
Worst at best, he is Bugging the nature for his best,
Man stop hurting nature and Quit harming nature!
Belting along, bucketing along in a long race,
Hurrying up and zipping up with a weather beaten face.
In the world, where east meets west,
You and I are told work without rest,
A poor life disc if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare......
Belting along, bucketing along in a long race,
Hurrying up and zipping up with a weather beaten face.
Eating fast food in hurry-bury!
Dating and rating with money in a scurry
Leaves you and me in a worry,
Pushes hin in to a corner, what a sad story!
Belting along, bucketing along in a long race,
Hurrying up and zipping up with a weather beaten face.
Lo! Get spirit from Dazzling sun! soon,
[...] Read more
poem by Harindhar Reddy
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The
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
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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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
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 4
For God has given us a language of monosyllables to prevent our clipping.
For a toad enjoys a finer prospect than another creature to compensate his lack.
Tho' toad I am the object of man's hate.
Yet better am I than a reprobate. who has the worst of prospects.
For there are stones, whose constituent particles are little toads.
For the spiritual musick is as follows.
For there is the thunder-stop, which is the voice of God direct.
For the rest of the stops are by their rhimes.
For the trumpet rhimes are sound bound, soar more and the like.
For the Shawm rhimes are lawn fawn moon boon and the like.
For the harp rhimes are sing ring string and the like.
For the cymbal rhimes are bell well toll soul and the like.
For the flute rhimes are tooth youth suit mute and the like.
For the dulcimer rhimes are grace place beat heat and the like.
For the Clarinet rhimes are clean seen and the like.
For the Bassoon rhimes are pass, class and the like. God be gracious to Baumgarden.
For the dulcimer are rather van fan and the like and grace place &c are of the bassoon.
For beat heat, weep peep &c are of the pipe.
For every word has its marrow in the English tongue for order and for delight.
For the dissyllables such as able table &c are the fiddle rhimes.
For all dissyllables and some trissyllables are fiddle rhimes.
For the relations of words are in pairs first.
For the relations of words are sometimes in oppositions.
For the relations of words are according to their distances from the pair.
For there be twelve cardinal virtues the gifts of the twelve sons of Jacob.
For Reuben is Great. God be gracious to Lord Falmouth.
[...] Read more
poem by Christopher Smart
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Mrs Vandebilt
Down in the jungle living in a tent
You dont use money you dont pay rent
You dont ever know the time
But you dont mind
Ho hey ho...
When your light is on the blink
You never think of worrying
Whats the use of worrying?
When your bus has left the stop
Youd better drop your hurrying
Whats the use of hurrying?
Leave me alone mrs vandebilt
Ive got plenty of time of my own
Whats the use of worrying?
Whats the use of hurrying?
Whats the use of anything?
Ho hey ho...
Whats the use of worrying?
Whats the use of hurrying?
Whats the use of anything?
Ho hey ho...
When your pile is one the wane
You dont complain of robbery
Run away dont bother me
Whats the use of worrying?
Whats the use of anything?
Leave me alone mrs washington
Ive done plenty of time on my own
Whats the use of worrying?
Whats the use of hurrying? (no use!)
Whats the use of anything?
Ho hey ho...
song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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Once I Was
Once
you clapped
for me.
Now
you clap
for another.
Once
I was
your luck.
Now
your luck
is gone.
Now
your luck
is lost.
Once
I was your
Blessing.
Now
your blessing
is gone.
Now
your blessing
is lost.
Once
a blessing
in disguise.
Now
a blessing
denied.
Soon
your blessing
is leaving.
Soon
a blessing
in departure.
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Blessing In Disguise
Are you lonely?
Are you Crying?
Are those teardrops in your eyes
is it more blues, is is bad news,
is it a curse?, or a blessing in disguise.
Did you leave him?, do you love him?
Have you said your, said your last goodbyes
Is it over, hey
are you sorry?
Could it be a blessing in disguise
It's the scars that make you stronger
It's the hard times that make you rise,
It's the sweet things that only time bring, yeah
Gonna ride back a blessing in disguise
Ooooooooohhhhh!
Clouds roll by, and bring the rain
tears wiped dry to ease the pain
oh!
Are you lonely?
Are you Crying?
Are those teardrops in your eyes
is it more blues, is is bad news,
is it a curse?, or a blessing in disguise.
Is it a curse or a blessing in disguise
Is it a curse or a blessing in disguise
Is it a curse or a blessing in disguise
song performed by Bryan Adams
Added by Lucian Velea
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Even Me
Written by roberta martin / fanny crosby
Lord I hear of showers of blessings
Thou art scattering full and free
Showers the thirsty souls refreshing
Let some drops now fall on me
Pass me not oh gentle saviour
Sinful though my heart may be
I am longing for your favor
Whilst thou art blessing
Oh lord
Come on and bless me
Even me lord
Even me
Even me lord
Even me
Let some drops
Let some drops
Whilst thou art blessing
Oh lord
Stop by and bless me
Oh stop by lord
Yes and bless me
Bless me
Protect me
Direct me
Even me lord
I need you
To come on down
And bless me
Sinful though my heart may be
I need you to come down
And bless me
Yes
While
Whilst thou art blessing
While you are in the blessing business today
Not tomorrow
I need you today
Yeah
Bless me
Protect me
Direct me
Even me lord
To stop by
Just drop by
Oh lord lord lord lord lord lord lord
Bless me
Even me
Even me lord
Yeah
[...] Read more
song performed by Yolanda Adams
Added by Lucian Velea
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Even Me
Written by roberta martin / fanny crosby
Lord I hear of showers of blessings
Thou art scattering full and free
Showers the thirsty souls refreshing
Let some drops now fall on me
Pass me not oh gentle saviour
Sinful though my heart may be
I am longing for your favor
Whilst thou art blessing
Oh lord
Come on and bless me
Even me lord
Even me
Even me lord
Even me
Let some drops
Let some drops
Whilst thou art blessing
Oh lord
Stop by and bless me
Oh stop by lord
Yes and bless me
Bless me
Protect me
Direct me
Even me lord
I need you
To come on down
And bless me
Sinful though my heart may be
I need you to come down
And bless me
Yes
While
Whilst thou art blessing
While you are in the blessing business today
Not tomorrow
I need you today
Yeah
Bless me
Protect me
Direct me
Even me lord
To stop by
Just drop by
Oh lord lord lord lord lord lord lord
Bless me
Even me
Even me lord
Yeah
[...] Read more
song performed by Yolanda Adams
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Dangerous Pastime
Is it a blessing,
To have nine lives?
Is it a blessing,
To Know no lies?
Is it a blessing,
To seek the Truth?
Is it a blessing,
To lose one's youth?
Is it a blessing,
To think these thoughts,
As Death takes sips,
From our life draughts?
Is it a blessing,
To hold her hand,
As it slowly fades,
And turns to sand?
Is it a blessing,
To die with her,
Or live on still,
A lonely cur?
And do my thoughts,
Yet waste my time?
And do your thoughts,
Still coincide?
And shall we walk,
And wish to fly,
And ask the skies,
For just more time?
Shall we yet wait
Your hand in mine?
And listen still
For a reply?
Or shall we live,
Woman and man,
And spend our time,
The best we can?
Curiosity killed the cat,
But the cat has nine lives.
Eight left,
what's next,
[...] Read more
poem by William Blake Beckett
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The Doom Of A City
I
FROM out the house I crept,
The house which long had caged my homeless life:
The mighty City in vast silence slept,
Dreaming away its tumult, toil, and strife:
But sleep and sleep's rich dreams were not for me,
For me, accurst, whom terror and the pain
Of baffled longings, and starved misery,
And such remorse as sears the breast,
And hopeless doubt which gnaws the brain
Till wildest action blind and vain
Would be more welcome than supine unrest,
Drove forth as one possest
To leave my kind and dare the desert sea;
To drift alone and far,
Dubious of any port or isle to gain,
Ignorant of chart and star,
Upon that infinite and mysterious main
Which wastes in foam against our shore;
Whose moans and murmurs evermore,
Insupportably sublime,
Haunting the crowded tumult of our Time,
Suspend its hurrying breath -
Like whispers of sad ghosts and spirits free
From worlds beyond our life and death,
The unknown awful realm where broods Eternity.
II
I paced through desert streets, beneath the gleam
Of lamps that lit my trembling life alone;
Like lamps sepulchral which had slowly burned
Through sunless ages, deep and undiscerned,
Within a buried City's maze of stone;
Whose peopling corpses, while they ever dream
Of birth and death - of complicated life
Whose days and months and years
Are wild with laughters, groans, and tears,
As with themselves and Doom
They wage, with loss or gain, incessant strife,
Indeed, lie motionless within their tomb,
Lie motionless and never laugh or weep,
All still, and buried deep
For ever in death's sleep,
While burn the quiet lamps amidst the breathless gloom.
III
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
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Tamar
I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.
The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Prelude, Book 1: Childhood and School-time
--Was it for this
That one, the fairest of all Rivers, lov'd
To blend his murmurs with my Nurse's song,
And from his alder shades and rocky falls,
And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice
That flow'd along my dreams? For this, didst Thou,
O Derwent! travelling over the green Plains
Near my 'sweet Birthplace', didst thou, beauteous Stream
Make ceaseless music through the night and day
Which with its steady cadence, tempering
Our human waywardness, compos'd my thoughts
To more than infant softness, giving me,
Among the fretful dwellings of mankind,
A knowledge, a dim earnest, of the calm
That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.
When, having left his Mountains, to the Towers
Of Cockermouth that beauteous River came,
Behind my Father's House he pass'd, close by,
Along the margin of our Terrace Walk.
He was a Playmate whom we dearly lov'd.
Oh! many a time have I, a five years' Child,
A naked Boy, in one delightful Rill,
A little Mill-race sever'd from his stream,
Made one long bathing of a summer's day,
Bask'd in the sun, and plunged, and bask'd again
Alternate all a summer's day, or cours'd
Over the sandy fields, leaping through groves
Of yellow grunsel, or when crag and hill,
The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height,
Were bronz'd with a deep radiance, stood alone
Beneath the sky, as if I had been born
On Indian Plains, and from my Mother's hut
Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport,
A naked Savage, in the thunder shower.
Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up
Foster'd alike by beauty and by fear;
Much favour'd in my birthplace, and no less
In that beloved Vale to which, erelong,
I was transplanted. Well I call to mind
('Twas at an early age, ere I had seen
Nine summers) when upon the mountain slope
The frost and breath of frosty wind had snapp'd
The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy
To wander half the night among the Cliffs
And the smooth Hollows, where the woodcocks ran
Along the open turf. In thought and wish
That time, my shoulder all with springes hung,
I was a fell destroyer. On the heights
[...] Read more
poem by William Wordsworth
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Enoch Arden
Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.
Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflow'd, or following up
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily wash'd away.
A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children play'd at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
`This is my house and this my little wife.'
`Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
And say she would be little wife to both.
But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Moat House
PART I
I
UNDER the shade of convent towers,
Where fast and vigil mark the hours,
From childhood into youth there grew
A maid as fresh as April dew,
And sweet as May's ideal flowers,
Brighter than dawn in wind-swept skies,
Like children's dreams most pure, unwise,
Yet with a slumbering soul-fire too,
That sometimes shone a moment through
Her wondrous unawakened eyes.
The nuns, who loved her coldly, meant
The twig should grow as it was bent;
That she, like them, should watch youth's bier,
Should watch her day-dreams disappear,
And go the loveless way they went.
The convent walls were high and grey;
How could Love hope to find a way
Into that citadel forlorn,
Where his dear name was put to scorn,
Or called a sinful thing to say?
Yet Love did come; what need to tell
Of flowers downcast, that sometimes fell
Across her feet when dreamily
She paced, with unused breviary,
Down paths made still with August's spell--
Of looks cast through the chapel grate,
Of letters helped by Love and Fate,
That to cold fingers did not come
But lay within a warmer home,
Upon her heart inviolate?
Somehow he loved her--she loved him:
Then filled her soul's cup to the brim,
And all her daily life grew bright
With such a flood of rosy light
As turned the altar candles dim.
[...] Read more
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Blessings Of Life
rain good friend to soil
your blessing is soft moist earth
rain good friend to plants
your blessing is fruitful growing life
rain good friend to animals
your blessing is healthy vibrant diversity
rain good friend to dry land
your blessing is lakes streams rivers
rain everywhere I rapture look
yours blessing bestows beauty
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Three prayers during spring
I. I did not expect this early spring
I did not expect that after this severe winter
that destroyed flowers, grass and plants
that this early
without even rain falling, showering down
spring would come in all this glory
with trees blossoming in bright white and pink colours
plants flowering
unfurling and to be again really living.
I did not expect these blessings,
in life’s early winter
that even though I am constrained,
my career is falling to pieces
and not by my own making
my words, my verses
are coming to their own
and this has brought me
to see that God is truly great
that even the seasons of life
is in His hand.
II. My buds are form Your hand
I thank you Lord that you by grace are blessing me
causing my slender flowers to grow,
that you let my words pour down like rain
hanging flooding over in bell like strings
in internodes, joints of roses
in a pure white colouring which catches the eye
that by love you delegate me as the one
who is worth to blossom in your shade.
I thank you Lord that you by grace are blessing me
not like others of my kind, but hanging
with odourless buds opening
in internodes, joints of roses
in strings upon strings
and although some people want to prune me of blunt,
that you let my words pour down like rain
although people hit in nails
ridicule, hold my words, my verses in parody
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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Canto the Third
I.
Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted, - not as now we part,
But with a hope. -
Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by,
When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
II.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam, to sail
Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.
III.
In my youth’s summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O’er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life - where not a flower appears.
IV.
Since my young days of passion - joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling,
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness - so it fling
Forgetfulness around me - it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
V.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tannhauser
The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering
Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours,
At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight,
Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard,
Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed
With apprehension and rare utterance
Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise
Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light,
And large repose, the peaceful valley lay,
In the late splendor of the afternoon,
And level sunbeams lit the serious face
Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west,
Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs,
Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms,
That in the distance loomed as soft and fair
And purple as their shadows on the grass.
The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air,
Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in,
Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light.
The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home,
In the near meadow, reverently knelt,
And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast,
Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heard
The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight,
Unmindful of the sacred hour announced,
Disdainful or unconscious, held his course.
'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight,
Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!'
He murmured bitterly beneath his breath.
'Were I a pagan, riding to contend
For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal,
What fire of inspiration, would I sing
The praises of the gods! How may my lyre
Glorify these whose very life I doubt?
The world is governed by one cruel God,
Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ,
Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold,
They give us for a heaven of living gods,
Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song;
A creed of suffering and despair, walled in
On every side by brazen boundaries,
That limit the soul's vision and her hope
To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven.
Yea, I am lost already,-even now
Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts.
O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?'
He raised his wan face to the faded skies,
Now shadowing into twilight; no response
Came from their sunless heights; no miracle,
As in the ancient days of answering gods.
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poem by Emma Lazarus
Added by Poetry Lover
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto III.
I.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
And then we parted,--not as now we part,
But with a hope.--
Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
II.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, or tempest's breath prevail.
III.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life,--where not a flower appears.
IV.
Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling;
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling
Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
V.
He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
[...] Read more