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I would never do anything just for spite.

quote by Justin Timberlake
Added by Lucian Velea
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Welcome Vicissitude

In spite of big bribes given to me,
I understand this is just temporary.
Mindfulness! it brightens my brain.
Dare to welcome any gain.

In spite of being destroyed in soil,
I can stand with stars in my eyes.
Mindfulness! it's my secret suit.
Dare to welcome any lose.

In spite of pukka popularity,
I understand this won't be eternally.
Mindfulness! it directs not to be vain.
Dare to welcome any fame.

In spite of lowest position,
I can stand with brave actions.
Mindfulness! it shows how to maintain.
Dare to welcome any defame.

In spite of speaking in honor of me,
I understand I shouldn't respond conceitedly.
Mindfulness! it's the best way to face.
Dare to welcome any praise.

In spite of gossip to me,
I can stand without depravity.
Mindfulness! it's trump card for my aim.
Dare to welcome any blame.

In spite of typical tycoon,
I understand all will dissolve soon.
Mindfulness! it's my fortune-calculator.
Dare to welcome any pleasure.

In spite of abysmal poverty,
I can stand with honesty.
Mindfulness! it guides me to tame.
Dare to welcome any pain.

poem by Aung Si Myanmar
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In Spite Of All The Danger

In spite of all the danger,
In spite of all that may be
I'll do anything for you,
Anything you want me to,
If you'll be true to me.
In spite of all the heartache,
That you may cause me,
I'll do anything for you,
Anything you want me to,
If you'll be true to me.
I'll look after you
Like I've never done before.
I'll keep all the others
From knocking at your door.
In spite of all the danger,
In spite of all that may be,
I'll do anything for you,
Anything you want me to,
If you'll be true to me.
In spite of all the heartache
That you may cause me,
I'll do anything for you,
Anything you want me to,
If you'll be true to me.
I'll do anything for you,
Anything you want me to,
If you'll be true to me

song performed by Beatles
Added by Lucian Velea
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Firewalker

My hopes are like embers lying around inside a firebed and
Your mind is a firewalker, it steps on them like they are dead but
I can grow
In spite of all you know
You might not recognize me tomorrow
Yes I can change
In spite of all they say
Become something strange and beautiful
Like joy, like joy
Me, I'm like a wild flame that catches on whatever's near but
Your mind is a firewalker, it sets its course and never veers but
I can grow
In spite of all you know
You might not recognize me tomorrow
Yes I can change
In spite of all they say
Become something strange and beautiful
Like joy, like joy
Take offers from every side and give my attentions about anywhere well
Do I recognize my actions, I look like I'm so unaware like
I don't care
But I can grow
In spite of all you know
You might not recognize me tomorrow
Yes I can change
In spite of all they say
Become something strange and beautiful
Like joy, like joy

song performed by Liz Phair
Added by Lucian Velea
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Wish

What would it be like if,
We forgot all our woes,
What would it be like if,
We still had our pure souls,
There's little chance we'll know,
But together there's hope,
So take my shaking hand,
And we'll make memories,
We will make time stand still,
We will have our fears killed,
I won't spite the purest,
You won't spite the fairest,
We will claim what we will,
We will be soon fulfilled,
We won't spite the dearest,
Because it will be us,
You won't spite the finest,
I won't spite the richest,
We won't spite the bravest,
Because it will be us,
As long as we don't wake,
And break our cherished spell,
As long as we can make,
Seeds of heartache dispel.

poem by Christian Lacdael
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Despite

The terrible things that the Governor
Of Kansas says alarm me;
And yet somehow we won the war
In spite of the Regular Army.

The things they say of the old N.G.
Are bitter and cruel and hard;
And yet we walloped the enemy
In spite of the National Guard.

Too late, too late, was our work begun;
Too late were our forces sent;
And yet we smeared the horrible Hun
In spite of the President.

"What a frightful flivver this Baker is!"
Cried many a senator;
And yet we handed the Kaiser his
In spite of the Sec. of War.

A sadly incompetent, sinful crew
Is that of the recent fight;
And yet we put it across, we do,
In spite of a lot of spite.

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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The Song Of Old Joe Swallow

When I was up the country in the rough and early days,
I used to work along ov Jimmy Nowlett's bullick-drays;
Then the reelroad wasn't heered on, an' the bush was wild an' strange,
An' we useter draw the timber from the saw-pits in the range --
Load provisions for the stations, an' we'd travel far and slow
Through the plains an' 'cross the ranges in the days of long ago.

Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow,
An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go,
To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin',
Nigger, digger, roarin', rovin'
Days o' long ago.

Once me and Jimmy Nowlett loaded timber for the town,
But we hadn't gone a dozen mile before the rain come down,
An' me an' Jimmy Nowlett an' the bullicks an' the dray
Was cut off on some risin' ground while floods around us lay;
An' we soon run short of tucker an' terbacca, which was bad,
An' pertaters dipped in honey was the only tuck we had.

An' half our bullicks perished when the drought was on the land,
An' the burnin' heat that dazzles as it dances on the sand;
When the sun-baked clay an' gravel paves for miles the burnin' creeks,
An' at ev'ry step yer travel there a rottin' carcase reeks --
But we pulled ourselves together, for we never used ter know
What a feather bed was good for in those days o' long ago.

But in spite ov barren ridges an' in spite ov mud an' heat,
An' dust that browned the bushes when it rose from bullicks' feet,
An' in spite ov cold and chilblains when the bush was white with frost,
An' in spite of muddy water where the burnin' plain was crossed,
An' in spite of modern progress, and in spite of all their blow,
'Twas a better land to live in, in the days o' long ago.

When the frosty moon was shinin' o'er the ranges like a lamp,
An' a lot of bullick-drivers was a-campin' on the camp,
When the fire was blazin' cheery an' the pipes was drawin' well,
Then our songs we useter chorus an' our yarns we useter tell;
An' we'd talk ov lands we come from, and ov chaps we useter know,
For there always was behind us OTHER days o' long ago.

Ah, them early days was ended when the reelroad crossed the plain,
But in dreams I often tramp beside the bullick-team again:
Still we pauses at the shanty just to have a drop er cheer,
Still I feels a kind ov pleasure when the campin'-ground is near;
Still I smells the old tarpaulin me an' Jimmy useter throw
O'er the timber-truck for shelter in the days ov long ago.

I have been a-driftin' back'ards with the changes ov the land,
An' if I spoke ter bullicks now they wouldn't understand,

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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The Apollyonists - Canto 1

I
Of men, nay beasts; worse, monsters; worst of all,
Incarnate fiends, English Italianate;
Of priests, O no! mass-priests, priests-cannibal,
Who make their Maker, chew, grind, feed, grow fat
With flesh divine; of that great city's fall,
Which born, nursed, grown with blood, the earth's empress sat,
Cleansed, spoused to Christ, yet back to whoredom fell,
None can enough, something I fain would tell.
How black are quenched lights! Fallen heaven's a double hell.

II.
Great Lord, who graspest all creatures in Thy hand,
Who in Thy lap layest down proud Thetis' head,
And bindest her white curled locks in cauls of sand,
Who gatherest in Thy fist and layest in bed
The sturdy winds, who groundest the floating land
On fleeting seas, and over all hast spread
Heaven's brooding wings to foster all below,
Who makest the sun without all fire to glow,
The spring of heat and light, the moon to ebb and flow,

III.
Thou world's sole Pilot, who in this poor isle
(So small a bottom) hast embarked Thy light,
And glorious Self and steerest it safe, the while
Hoarse drumming seas and winds' loud trumpets fight,
Who causest stormy heavens here only smile,
Steer me, poor ship-boy, steer my course aright;
Breathe, gracious Spirit, breathe gently on these lays;
Be Thou my compass, needle to my ways;
Thy glorious work's my freight; my haven is Thy praise.

IV.
Thou purple whore, mounted on scarlet beast,
Gorged with the flesh, drunk with the blood of saints,
Whose amorous golden cup and charmed feast
All earthly kings, all earthly men attaints,
See thy live pictures, see thine own, thy best,
Thy dearest sons, and cheer thy heart that faints.
Hark! thou saved island, hark! and never cease
To praise that hand which held thy head in peace;
Else hadst thou swum as deep in blood as now in seas.

V.
The cloudy night came whirling up the sky
And scatt'ring round the dews, which first she drew
From milky poppies, loads and drowsy eye.
The wat'ry moon, cold Vesper, and his crew
Light up their tapers; to the sun they fly

[...] Read more

poem by Phineas Fletcher
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Still In Love

Oh listen to me girl,
As I take the time,
To tell you how I feel, yeah yeah.
In spite of what you feel,
You really need to know, my love for you is real.
For everything youve done, to hurt me in the past,
Ill forgive you, yes I will.
Just know that Im still in love with you,
Baby Im still...
Baby Im still in love,
Said Im still in love with you,
In spite of the things that you put me through,
Said Im still in love with you,
Baby Im still in love,
Said Im still in love with you,
Theres nothing I would not do for you,
Thats why I gotta let you know that I am still in love with you...
With you... with you... ah yeah...
Verse two, verse two, verse two
Look in to my eyes,
I know that you can see,
My sincerity, oh yes...
If you could hear my heart,
It would say to you, how much you mean to me,
Ooh girl I gotta take this time,
I gotta let you know, how I really feel baby...
Just know that this love,
I have for you is real,
Ohh...
Baby Im still in love,
Said Im still in love with you,
In spite of the things that you put me through,
Said Im still in love with you,
Baby Im still in love,
Said Im still in love with you,
Theres nothing I would not do for you,
Thats why I gotta let you know that I am still in love with you...
Baby Im still in love,
Said Im still in love with you,
In spite of the things that you put me through,
Said Im still in love with you,
Baby Im still in love,
Said Im still in love with you,
Theres nothing I would not do for you,
Thats why I gotta let you know that I am still in love with you...
With you...
Girl Im still in love with you,
Girl Im so in love with you... ohhhhh.
It should not be hard for you to see,
Baby that your love belongs to me,

[...] Read more

song performed by 112
Added by Lucian Velea
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In Spite Of Ourselves

She dont like her eggs all runny
She thinks crossin her legs is funny
She looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the easter bunny
Shes my baby Im her honey
Im never gonna let her go
He aint got laid in a month of sundays
I caught him once and he was sniffin my undies
He aint too sharp but he gets things done
Drinks his beer like its oxygen
Hes my baby
And Im his honey
Never gonna let him go
In spite of ourselves
Well end up asittin on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, were the big door prize
Were gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There wont be nothin but big old hearts
Dancin in our eyes.
She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when shaves her legs
She takes a lickin
And keeps on tickin
Im never gonna let her go.
Hes got more balls than a big brass monkey
Hes a wacked out werido and a lovebug junkie
Sly as a fox and crazy as a loon
Payday comes and hes howlin at the moon
Hes my baby I dont mean maybe
Never gonna let him go
In spite of ourselves
Well end up asittin on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, were the big door prize
Were gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There wont be nothin but big old hearts
Dancin in our eyes.
There wont be nothin but big old hearts
Dancin in our eyes.
(spoken) in spite of ourselves

song performed by John Prine
Added by Lucian Velea
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What Have They Done To You

Written by james young and tommy shaw
Lead vocals by james young and tommy shaw
There must be something out there,
There must be something real
Well this mysterys a nightmare
And I dont know what to feel
Well I heard you had a hell of a time there
I guess it chilled you down to the bone
If theres one thing I can tell you
Itll never leave you less than alone
In spite of everything you told me
In spite of everything Ive heard
Theres nothing here that I call holy
Not a solitary word
Could you tell me what its like on the outside
Were you really lost and out of control
Were you reaching for your freedom
When the gatekeeper called for the toll
Oh-oh, what have they done to you
Where, where have you gone
Oh-oh, I wanna run to you
In spite of what youre saying
I still cant let you go
Well they say you witnessed some kind of lefe there
Was it something real or nothing at all
Or is your imagination all thats there to catch you
If you start to fall
Oh-oh, what have they done to you
Where, where have you gone
Oh-oh I wanna run to you
In spite of what youre saying
I still cant let you go
Oh-oh, what have they done to you
Where, where have you gone
Oh-oh I wanna run to you
In spite of what youre saying
I still cant let you go
What have they done to you

song performed by Styx
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
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The Ghost - Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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The Battling Days

So, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your pipe and your wife content,
And cross your knees with your wisest air, and preach of the ‘days mis-spent;’
Grown fat and moral apace, old man! you prate of the change ‘since then’—
In spite of all, I’d as lief be back in those hard old days again.
They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel at times—but then,
In spite of all, I would rather be back in those hard old days again.
The land was barren to sow wild oats in the days when we sowed our own—
(’Twas little we thought or our friends believed that ours would ever be sown)

But the wild oats wave on their stormy path, and they speak of the hearts of men—
I would sow a crop if I had my time in those hard old days again.
We travel first, or we go saloon—on the planned-out trips we go,
With those who are neither rich nor poor, and we find that the life is slow;

It’s ‘a pleasant trip’ where they cried, ‘Good luck!’ There was fun in the steerage then—
In spite of all, I would fain be back in those vagabond days again.
On Saturday night we’ve a pound to spare—a pound for a trip down town—
We took more joy in those hard old days for a hardly spared half-crown;

We took more pride in the pants we patched than the suits we have had since then—
In spite of all, I would rather be back in those comical days again.
’Twas We and the World—and the rest go hang—as the Outside tracks we trod;
Each thought of himself as a man and mate, and not as a martyred god;

The world goes wrong when your heart is strong—and this is the way with men—
The world goes right when your liver is white, and you preach of the change ‘since then.’
They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel times—but then,
In spite of all, we shall live to-night in those hard old days again.

poem by Henry Lawson
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In Spite of Opposition

If he has done nothing else...
He has reflected the aspirations,
Of those wishing to move forward.
In spite of opposition,
Of those in material bondage.
And those in subconscious slavery,
Who are still on their knees...
Praying to be accepted!

In spite of oppostion,
Of those who say he lacks experience.
Although he shows qualities,
They themselves have not yet shown.
He is a man of color...
And that they regret.
They rather show images of those of color...
As children needing diapers changed,
Because they are still 'wet'!
And they want this known.

If he has done nothing else...
He has reflected the aspirations,
Of those wishing to move forward.
In spite of opposition,
Of those in material bondage.
And those in subconscious slavery,
Who are still on their knees...
Praying to be accepted!

And he represents a time...
In which people in the right minds,
Seek an updated image...
Of what others rather see,
Enforcibly diminished!
But a darkness lifts...
To allow those to see,
Truth in reality they can believe.

In spite of opposition...
Conflicts existing,
Seem pointless to keep inflicting.
And the greed of it...
Reveals the minds of those sick,
Who insist to feast upon their wickedness to feed.

And in spite of opposition,
He proves he is the best choice to select...
And to lead.
Whatever he lacks...
He still over his opposition succeeds.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Plea Of The Midsummer Fairies

I

'Twas in that mellow season of the year
When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves
Till they be gold,—and with a broader sphere
The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves;
When more abundantly the spider weaves,
And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime;—
That forth I fared, on one of those still eves,
Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time,
To think how the bright months had spent their prime,

II

So that, wherever I address'd my way,
I seem'd to track the melancholy feet
Of him that is the Father of Decay,
And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet;—
Wherefore regretfully I made retreat
To some unwasted regions of my brain,
Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat,
And bade that bounteous season bloom again,
And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain.

III

It was a shady and sequester'd scene,
Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio,
Planted with his own laurels evergreen,
And roses that for endless summer blow;
And there were fountain springs to overflow
Their marble basins,—and cool green arcades
Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw
Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,—
With timid coneys cropping the green blades.

IV

And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish,
Argent and gold; and some of Tyrian skin,
Some crimson-barr'd;—and ever at a wish
They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin
As glass upon their backs, and then dived in,
Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom;
Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win
My changeable regard,—for so we doom
Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom.

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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The Loves of the Angels

'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.

Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!

One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!

Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Moore
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Of Ancient Mastodon, Sleepy Bee & Young Men Who Leap Too Soon From Bridges - Nightingale Confesses Into Straighter Teeth

'...descend, and of the curveship lend a myth to God.' - Hart Crane

Pueri aeterna, septem cadens
Etiam plures ad

The boys eternal, seven falling
Too many more to come

Jamey Rodemayer
Tyler Clementi
Raymond Chase
Asher Brown
Billy Lucas
Seth Walsh
Justin Aaberg

Sub olivae, pacem
Ut vos omnes adoremus orientatio

Under the olive trees, peace
May you all adore this orientation

******

"I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their
hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once
hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain."

- James Baldwin

'Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood

Do not ask me to see it! '

- Federico Garcia Lorca*

1

Even the pigeons on my stoop are silent now.

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
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All Over Again

Written by christine mcvie and eddy quintela.
Well its time to say goodnight
And finally turn out the light
How do I say in some simple way
How much you have been on my mind
But I have to let you go
Its time to move on, dont you know
But you can rely on a love that wont die
For havent I told you so
So lets stop before its too late
And leave it all up to the fates
Cause in spite of the heartaches
And troubles in love
Id do it all over
Do it all over again
Each of us and everyone
Carries a burden of love
But as far as I go in my heart I know
Its you Ill be thinking of
So what is there left to say
As I see us drifting away
You can always depend on a love that wont end
Wont you think of me, think of me that way
So lets stop before its too late
And leave it all up to the fates
Cause in spite of the heartaches
And troubles in love
Id do it all over again
Well its its time to move on to the rain
And finally break the chain
In spite of the heartaches
And troubles in love
Id do it all over (do it all over)
Do it all over again
Stop before its too late
Cause in spite of the heartaches
And troubles in love
Id do it all over (do it all over)
Id do it all over again

song performed by Fleetwood Mac
Added by Lucian Velea
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