Repentance is another name for aspiration.
quote by Henry Ward Beecher
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A Preacher
"Lest that by any means
When I have preached to others I myself
Should be a castaway." If some one now
Would take that text and preach to us that preach, --
Some one who could forget his truths were old
And what were in a thousand bawling mouths
While they filled his -- some one who could so throw
His life into the old dull skeletons
Of points and morals, inferences, proofs,
Hopes, doubts, persuasions, all for time untold
Worn out of the flesh, that one could lose from mind
How well one knew his lesson, how oneself
Could with another, may be choicer, style
Enforce it, treat it from another view
And with another logic -- some one warm
With the rare heart that trusts itself and knows
Because it loves -- yes such a one perchance,
With such a theme, might waken me as I
Have wakened others, I who am no more
Than steward of an eloquence God gives
For others' use not mine. But no one bears
Apostleship for us. We teach and teach
Until, like drumming pedagogues, we lose
The thought that what we teach has higher ends
Than being taught and learned. And if a man
Out of ourselves should cry aloud, "I sin,
And ye are sinning, all of us who talk
Our Sunday half-hour on the love of God,
Trying to move our peoples, then go home
To sleep upon it and, when fresh again,
To plan another sermon, nothing moved,
Serving our God like clock-work sentinels,
We who have souls ourselves," why I like the rest
Should turn in anger: "Hush this charlatan
Who, in his blatant arrogance, assumes
Over us who know our duties."
Yet that text
Which galls me, what a sermon might be made
Upon its theme! How even I myself
Could stir some of our priesthood! Ah! but then
Who would stir me?
I know not how it is;
I take the faith in earnest, I believe,
Even at happy times I think I love,
I try to pattern me upon the type
My Master left us, am no hypocrite
Playing my soul against good men's applause,
Nor monger of the Gospel for a cure,
But serve a Master whom I chose because
It seemed to me I loved him, whom till now
[...] Read more
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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L'Horloge (The Clock)
Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,
Dont le doigt nous menace et nous dit: «Souviens-toi!
Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton coeur plein d'effroi
Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible;
Le Plaisir vaporeux fuira vers l'horizon
Ainsi qu'une sylphide au fond de la coulisse;
Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice
À chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison.
Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la Seconde
Chuchote: Souviens-toi! — Rapide, avec sa voix
D'insecte, Maintenant dit: Je suis Autrefois,
Et j'ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!
Remember! Souviens-toi! prodigue! Esto memor!
(Mon gosier de métal parle toutes les langues.)
Les minutes, mortel folâtre, sont des gangues
Qu'il ne faut pas lâcher sans en extraire l'or!
Souviens-toi que le Temps est un joueur avide
Qui gagne sans tricher, à tout coup! c'est la loi.
Le jour décroît; la nuit augmente; Souviens-toi!
Le gouffre a toujours soif; la clepsydre se vide.
Tantôt sonnera l'heure où le divin Hasard,
Où l'auguste Vertu, ton épouse encor vierge,
Où le Repentir même (oh! la dernière auberge!),
Où tout te dira Meurs, vieux lâche! il est trop tard!»
The Clock
Impassive clock! Terrifying, sinister god,
Whose finger threatens us and says: 'Remember!
The quivering Sorrows will soon be shot
Into your fearful heart, as into a target;
Nebulous pleasure will flee toward the horizon
Like an actress who disappears into the wings;
Every instant devours a piece of the pleasure
Granted to every man for his entire season.
Three thousand six hundred times an hour, Second
Whispers: Remember! — Immediately
With his insect voice, Now says: I am the Past
And I have sucked out your life with my filthy trunk!
Remember! Souviens-toi, spendthrift! Esto memor!
(My metal throat can speak all languages.)
Minutes, blithesome mortal, are bits of ore
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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A Postscript unto the Reader
And now good Reader, I return again
To talk with thee, who hast been at the pain
To read throughout, and heed what went before;
And unto thee I'le speak a little more.
Give ear, I pray thee, unto what I say,
That God may hear thy voice another day.
Thou hast a Soul, my friend, and so have I,
To save or lose; a Soul that cannot die,
A soul of greater price than God and Gems;
A Soul more worth than Crowns and Diadems;
A Soul at first created like its Maker,
And of Gods Image made to be partaker:
Upon the wings of Noblest faculties,
Taught for to soar above the Starry Skies,
And not to rest, until it understood
It self possessed of the chiefest good.
And since the Fall, thy Soul retaineth still
Those Faculties of Reason and of Will,
But Oh, how much deprav'd, and out of frame,
As if they were some others, not the same.
Thine Understanding dismally benighted,
And Reason'd eye in Sp'ritual things dim-sighted,
Or else stark blind: Thy Will inclin'd to evil,
And nothing else, a Slave unto the Devil;
That loves to live, and liveth to transgress,
But shuns the way of God and Holiness.
All thin Affections are disordered;
And thou by head-strong Passions are misled.
What need I tell thee of thy crooked way,
And many wicked wand'rings every day?
Or that thine own transgressions are more
In number, than the sands upon the Shore:
Thou art a lump of wickedness become,
And may'st with horrour think upon thy Doom,
Until thy Soul be washed in the flood
Of Christ's most dear, soul-cleansing precious blood.
That, that alone can do away thy sin
Which thou wert born, and hast long lived in.
That, only that, can pacifie Gods wrath,
If apprehended by a lively Faith,
Now whilst the day and means of Grace do last,
Before the opportunity be past.
But if O man, thou liv'st a Christless creature,
And Death surprize thee in a state of nature,
(As who can tell but that may be thy case)
How wilt thou stand before the Judge's face?
When he shall be reveal'd in faming fire,
And come to pay ungodly men their hire:
To execute due vengeance upon those
That knew him not, or that have been his foes?
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Wigglesworth
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The Course Of Time. Book X.
God of my fathers! holy, just, and good!
My God! my Father! my unfailing Hope!
Jehovah! let the incense of my praise,
Accepted, burn before thy mercy seat,
And in thy presence burn both day and night.
Maker! Preserver! my Redeemer! God!
Whom have I in the heavens but Thee alone?
On earth, but Thee, whom should I praise, whom love?
For Thou hast brought me hitherto, upheld
By thy omnipotence; and from thy grace,
Unbought, unmerited, though not unsought—
The wells of thy salvation, hast refreshed
My spirit, watering it, at morn and even!
And by thy Spirit, which thou freely givest
To whom thou wilt, hast led my venturous song,
Over the vale, and mountain tract, the light
And shade of man; into the burning deep
Descending now, and now circling the mount,
Where highest sits Divinity enthroned;
Rolling along the tide of fluent thought,
The tide of moral, natural, divine;
Gazing on past, and present, and again,
On rapid pinion borne, outstripping Time,
In long excursion, wandering through the groves
Unfading, and the endless avenues,
That shade the landscape of eternity;
And talking there with holy angels met,
And future men, in glorious vision seen!
Nor unrewarded have I watched at night,
And heard the drowsy sound of neighbouring sleep;
New thought, new imagery, new scenes of bliss
And glory, unrehearsed by mortal tongue,
Which, unrevealed, I trembling, turned and left,
Bursting at once upon my ravished eye,
With joy unspeakable, have filled my soul,
And made my cup run over with delight;
Though in my face, the blasts of adverse winds,
While boldly circumnavigating man,
Winds seeming adverse, though perhaps not so,
Have beat severely; disregarded beat,
When I behind me heard the voice of God,
And his propitious Spirit say,—Fear not.
God of my fathers! ever present God!
This offering more inspire, sustain, accept;
Highest, if numbers answer to the theme;
Best answering if thy Spirit dictate most.
Jehovah! breathe upon my soul; my heart
Enlarge; my faith increase; increase my hope;
My thoughts exalt; my fancy sanctify,
And all my passions, that I near thy throne
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Pollok
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First Book
OF writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,–
Will write my story for my better self,
As when you paint your portrait for a friend,
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it
Long after he has ceased to love you, just
To hold together what he was and is.
I, writing thus, am still what men call young;
I have not so far left the coasts of life
To travel inland, that I cannot hear
That murmur of the outer Infinite
Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep
When wondered at for smiling; not so far,
But still I catch my mother at her post
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up,
'Hush, hush–here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes
Leap forward, taking part against her word
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel
My father's slow hand, when she had left us both,
Stroke out my childish curls across his knee;
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew
He liked it better than a better jest)
Inquire how many golden scudi went
To make such ringlets. O my father's hand,
Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,–
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee!
I'm still too young, too young to sit alone.
I write. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life–
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternised my soul
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,–
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children, (to be just,)
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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The moral and social aspiration proper to American life is, of course, the aspiration vaguely described by the word democratic; and the actual achievement of the American nation points towards an adequate and fruitful definition of the democratic ideal.
quote by Herbert Croly
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Phantasies
I. Evening.
Rest, beauty, stillness: not a waif of a cloud
From gray-blue east sheer to the yellow west-
No film of mist the utmost slopes to shroud.
The earth lies grace, by quiet airs caressed,
And shepherdeth her shadows, but each stream,
Free to the sky, is by that glow possessed,
And traileth with the splendors of a dream
Athwart the dusky land. Uplift thine eyes!
Unbroken by a vapor or a gleam,
The vast clear reach of mild, wan twilight skies.
But look again, and lo, the evening star!
Against the pale tints black the slim elms rise,
The earth exhales sweet odors nigh and far,
And from the heavens fine influences fall.
Familiar things stand not for what they are:
What they suggest, foreshadow, or recall
The spirit is alert to apprehend,
Imparting somewhat of herself to all.
Labor and thought and care are at an end:
The soul is filled with gracious reveries,
And with her mood soft sounds and colors blend;
For simplest sounds ring forth like melodies
In this weird-lighted air-the monotone
Of some far bell, the distant farmyard cries,
A barking dog, the thin, persistent drone
Of crickets, and the lessening call of birds.
The apparition of yon star alone
Breaks on the sense like music. Beyond word
The peace that floods the soul, for night is here,
And Beauty still is guide and harbinger.
II. Aspiration.
Dark lies the earth, and bright with worlds the sky:
That soft, large, lustrous star, that first outshone,
Still holds us spelled with potent sorcery.
Dilating, shrinking, lightening, it hath won
Our spirit with its strange strong influence,
[...] Read more
poem by Emma Lazarus
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A journey begins with first step! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Oh great warriors
Of yore
Sages of folk lore,
Could you tell me
Why do I feel vanquished
In the face of victory?
Had no aspiration to build
Great empires,
Or enlighten
The ignorant.
Just a small aspiration
To be free
And protest against
Pressure of
Conformity…
On being released,
from captivity,
Stood dazed in front of
Open cage,
Like a bird
Who has forgotten the
Instinct to fly
Looked skyward:
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
Soaring high…
Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach is a fable in novella form
about a seagull learning about life and flight.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Book Eleventh: France [concluded]
FROM that time forth, Authority in France
Put on a milder face; Terror had ceased,
Yet everything was wanting that might give
Courage to them who looked for good by light
Of rational Experience, for the shoots
And hopeful blossoms of a second spring:
Yet, in me, confidence was unimpaired;
The Senate's language, and the public acts
And measures of the Government, though both
Weak, and of heartless omen, had not power
To daunt me; in the People was my trust:
And, in the virtues which mine eyes had seen,
I knew that wound external could not take
Life from the young Republic; that new foes
Would only follow, in the path of shame,
Their brethren, and her triumphs be in the end
Great, universal, irresistible.
This intuition led me to confound
One victory with another, higher far,--
Triumphs of unambitious peace at home,
And noiseless fortitude. Beholding still
Resistance strong as heretofore, I thought
That what was in degree the same was likewise
The same in quality,--that, as the worse
Of the two spirits then at strife remained
Untired, the better, surely, would preserve
The heart that first had roused him. Youth maintains,
In all conditions of society,
Communion more direct and intimate
With Nature,--hence, ofttimes, with reason too--
Than age or manhood, even. To Nature, then,
Power had reverted: habit, custom, law,
Had left an interregnum's open space
For 'her' to move about in, uncontrolled.
Hence could I see how Babel-like their task,
Who, by the recent deluge stupified,
With their whole souls went culling from the day
Its petty promises, to build a tower
For their own safety; laughed with my compeers
At gravest heads, by enmity to France
Distempered, till they found, in every blast
Forced from the street-disturbing newsman's horn,
For her great cause record or prophecy
Of utter ruin. How might we believe
That wisdom could, in any shape, come near
Men clinging to delusions so insane?
And thus, experience proving that no few
Of our opinions had been just, we took
Like credit to ourselves where less was due,
And thought that other notions were as sound
[...] Read more
poem by William Wordsworth
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Famous Moive Poem - Phantom of the Opera
do you cry
the night away
when laughters turn
into a bottle of sobs
of an alcoholic?
your warm heart
finding itself floating
on a lake of ice?
is the fabled tale
in the warmth
of your hands
slipping away
from your grip?
an opera singing
a dissonant tune to
your fantasy?
the director you seek
leaving you in a valley of wants?
is the phantom of the opera,
nipping you in the bud? your
legs tied, your smiles fraying
into an ridiculous satire?
you walk down straight
to the lake of salvation
only to find a ring of fire crackling,
cracking up your world
you wish to throw in the towel
only to find the towel flare
into flames, your aspiration
trailing smoke into a fearful
votex of disappointments
you quieten yourself
down to give yourself
a respite and slip into
a cave of privacy, kneeling
praying, kneeling praying
tears swelling a full moon tide
you call for the phantom
to intervene, to light up
the candles of your life,
to help you ride out the storm,
turn around the opera of afflictions
so that a rainbow arcs
[...] Read more
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Letter To Abigail
So much time has surely come to pass,
Whereby I have been without thee-alas,
So too have thee, been without me-
Though I assure thee that I have loved thee devoutly,
But regrettably in absentia, as you have been secreted away;
I think of you always, ne'er have I neglected a day!
Sadly, I know not your visage, as evidence
Of same has too been kept from me, since
Last I saw your Angelic face-
Lo, these many days hence, I have glimpsed not a trace,
But in fanciful aspiration, of the beauty you have become;
Days became weeks, weeks became months, more cumbersome
With each that passes, as though my heart fails me!
I shan't be whole again until your grace itself, avails me-
Until such time as I may fondly gaze into thine eyes
And share with you all the hopes and wants for our reprise!
Now, all we share is a last name, nothing more,
You have been hidden from me, by someone I am loathing more
Each and every day, and she calls herself your guardian! ?
She guards naught, but this maternal deception:
To the world she pretends as though she cares
More for you than she does for herself, yet dares
To continue to keep us apart, a forced estrangement-
Which, for her, I am sure is a convenient arrangement!
My love for you does not cease in my absence,
Nor do I grow less wanton for the grace of thine pleasance-
Circumstance has conspired surely against us,
But I shan't relent until I gather our justice!
That I must rely upon aspiration alone, pains me-
You deserve more than this-any gains we
Made when you were young, are effectively lost-
That we are now, in essence, strangers, the tragic cost!
It gives me little consolation that the truth will one day become known-
My heart is broken now and I wish to know you, when grown,
Not re-acquaint with you, as though for the first time!
I wish the wait to be over, as I am certainly prime
For our consort to again be, as was before-
Before you were aware of same, on birth's door!
I hope that this letter dissuades your doubts, and allays your fears,
As my thoughts have been of you, and for you, my tears!
Until we again meet my beloved, stay beautiful, stay true-
Remember always, that I have always loved you!
-Maurice Harris,15 May 2011
poem by Maurice Harris
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No Longer Afraid To Dream
I am no longer afraid to dream;
Whereas before, aspiration was made to seem
Too lofty a goal for a man like me-
I now know that one day, I might see
All my dreams marry with a wondrous reality;
This has not always been my mentality:
Before, I stunted my dreams under a cerebral ceiling,
Which only served to leave me with an uneasy feeling;
I am much obliged for the power of this gift,
Responsible for my mind's mediation and my soul's uplift!
Now, I am led by my dreams, and not contrariwise,
Which has served further, so that now I realize
That to truly dream, aspiration must be left unbound:
Yet, in order to fly, your feet need not leave the ground!
-Maurice Harris,9 February 2011
poem by Maurice Harris
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Habit Of Success
Inspiration, aspiration and perspiration
Takes one to the dream destination
The dream destination is nothing
But is a result of appreciation and admiration
An outcome of application and determination
Determination motivates to generation of strong willpower
The willpower is set by the desires
Inspiration, aspiration, perspiration, appreciation, admiration, determination and application
Fuel the desire to formulate the success equation
Once achieved the success becomes a habit
Only then we reach the never reachable DESTINATION
Alok Katdare
Navi Mumbai, India
March 16,2009
poem by Alok Katdare
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Secret Sisters (An Imagined Conversation)
'Hello, it is a pleasure to meet you!
My name is Abigail. What, pray tell, is your name? '
'Abigail, my name is Gabriella. To greet you
Is indeed my pleasure, I extend obligation to Him for same! '
'I confess, I knew your name, and for some time have sought you.
I am exalted that mine effort has brought you
Here before me, so that we may finally consort.'
'Why though, with me, do you wish rapport?
I know not a reason, as same now evades me-
I am overwhelmed by curiosity, which now pervades me.'
'I became quite interested in the facts of my birth,
So I began to sleuth, and for what its worth,
You and I are Sisters, Daughters of the same man.'
'This is wonderful news, which gladdens my spirit-
Why though, from you, and not my Mother, do I hear it?
It seems to me that this needs to be a part of her parental plan! '
'Sikerly, it was I that coerced this connection;
Mine own Mother silenced, under guise of maternal protection;
I desire personal privity, not opinion of another:
My opinion needs be prescient, not derived from my Mother;
This is my own journey of discovery, not a bother-
I need to know for myself, this man who is our Father! '
'I am eternally grateful that, in your plans, I have been included-
There shall be much-needed explication as to why we where precluded
From contact with our own Father; What possible reason
Might serve to justify this egregious treason! ?
Our's is a meeting that long-ago should have transpired:
It neeeded to be one our own Mother passionately desired! '
'Truer words hath ne'er been spoken-
This man is our Father, not some token
Relative, with which we share little connection;
We deserve his unceasing paternal love and protection;
As he, I am sure, wants for our love in return:
The unseen heart may still ardently yearn! '
[...] Read more
poem by Maurice Harris
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The Superimposition of Somniation, In A Search For Serendipity
Alas, it was all but wishful wonderment, by way of a wandering dream;
Somniation surely it was, yet, real it did seem.
Spurred by a mysterious messenger, who left but a name-
A first name only-as though confoundment was his aim.
I somniate rarely, yet, their reality tends to astound:
They can gift a voice and form, to someone no longer around.
'What does it all mean? ! ', I wonder, as I bolt awake-
'May there be a message from this, that I may take? ! '
My heart was once again rife with jubilation-
All due this now-fleeted fantasization.
Its allusion was pointed-toward a path not taken-
And its conclusion, unequivocal-this choice was mistaken.
Surely, this dream was not merely a singularity-
Another must have been had, to provide further clarity!
Might this be but half-and only when superimposed
Over another, might a whole dream then be composed! ?
The entirety of this aspiration's audacity
May only truly be gleaned, once the capacity
To understand is gained, over this aspiration and its mate.
Serendipity alone may gift this-and only through the powers of Fate!
-Maurice Harris,7 July 2012
poem by Maurice Harris
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Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind!
Seeing and hearing,
Is it eye that see?
Is it ear that hear?
Eyes are windows of Mind,
Like are ears, eyes have eyelids, ears remain open!
Seeing is not perceiving,
Light passes through the small camera,
Giving picture of world around,
Yet mind is the processor,
Process the data,
Process the colourful image,
Sometime filling with its own colour!
But it is not vision,
mind sees something itself,
Seeing through the mind without the help of eyes
Neither windows opened,
Nor light from open windows affect!
Mind is that faculty sees something within,
And day by day the vision become clear,
When mind learns it is not the seer,
It sees everything clear,
Clearly presented to the master,
And Self is the master of Mind,
When mind is pure and clear,
Without prejudice and suspense traits,
Self perceives self in its true nature,
Nothing goes bad,
processed food for thought remain good for ever!
one who sees eyes as seer,
He is ignorant,
One who sees mind as a seer,
Knows not,
One whose mind sees the seer is different,
Vision get purified, seer can see through the mind,
Scenes seen by mind with eyes closed,
when perceived by seer,
It becomes vision of life,
And that vision when becomes ambition of life,
Ambition becomes aspiration,
Aspiration transforms into mission,
Mission transmits wisdom and genius of self!
Self becomes master Of mind
Self becomes master Mind,
Master and mind becomes one,
Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Thats my nation
I am a Nigerian
and i live in Niger area
i am proud of my country
because they have got a new direction
Nigeria is my nation
a nation with determination
all we need is multivation
in order to move the motion
Our youths have aspiration
our children have inspiration
infact other nations have the conviction
that Nigeria would become the greatest nation
The youths are now following instructions
and our adults now says don't mention
because we now have a new intention
the only problem is how to make it function
W e have got determination
doubled with aspiration, inspiration and perspiration
we do not want any obstruction
neither do we want an objection
Our new intention
has no need for rejection
all we need is multivation
to introduce our new invention
there is no need for me to question
because thats my nation
and i am happy they have thier notion
to put into action
poem by Micheal Udenyi
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Trilogy Of Passion 02 Elegy
When man had ceased to utter his lament,
A god then let me tell my tale of sorrow.
WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now
In the still-closed blossoms of this day?
Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou;
What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play
No longer doubt! Descending from the sky,
She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.
And thus thou into Paradise wert brought,
As worthy of a pure and endless life;
Nothing was left, no wish, no hope, no thought,
Here was the boundary of thine inmost strife:
And seeing one so fair, so glorified,
The fount of yearning tears was straightway dried.
No motion stirr'd the day's revolving wheel,
In their own front the minutes seem'd to go;
The evening kiss, a true and binding seal,
Ne'er changing till the morrow's sunlight glow.
The hours resembled sisters as they went.
Yet each one from another different.
The last hour's kiss, so sadly sweet, effac'd
A beauteous network of entwining love.
Now on the threshold pause the feet, now haste.
As though a flaming cherub bade them move;
The unwilling eye the dark road wanders o'er,
Backward it looks, but closed it sees the door.
And now within itself is closed this breast,
As though it ne'er were open, and as though,
Vying with ev'ry star, no moments blest
Had, in its presence, felt a kindling glow;
Sadness, reproach, repentance, weight of care,
Hang heavy on it in the sultry air.
Is not the world still left? The rocky steeps,
Are they with holy shades no longer crown'd?
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poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Mere sorrow, which weeps and sits still, is not repentance. Repentance is sorrow converted into action; into a movement toward a new and better life.
quote by M.R. Vincent
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the Fifth
I
When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;
The greater their success the worse it proves,
As Ovid's verse may give to understand;
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.
II
I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain -- simple -- short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
And with all passions in their turn attack'd;
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This poem will become a moral model.
III
The European with the Asian shore
Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream
Here and there studded with a seventy-four;
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;
The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,
Far less describe, present the very view
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.
IV
I have a passion for the name of "Mary,"
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
But I grow sad -- and let a tale grow cold,
Which must not be pathetically told.
V
The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades;
'T is a grand sight from off the Giant's Grave
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.
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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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