I see myself as a roving mosquito, choosing it's target.
quote by Kenneth Williams
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Related quotes
Mosquito
Un mosquito
Cest un moustique en colre
Un mosquito
Pique et pique et pique dans la chair
Un mosquito
a pond ses oeufs dans nous rivires
Un mosquito
a vit au milieu de ses frres... un mosquito
Un mosquito
a rve loin de nos rizires
Un mosquito
a prfre la chaleur
Un mosquito
a frappe la tte la premire
Un mosquito
a boit du sang chaud ordinaire... un mosquito
Et a cloque chaud
Mosquito
Chez les modestes et les beaux
Mosquito
a pique chaud
Mosquito
Chez les bonzs, les plots
Un mosquito
Cest un moustique qui galre
Un mosquito
Pique et pique et pique dans ta chair
Un mosquito
Cest un mchant hlicoptre
Un mosquito
a vit du sang chaud des baigneurs... un mosquito
Et a cloque chaud
Mosquito
Chez les gentils les salauds
Mosquito
Et a pique chaud
Mosquito
Mme le chiens et les oiseaux
Mosquito
Et a cloque chaud
Mosquito
Chez les modestes et les beaux
Mosquito
a pique chaud
Mosquito
Chez les bronzs, les plots
Mosquito
Et a cloque chaud
Mosquito
Chez les gentils les salauds
[...] Read more
song performed by Vanessa Paradis
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Yips
When focusing too hard on putts
golfers suffer from the yips,
and those who focus hard on butts
and breasts and what’s below the hips
may not obtain a hole in one
because most eagles fly away,
and though a birdie can be fun
you’ll never catch one if you play
too focused. Nonchalance will launch
in sex, as golf, a thousand ships,
and when you’re ready for some raunch,
soft-focus rescues you from yips.
Inspired by an article by Katie Thomas in the NYT on August 1 explaining the phenomenon of yip[s which plagues archersm, golfers and all people who aim to carefully at targets (“The Secret Curse of Expert Archers”) :
There is an affliction so feared by elite archers that many in the sport refuse to even say its name. Archery coaches who specialize in treating the problem are sworn not to reveal the identities of archers in its grip, even though they estimate that 90 percent of high-level competitors will fall victim at least once in their careers. Target panic, as the condition is known, causes crack shots to suddenly lose control of their bows and their composure. Mysteriously, sufferers start releasing the bow the instant they see the target, sabotaging any chance of a gold-medal shot. Others freeze up and cannot release at all. Target panic is akin to the yips in baseball and golf, when accomplished athletes can no longer make a simple throw to first base or stroke an easy putt. The results can be mortifying, and archery is filled with tales of those who have caught the curse, never to shoot again. The problem has spawned a cottage industry of coaches, books and specialized accessories that claim to cure target panic….Lanny Bassham, a former Olympic rifle shooter and mental coach whose clients include the Olympic archer Brady Ellison, said the archery community had a peculiar obsession with target panic, which he noted had a horrifying ring. “The words target panic have induced an unnecessary amount of severity and concern about this condition among archers, ” he said. “I think if they had a better word for it, they’d have a lot less problem trying to cure it.” Many archers and their coaches refuse to say target panic. Those words are forbidden around the Nichols household, which is home to the Olympic archer Jennifer Nichols and her younger sister, Amanda, also a world-class competitor. “We try to stay away from the labels that are put on things by people in the archery industry because once you feel you’ve got that label, it’s hard to stay away from it, ” said their father, Brent Nichols. “We don’t want to hear those things.” Theories vary on how to cure target panic. Some switch their shooting hand, or change their grip slightly — techniques that have also proved successful in golf. Others use visualization techniques and positive reinforcement. Wunderle advises his clients to imagine seeing and feeling what a good shot is, without focusing on aiming the arrow. “Do not focus on results, ” he said. “When you focus on results, it builds anxiety. And anxiety is the kiss of death.” One of the most popular cures is to entirely remove the target. Sufferers instead practice shooting at a blank target, sometimes for weeks at a time, to retrain the mind. “The empty bale restores your confidence in your subconscious, ” said Bernie Pellerite, author of the book “Idiot Proof Archery” and a self-described expert on target panic. “Nobody flinches or punches or chokes on an empty bale.” Hunt spent weeks shooting at blank targets, but he also purchased a special release for his bow, which helped retrain him when to shoot. “It’s trying to engrave in your head when you should shoot, ” he said. “You just pull it back, let the safety off, and pull it until it decides to go. Then you get used to every shot being perfect.” Hunt placed second in his age group at the Junior Olympic Archery Development national championships in Oklahoma City earlier this month. His target panic, he said, had been cured. For now. There is an affliction so feared by elite archers that many in the sport refuse to even say its name. Archery coaches who specialize in treating the problem are sworn not to reveal the identities of archers in its grip, even though they estimate that 90 percent of high-level competitors will fall victim at least once in their careers. Target panic, as the condition is known, causes crack shots to suddenly lose control of their bows and their composure. Mysteriously, sufferers start releasing the bow the instant they see the target, sabotaging any chance of a gold-medal shot. Others freeze up and cannot release at all. Target panic is akin to the yips in baseball and golf, when accomplished athletes can no longer make a simple throw to first base or stroke an easy putt. The results can be mortifying, and archery is filled with tales of those who have caught the curse, never to shoot again. The problem has spawned a cottage industry of coaches, books and specialized accessories that claim to cure target panic.
8/20/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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No Me Moleste Mosquito
No me moleste mosquito!
no me moleste mosquito..
no me moleste mosquito..
Why don't you go home?
no me moleste mosquito..
let me eat my burrito..
no me moleste mosquito..
Why don't you go home?
no me moleste mosquito..
no me moleste mosquito..
no me moleste mosquito..
Why don't you go home?
no me moleste mosquito..
just let me eat my burrito!
no me moleste mosquito..
Why don't you go home??
song performed by Doors
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Muscoviet Musquito
I must write a letter to you
I must make myself clear
It is spot on time, right on cue
I am a clam, somebody said to me
Its obscene, there must be a motive behind
Its obscure. there must be someone behind
A muscovite mosquito, a muscovite mosquito
A muscovite mosquito, a muscovite mosquito
A vivid image anyway
Someone said, youre a clam,
Consider this !
Mmm, listen oh, listen to me, youre far
A thousand miles away from here
I am here, I am here in this ooze through country
Trampled down by mega people
A dispute will never end
A retrospection ,it sounds obscene
A disconnection,
A final balance sheet for muscovite mosquito
For muscovite mosquito
For muscovite mosquito, it sound obscene
It sound so obscure, for muscovite mosquito
My final balance sheet is gone...... for
Muscovite mosquito, muscovite mosquito
Its spot on time, right on cue
You missed the chance, somebody vexedly said
Its obscene, there must be motives behind
Its obscure, there must be someone behind
song performed by Xymox
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stop, Choosing to Demean
You've got your meaning,
And still you are choosing to demean...
My love?
Ya gotcha meaning,
But-cha choosing to demean.
Ya gotcha meaning,
But-cha choosing to demean.
Ya gotcha meaning,
But-cha choosing to demean.
Baby!
I gotcha meaning that demeans,
What I say.
And why it is I feel this way.
You're choosing to demean,
How I pray.
For us...
With faith and love,
Everyday!
Baby!
You're choosing to demean.
I see,
You're choosing to demean.
My compassion,
You're choosing to demean.
And..
My strong beliefs.
Yo, Baby!
You're choosing to demean.
I see,
You're choosing to demean.
My compassion,
You're choosing to demean.
And..
My love for you so deep.
But, you choose to be so mean.
And baby...
Stop, choosing to demean.
Baby!
Stop, choosing to demean.
Yo' baby!
Stop, choosing to demean.
Yo' baby!
Stop, choosing to demean.
Yo' baby,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Salut Au Monde
O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman!
Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!
Such join'd unended links, each hook'd to the next!
Each answering all--each sharing the earth with all.
What widens within you, Walt Whitman?
What waves and soils exuding?
What climes? what persons and lands are here?
Who are the infants? some playing, some slumbering?
Who are the girls? who are the married women?
Who are the groups of old men going slowly with their arms about each
other's necks?
What rivers are these? what forests and fruits are these?
What are the mountains call'd that rise so high in the mists?
What myriads of dwellings are they, fill'd with dwellers?
Within me latitude widens, longitude lengthens;
Asia, Africa, Europe, are to the east--America is provided for in the
west;
Banding the bulge of the earth winds the hot equator,
Curiously north and south turn the axis-ends;
Within me is the longest day--the sun wheels in slanting rings--it
does not set for months;
Stretch'd in due time within me the midnight sun just rises above the
horizon, and sinks again;
Within me zones, seas, cataracts, plants, volcanoes, groups,
Malaysia, Polynesia, and the great West Indian islands.
What do you hear, Walt Whitman?
I hear the workman singing, and the farmer's wife singing;
I hear in the distance the sounds of children, and of animals early
in the day;
I hear quick rifle-cracks from the riflemen of East Tennessee and
Kentucky, hunting on hills;
I hear emulous shouts of Australians, pursuing the wild horse;
I hear the Spanish dance, with castanets, in the chestnut shade, to
the rebeck and guitar;
I hear continual echoes from the Thames;
I hear fierce French liberty songs;
I hear of the Italian boat-sculler the musical recitative of old
poems;
I hear the Virginia plantation-chorus of negroes, of a harvest night,
in the glare of pine-knots;
I hear the strong baritone of the 'long-shore-men of Mannahatta;
I hear the stevedores unlading the cargoes, and singing;
I hear the screams of the water-fowl of solitary north-west lakes;
I hear the rustling pattering of locusts, as they strike the grain
and grass with the showers of their terrible clouds;
I hear the Coptic refrain, toward sundown, pensively falling on the
[...] Read more
poem by Walt Whitman
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A Stave Of Roving Tim
(ADDRESSED TO CERTAIN FRIENDLY TRAMPS.)
I
The wind is East, the wind is West,
Blows in and out of haven;
The wind that blows is the wind that's best,
And croak, my jolly raven!
If here awhile we jigged and laughed,
The like we will do yonder;
For he's the man who masters a craft,
And light as a lord can wander.
So, foot the measure, Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.
II
You live in rows of snug abodes,
With gold, maybe, for counting;
And mine's the beck of the rainy roads
Against the sun a-mounting.
I take the day as it behaves,
Nor shiver when 'tis airy;
But comes a breeze, all you are on waves,
Sick chickens o' Mother Carey!
So, now for next, cries Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.
III
Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer,
To make a man consider.
If you were up with the auctioneer,
I'd be a handsome bidder.
But wedlock clips the rover's wing;
She tricks him fly to spider;
And when we get to fights in the Ring,
It's trumps when you play outsider.
So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.
IV
[...] Read more
poem by George Meredith
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The Libelle of Englyshe Polycye
Here beginneth the Prologe of the processe of the Libelle of Englyshe polycye, exhortynge alle Englande to kepe the see enviroun and namelye the narowe see, shewynge whate profete commeth thereof and also whate worshype and salvacione to Englande and to alle Englyshe menne.
The trewe processe of Englysh polycye
Of utterwarde to kepe thys regne in rest
Of oure England, that no man may denye
Ner say of soth but it is one the best,
Is thys, as who seith, south, north, est and west
Cheryshe marchandyse, kepe thamyralte,
That we bee maysteres of the narowe see.
For Sigesmonde the grete Emperoure,
Whyche yet regneth, whan he was in this londe
Wyth kynge Herry the vte, prince of honoure,
Here moche glorye, as hym thought, he founde,
A myghty londe, whyche hadde take on honde
To werre in Fraunce and make mortalite,
And ever well kept rounde aboute the see.
And to the kynge thus he seyde, 'My brothere',
Whan he perceyved too townes, Calys and Dovere,
'Of alle youre townes to chese of one and other
To kepe the see and sone for to come overe,
To werre oughtwardes and youre regne to recovere,
Kepe these too townes sure to youre mageste
As youre tweyne eyne to kepe the narowe see'.
For if this see be kepte in tyme of werre,
Who cane here passe withought daunger and woo?
Who may eschape, who may myschef dyfferre?
What marchaundy may forby be agoo?
For nedes hem muste take truse every foo,
Flaundres and Spayne and othere, trust to me,
Or ellis hyndered alle for thys narowe see.
Therfore I caste me by a lytell wrytinge
To shewe att eye thys conclusione,
For concyens and for myne acquytynge
Ayenst God, and ageyne abusyon
And cowardyse and to oure enmyes confusione;
For iiij. thynges oure noble sheueth to me,
Kyng, shype and swerde and pouer of the see.
Where bene oure shippes, where bene oure swerdes become?
Owre enmyes bid for the shippe sette a shepe.
Allas, oure reule halteth, hit is benome.
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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We'll go No More A-Roving
We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon.
November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June.
The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere.
We'll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear.
We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon.
The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune.
Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year.
We'll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear.
We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon.
If yet we walk together, we need not shun the noon.
No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear,
We'll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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You Came
You Came
I remained before you came
After your arrival I remain also
Ballie bloomed before you came
Crow used to cawing at dawn
The barking dog used to embrace me
As soon as I reached to it
Some feature after your arrival
But amongst this something differ
What is that something?
I asked it to a street boy-
He replied, how can I answer-
This footpath was bedroom of my grand father
That was before 1947
Grand father could not sleep because of British mosquito
My father’s expression was same
He was destroyed due to Pakistani mosquito
And what’s about-
The mosquito grew up socking blood of me
Grand father and father- Will let me off?
But I have heard, If this government
May come for next term-
Government will give us mosquito curtain each.
In the previous periods none gave this commitment.
If really I get the mosquito curtain
Then, like my life
Answer of your `something’ will get.
--0--
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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Target
Uptown - downtown
No ones fussy Im a target
Black, white - day, night
No ones fussy Im a target
Somebody say Im crazy
Walking in this neighborhood
Say you cant be too careful
But that wont do no good
Im no one special
But any part of town
Someone could smile at me then
Shake my hand then gun me down
Uptown - downtown
No ones fussy Im a target
Black, white - day, night
No ones fussy Im a target
Somebody say Im crazy
Living in this crazy town
I say maybe youre just lazy
Got to either swim or drown
I know what Im doing
Im happy day to day
But then something happens
Takes my nerve away
Uptown - downtown
No ones fussy Im a target
Black, white - day, night
No ones fussy Im a target
song performed by Joe Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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Loco Mosquito
Pop
My mommy told me
If I were goody
That she would buy me
A rubber dolly
I got some energy to burn
It makes me jumpy and nervous
But Im too damn old to join the military service
Hup two three four
I got to hit my baby on a saturday night
You know the devil made me do it
I know it wasnt right
Like a loco mosquito
round and round and round igo
And when Im hungry
Down I go
Please mr. custer I dont wanna go
And spend my night in a bar with some stupid dodo
Im sick of hanging round with old transvestites
They stare at my rubbers
It makes me uptight
And here I go
In love again
Here I go-oh wo wo
Like a loco mosquito
I got some energy to burn
But you always want to tap it
Youre busy sucking on my gas tank
Before I can tap it
Like a loco mosquito
round and round and round igo
And when Im hungry
Down I go
Loco mosquito
song performed by Iggy Pop
Added by Lucian Velea
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Gone young
I stopped for some minutes
Looked away from my scribbles, littered
Pieces of papers on the table and
A glass of water that fattens the thumb
Only time knows how long;
As I glazed through the window
At the orange sun
Hanging on the west side
Little Jamie was kicking football around
With the others
He was only five,
Bare, tiny mosquito legs
On tiny rocks, stones and silt
Dogs frolic around the corner
With their undefined business
After a moment in time
I turned back
At the future soccer mockery
Jamie was gone
Like the fading light in April
That was the last I saw him
My tiny, mosquito legged star player
News came few days later
Stray bullet went through him
As hot knife through butter;
My tiny mosquito legged player
With reverie and ambition
Fizzled like smoke in the wind
I remember you Jamie;
My mosquito legged star
Faded dreams
On rocks, stones and silt
On my scribbles and poetic rubbish
Fit for publication
Adieu!
poem by Chika Nwokeoma
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Lets See Action
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see freedom, lets see who cares,
Lets see freedom, lets see who cares,
Take me with you when you leave me
Take me with you when you leave me
And my shell behind us there.
And my shell behind us there.
I have learned it, known who burned me,
I have learned it, known who burned me,
Avatar has warmed my feet,
Avatar has warmed my feet,
Take me with you, let me see you,
Take me with you, let me see you,
Time and life can meet.
Time and life can meet.
Nothing is everything, everything is, nothing is,
Nothing is everything, everything is, nothing is,
Please the people, audiences,
Please the people, audiences,
Break the fences,
Break the fences,
Nothing is.
Nothing is.
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see freedom up in the air,
Lets see freedom up in the air,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets be free, lets see who cares.
Lets be free, lets see who cares.
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see freedom up in the air,
Lets see freedom up in the air,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets be free, lets see who cares.
Lets be free, lets see who cares.
Give me a drink boy, wash my feet,
Give me a drink boy, wash my feet,
Im so tired of running from my own heat,
Im so tired of running from my own heat,
Take this package and heres what you do,
Take this package and heres what you do,
Gonna get this information through.
Gonna get this information through.
I dont know where Im going,
I dont know where Im going,
[...] Read more
song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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3rd Of June
This is the 3rd of june, 1988
A highly unimportant day
Some airplane gliding into one of the bigger clouds over manhattan
In a downtown far away, mr. toomy, our face in a crowd
The city was slow and tired
The wall street boys wearing their ties around their neck
Like boxers towels after a fight
Mr. toomy stopped his pinstripe suit outside a barber shop
Looked at his face, took off his jacket and stepped on it
Whos that, whats that, what do you mean
Ill never know where I lost my dream
Whos that, whats that, gimme your name
3rd of june, end of game
No looking to the right
No looking to the left
Lenny is a target and always on track
Lenny is a target and nobody shoots
Lenny is a target lost the route
Ruins of a childs old fantasy
Ruins of a child was [? ]
Lenny is a target and nobody shoots
Lenny is a target lost the route
Whos that, whats that, what do you mean
Ill never know when I lost my dream
Whos that, whats that, gimme your name
3rd of june, end of game
Mr. toomy stopped his pinstripe suit outside a barber shop
Looked at his face
Took off his jacket
Put it on the pavement
Stepped on it
And started preaching like a monk from another world
After some minutes, he had a little crowd
Which dissappeared when a police car passed by slowly
Like rolling gloom
And mr. toomy throws his voice til he was the only one in the area
At this early night of june 3rd, 1988
Whos that, whats that, what do you mean
Ill never know when I lost my dream
Whos that, whats that, gimme your name
3rd of june, end of game
song performed by Yello
Added by Lucian Velea
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3rd Of June
This is the 3rd of june, 1988
A highly unimportant day
Some airplane gliding into one of the bigger clouds over manhattan
In a downtown far away, mr. toomy, our face in a crowd
The city was slow and tired
The wall street boys wearing their ties around their neck
Like boxers towels after a fight
Mr. toomy stopped his pinstripe suit outside a barber shop
Looked at his face, took off his jacket and stepped on it
Whos that, whats that, what do you mean
Ill never know where I lost my dream
Whos that, whats that, gimme your name
3rd of june, end of game
No looking to the right
No looking to the left
Lenny is a target and always on track
Lenny is a target and nobody shoots
Lenny is a target lost the route
Ruins of a childs old fantasy
Ruins of a child was [? ]
Lenny is a target and nobody shoots
Lenny is a target lost the route
Whos that, whats that, what do you mean
Ill never know when I lost my dream
Whos that, whats that, gimme your name
3rd of june, end of game
Mr. toomy stopped his pinstripe suit outside a barber shop
Looked at his face
Took off his jacket
Put it on the pavement
Stepped on it
And started preaching like a monk from another world
After some minutes, he had a little crowd
Which dissappeared when a police car passed by slowly
Like rolling gloom
And mr. toomy throws his voice til he was the only one in the area
At this early night of june 3rd, 1988
Whos that, whats that, what do you mean
Ill never know when I lost my dream
Whos that, whats that, gimme your name
3rd of june, end of game
song performed by Yello
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Witch's frolic
[Scene, the 'Snuggery' at Tappington.-- Grandpapa in a high-backed cane-bottomed elbow-chair of carved walnut-tree, dozing; his nose at an angle of forty-five degrees,--his thumbs slowly perform the rotatory motion described by lexicographers as 'twiddling.'--The 'Hope of the family' astride on a walking-stick, with burnt-cork mustachios, and a pheasant's tail pinned in his cap, solaceth himself with martial music.-- Roused by a strain of surpassing dissonance, Grandpapa Loquitur. ]
Come hither, come hither, my little boy Ned!
Come hither unto my knee--
I cannot away with that horrible din,
That sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin.
Oh, better to wander frank and free
Through the Fair of good Saint Bartlemy,
Than list to such awful minstrelsie.
Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by,
And I'll rede ye a lay of Grammarye.
[Grandpapa riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano, proceedeth slowly to the window, and apostrophizeth the Abbey in the distance.]
I love thy tower, Grey Ruin,
I joy thy form to see,
Though reft of all,
Cell, cloister, and hall,
Nothing is left save a tottering wall,
That, awfully grand and darkly dull,
Threaten'd to fall and demolish my skull,
As, ages ago, I wander'd along
Careless thy grass-grown courts among,
In sky-blue jacket and trowsers laced,
The latter uncommonly short in the waist.
Thou art dearer to me, thou Ruin grey,
Than the Squire's verandah over the way;
And fairer, I ween,
The ivy sheen
That thy mouldering turret binds,
Than the Alderman's house about half a mile off,
With the green Venetian blinds.
Full many a tale would my Grandam tell,
In many a bygone day,
Of darksome deeds, which of old befell
In thee, thou Ruin grey!
And I the readiest ear would lend,
And stare like frighten'd pig;
While my Grandfather's hair would have stood up an end,
Had he not worn a wig.
One tale I remember of mickle dread--
Now lithe and listen, my little boy Ned!
Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned,
Though thy mother thine idlesse blames,
In Doctor Goldsmith's history book,
Of a gentleman called King James,
In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches,
[...] Read more
poem by Richard Harris Barham
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A Gigolo Lies in Wait
He is hit by the beams of her roving eyes
and swept off to the sky by her sensual looks.
But reach his ears to her groans and longing sighs.
Those who have no feel of love hate the mad guys
who keep open the pages of their hearts' books.
He is hit by the beams of her roving eyes.
The rogues who share the bed where the strumpet lies,
dare to kill the sparrows which chirp by the brooks.
But reach his ears to her groans and longing sighs.
The poofs and ponces who feel no lovers' ties
live in peace undisturbed by the rabbles' hooks.
He is hit by the beams of her roving eyes.
Her orgling glances are her restless heart's spies
who know not the pangs of a bloke, a girl rooks.
But reach his ears to her groans and longing sighs.
When armed men mob to lynch, his heart soars and flies.
Gigabytes of news they get from all the nooks.
But he's hit by the beams of her roving eyes.
And reach his ears to her groans and longing sighs.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Four Seasons : Autumn
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost
Nitrous prepared; the various blossom'd Spring
Put in white promise forth; and Summer-suns
Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,
Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.
Onslow! the Muse, ambitious of thy name,
To grace, inspire, and dignify her song,
Would from the public voice thy gentle ear
A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows,
The patriot virtues that distend thy thought,
Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow;
While listening senates hang upon thy tongue,
Devolving through the maze of eloquence
A roll of periods, sweeter than her song.
But she too pants for public virtue, she,
Though weak of power, yet strong in ardent will,
Whene'er her country rushes on her heart,
Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries
To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame.
When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,
And Libra weighs in equal scales the year;
From Heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,
With golden light enliven'd, wide invests
The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise,
Sweet-beam'd, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad, and brown, below
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain:
A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air
Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined field,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily chequer'd heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around,
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.
These are thy blessings, Industry! rough power!
Whom labour still attends, and sweat, and pain;
Yet the kind source of every gentle art,
And all the soft civility of life:
Raiser of human kind! by Nature cast,
Naked, and helpless, out amid the woods
And wilds, to rude inclement elements;
With various seeds of art deep in the mind
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
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