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He was imposing, even in his pensiveness.

quote by George Barr McCutcheon
Added by Lucian Velea
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There Is a Dawning to Be Reaped

It is unfolding,
The disclosure...
Of the coming of a new plateau.
And on minds imposing with a showing,
It is time for that grasp of the past to let go.

It is unfolding and unloading,
That which comes to bestow...
A revealing,
Of a new plateau...
To behold for all to know.

And we who live are in the midst of it.
Here to adjust,
And witness this.

It is unfolding...
The disclosure of a new plateau.
It is unfolding to expose,
Those old beliefs to let go.

There is a dawning to be reaped.
Introducing us to different beliefs.
It is unfolding,
To leave...
Opportunities that will be released.

It is unfolding within reach.
No matter what the past teaches us to seek.

It is unfolding,
The disclosure...
Of the coming of a new plateau.
And on minds imposing with a showing,
It is time for that grasp of the past to let go.

There is a dawning to be reaped,
And imposing.
Not a doubt about it.
Dawning to be reaped and imposing,
Drop your doubts about it.
Dawning to be reaped and imposing.
There's no doubt about it.
Those who do remain in doubt,
Will find they stay amongst psychotics.
Doubting in their minds about it.

Dawning to be reaped and imposing,
Drop your doubts about it.
Dawning to be reaped and imposing.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sponge

You've found my need of last time
I could leave the worse kind
Imposing like it's over now
Reaching out wrong
I still wait
Holding my blessing back
I still wait
Holding my blessing back
Underneath a death hand
Underneath realms
I still wait
Holding my blessing back
I still wait
Holding my blessing back
You know I can better see black around
You know I can better see light down
You know I can better see against yours
You know I can better see against yours
It's your life
Your life
Your life
Your life
Wanting me then
Taking the steer and
Imposing like it's over now
Reaching out wrong
Burned, burned
Burned, burned
All the way
Your eyes
All the way
Your eyes
You know I can better see black around
You know I can better see light down
You know I can better see against yours
You know I can better see against yours
It's your life
Your life
Your life
Your life

song performed by Ultraspank
Added by Lucian Velea
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Imposing Upon A Patience Given

Time is too precious,
To give to others to waste...
As they bask within their egos,
Procrastinating what moves to make...
While imposing upon a patience given.

Time is too precious,
To delay an agenda prioritized...
With eyes set to realize,
Things needing to get done.
And accompanied by motivation.

Some dismiss this discipline.
If not familiar with initiative.
Some will excuse themselves from this.
Thinking motivation is a thing that is wished.

Time is too precious,
To give to others to waste...
As they bask within their egos,
Procrastinating what moves to make...
While imposing upon a patience given.

Some dismiss this discipline.
If not familiar with initiative.
Some will excuse themselves from this.
Thinking motivation is a thing that is wished.
Much like feeding a craving to quickly satisfy a whim...
With the hopes someone mentions a noticeable difference.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 01

Property is for the comfort of life, not for the accumulation of wealth. A sage, having been asked who is lucky and who is not, replied: ‘He is lucky who has eaten and sowed but he is unlucky who has died and not enjoyed.’

Pray not for the nobody who has done nothing,
Who spent his life in accumulating property but has not enjoyed it.

Moses, upon whom be peace, thus advised Qaroon (Korah): ‘Do thou good as Allah has done unto thee.’ But he would not listen and thou hast heard of his end:

Who has not accumulated good with dirhems and dinars
Has staked his end upon his dirhems and dinars.
If thou desirest to profit by riches of the world
Be liberal to mankind as God has been liberal to thee.

The Arab says: Be liberal without imposing obligations and verily the profit will return to thee.

Wherever the tree of beneficence has taken root
Its tallness and branches pass beyond the sky.
If thou art desirous to eat the fruit thereof
Do not put a saw to its foot by imposing obligations.
Thank God that thou hast been divinely aided
And not excluded from his gifts and bounty.
Think not thou conferrest an obligation on the sultan by serving him
But be obliged to him for having kept thee in his service.

poem by Sa di
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The Interpretation of Nature and

I.

MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.


II.

Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.

III.

Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.

IV.

Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.

V.

The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.

VI.

It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.

VII.

The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.

VIII.

Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.

IX.

The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.

X.

The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.

XI.

As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.

XII.

The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.

XIII.

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Francis Bacon
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Pensive I Sit and Sniff Scents

Pensive I sit and sniff scents,
Of lavender and lilac...
Coming to invade my space,
From the other side of a fence...
Where my neighbors reside.

These days I try to find a way,
To quiet all of my anxieties.
And I didn't think I had that many,
Until I discovered...
I do!

And still I sit in a pensiveness.
Between thoughfulness and sadness.
And dreams that seem out of reach.
Although my 'spirits'
Are lifted by scents I sniff and wish to seige.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Will

BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,
Great Love, some legacies; I here bequeath
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;
If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee;
My tongue to Fame; to ambassadors mine ears;
To women, or the sea, my tears;
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore
By making me serve her who had twenty more,
That I should give to none, but such as had too much before.

My constancy I to the planets give;
My truth to them who at the court do live;
My ingenuity and openness,
To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness;
My silence to any, who abroad hath been;
My money to a Capuchin:
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me
To love there, where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have an incapacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics;
All my good works unto the Schismatics
Of Amsterdam; my best civility
And courtship to an University;
My modesty I give to soldiers bare;
My patience let gamesters share:
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me
Love her that holds my love disparity,
Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those
Which were my friends; mine industry to foes;
To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness;
My sickness to physicians, or excess;
To nature all that I in rhyme have writ;
And to my company my wit:
Thou, Love, by making me adore
Her, who begot this love in me before,
Taught'st me to make, as though I gave, when I do but restore.

To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls,
I give my physic books; my written rolls
Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give;
My brazen medals unto them which live
In want of bread; to them which pass among
All foreigners, mine English tongue:
Though, Love, by making me love one
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

[...] Read more

poem by John Donne
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Mrs. D---

Dear Betsey now Pleasure the woodland has left,
Nor more in the water she laves,
Since winter the trees of their bloom has bereft,
And stiffen'd to crystal the waves.

Now clad all in fur our guest she appears,
By the fire-side a merry young grig;
She pours out the wine, our pensiveness cheers,
And at night leads us out to a jig.

Then venture among the tall pines if you dare,
Encounter the keen arctic wind;
Dare this for to meet with affection sincere,
And Pleasure untainted you'll find.

I know you have Pleasure, my sister, by whiles,
But then she appears in great state;
She is hard of access, and lofty her smiles,
While Envy and Pride on her wait.

Thro' drawing rooms, Betsey, you'll chase her in vain,
The Colonel may seek her in blood;
The Poets agree (and they cannot all feign)
That she's born and resides in the wood.

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Schuylkill

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM

Sun-lit and shadow'd waters, leaping by
'Midst flowers and greenness, singing as they pass,
Or sleeping in some deep and shaded pool,
Lake-like, and dimpled by the playful touch
Of stooping branches, rocks vine-garlanded,
And the green pleasant woods, and over all
The wide blue glorious sky—oh it is sweet
To breathe amid such scenes!

Look on the page
Of Schuylkill's pictured beauty! that is such—
And thou may'st gaze, till it shall waken thoughts
Treasured in memory—for thou hast watch'd
The flashing of its waters, and hast stood,
Perchance, beside them, when the moonlight made
The scene a paradise, and friends were nigh,
Smiling with their glad eyes upon thy joy;
And music floated off upon the air,
As if the zephyrs breathed in melody.
Now other scenes are round thee—it is fair—
This wide extended landscape—but unlike
To that the Schuylkill mirrors. The old trees
That lift their tall green heads against the sky,
Are relies of past ages, and there seems,
Beneath their dim gray shade, to linger yet
A faint and mournful echo of the tones
Of the old forest tribes.

But when the hush,
And the dim beauty of the twilight steals
O'er the calm earth, and on thy spirit lies
A shadow and a pensiveness as sweet,
Then memory will lift the mystic screen
That veils departed years, and give them back
The consecrated past; and thou shalt stand
'Midst scenes where thou hast stood in other days;
And the gay laugh, and the remember'd tone,
Will seem, with startling vividness, to thrill
Across thy ear—but mine will not be there;
Thy memory hath no garner'd thought of me—
Yet think of me, for there may gleam a light
Amidst thy twilight dreams, from scenes to which
I turn for my most sweet remembrances;
Oh, how one charmed word will start to life
A thousand breathing memories of the past!
Schuylkill! sweet Schuylkill! and still dearer loved,
And hallow'd with yet deeper, sweeter thoughts,
My own dear native vale, and the bright flood*

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Forest Sanctuary - Part II.

I.
Bring me the sounding of the torrent-water,
With yet a nearer swell-fresh breeze, awake!
And river, darkening ne'er with hues of slaughter
Thy wave's pure silvery green,-and shining lake,
Spread far before my cabin, with thy zone
Of ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone!
Send voices through the forest aisles, and make
Glad music round me, that my soul may dare,
Cheer'd by such tones, to look back on a dungeon's air!

II.
Oh, Indian hunter of the desert's race!
That with the spear at times, or bended bow,
Dost cross my footsteps in thy fiery chase
Of the swift elk or blue hill's flying roe;
Thou that beside the red night-fire thou heapest,
Beneath the cedars and the star-light sleepest,
Thou know'st not, wanderer-never may'st thou know!-
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers earth,
To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons' mirth.

III.
There, fetter'd down from day, to think the while
How bright in Heaven the festal sun is glowing,
Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile,
Flush like the rose; and how the streams are flowing
With sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass,
And water-flowers, all trembling as they pass;
And how the rich dark summer-trees are bowing
With their full foliage;-this to know, and pine
Bound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot-'twas mine.

IV.
Wherefore was this?-Because my soul had drawn
Light from the book whose words are grav'd in light!
There, at its well-head, had I found the dawn,
And day, and noon of freedom:-but too bright
It shines on that which man to man hath given,
And call'd the truth-the very truth, from Heaven!
And therefore seeks he, in his brother's sight,
To cast the mote; and therefore strives to bind
With his strong chains to earth, what is not earth's-the mind!

V.
It is a weary and a bitter task
Back from the lip the burning word to keep,
And to shut out Heaven's air with falsehood's mask,
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap
Indignant feelings-making even of thought

[...] Read more

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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From Egmont

ACT I.

CLARA winds a skein, and sings with Brackenburg.

THE drum gives the signal!

Loud rings the shrill fife!
My love leads his troops on

Full arm'd for the strife,
While his hand grasps his lance
As they proudly advance.

My bosom pants wildly!
My blood hotly flows!
Oh had I a doublet,
A helmet, and hose!

Through the gate with bold footstep

I after him hied,--
Each province, each country

Explored by his side.
The coward foe trembled
Then rattled our shot:
What bliss e'er resembled

A soldier's glad lot!

ACT III.

CLARA sings.

Gladness

And sadness
And pensiveness blending

Yearning

And burning
In torment ne'er ending;

Sad unto death,
Proudly soaring above;

Happy alone
Is the soul that doth love!

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Meadow

Here when the cloudless April days begin,
And the quaint crows flock thicker day by day,
Filling the forests with a pleasant din,
And the soiled snow creeps secretly away,
Comes the small busy sparrow, primed with glee,
First preacher in the naked wilderness,
Piping an end to all the long distress
From every fence and every leafless tree.

Now with soft slight and viewless artifice
Winter's iron work is wondrously undone;
In all the little hollows cored with ice
The clear brown pools stand simmering in the sun,
Frail lucid worlds, upon whose tremulous floors
All day the wandering water-bugs at will,
Shy mariners whose oars are never still,
Voyage and dream about the heightening shores.

The bluebird, peeping from the gnarled thorn,
Prattles upon his frolic flute, or flings,
In bounding flight across the golden morn,
An azure gleam from off his splendid wings.
Here the slim-pinioned swallows sweep and pass
Down to the far-off river; the black crow
With wise and wary visage to and fro
Settles and stalks about the withered grass.

Here, when the murmurous May-day is half gone,
The watchful lark before my feet takes flight,
And wheeling to some lonelier field far on,
Drops with obstreperous cry; and here at night,
When the first star precedes the great red moon,
The shore-lark tinkles from the darkening field,
Somewhere, we know not, in the dusk concealed,
His little creakling and continuous tune.

Here, too, the robins, lusty as of old,
Hunt the waste grass for forage, or prolong
From every quarter of these fields the bold,
Blithe phrases of their never-finished song.
The white-throat's distant descant with slow stress
Note after note upon the noonday falls,
Filling the leisured air at intervals
With his own mood of piercing pensiveness.

How often from this windy upland perch,
Mine eyes have seen the forest break in bloom,
The rose-red maple and the golden birch,
The dusty yellow of the elms, the gloom
Of the tall poplar hung with tasseled black;

[...] Read more

poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Nizam’s Daughter

SHE is yet a child in years,
Twelve springs are on her face,
Yet in her slender form appears
The woman's perfect grace.
Her silken hair, that glossy black,
But only to be found
There, or upon the raven's back,
Falls sweeping to the ground.

'Tis parted in two shining braids
With silver and with gold,
And one large pearl by contrast aids
The darkness of each fold.
And for she is so young, that flowers
Seem natural to her now,
There wreaths the champac's snowy showers
Around her sculptured brow.

Close to her throat the silvery vest
By shining clasps is bound,
Scarce may her graceful shape be guest,
Mid drapery floating round.
But the small curve of that veined throat,
Like marble, but more warm,
The fairy foot and hand denote
How perfect is the form.

Upon the ankle and the wrist
There is a band of gold,
No step by Grecian fountain kiss'd,
Was of diviner mould.
In the bright girdle round her waist,
Where the red rubies shine,
The kandjar's glittering hilt is placed,
To mark her royal line.

Her face is like the moonlight pale,
Strangely and purely fair,
For never summer sun nor gale
Has touched the softness there.
There are no colours of the rose,
Alone the lip is red;
No blush disturbs the sweet repose
Which o'er that cheek is shed.

And yet the large black eyes, like night,
Have passion and have power;
Within their sleepy depths is light
For some wild wakening hour.
A world of sad and tender dreams

[...] Read more

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Not Here

Pensiveness touches me,
When the last ray of the
Sun, flutters its wings,
to fly away from this,
Woeful day...........
The green darkness,
Sits beside me to knock,
Me with the words-- not
Here, not here is your,
Root in the melancholic
Present, the shady yard,
The monotonous crickets,
The homeward birds declare--
This evening has approached,
As a must, inevitably as
Destiny drowns a good
Swimmer! I can't move,
From the far-stretched,
Growing night...........
My childhood days creep back,
To me-the coconut, the mango,
Jack fruit, guava, tamarind trees,
Crowd in single frame!
Mother lights the evening lamp,
Blows conch, father calls me,
I hear...The evening, my childhood,
And I thus become eternal,
On the canvas of a,
Standstill evening!

poem by Nilakshi Das
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I Shall Forget You Too

Why would you emerge from
the darkness I built around me
with lambent steps taken grandiloquently
unafraid of the ardent revulsion
I shackled myself into?

When from the shadows you danced
and dragged me into the road
where everything can go -
where we can move, be moved
and leave like how everything
in our star-crossed lives always do

How could I miss this?

And now, in this serpentine road
where the fallen soul was resurrected
the wistful clouds enshrouds me again
to cover the wringing torment of loneliness

I do not need to cover my face
because I am out of shame and fear,
everything before me is stirring clear,
everything before you is coming clean

I can't quite fathom how
one forgets when the other does
but with all my clandestine pensiveness
I shall try to forget you too
not for the sake of revenge
but for the volition of peace for us
in the idea of justice

poem by Norman Santos
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Metamorphosing Into Poignancy

There upon the soughing coughs of
the interminable vacuum of gravity,
the poems sprawled intermingling with
a desire to be read along with tatterdemalion
tragedies awaiting for the fall of Troy's defenses
to succumb into the unsolicited succors
cloyed upon your generous hands

Bibliophilic remedies only revives the flowers
felled in your gray-faced mausoleum
along with the bard's crooning to the
marigolds prancing for rain and sunshine;
The reflection in the blood-spattered tiles pries
for a sangfroid perchance that barters treasures
for these despondent malingerers' desire

Defenestrated with a roll of tobacco-lust,
the effluence of smoke carrying your faint
ambers crawled into the sky before it fecundated -
skin to soul inward-fulmination, and gave birth
to a phantasmagoria festooned with the veritable
pangs of misery protecting the frailty of
a white rose's calculated corolla of petals

There is no backdoors waiting in this labyrinth
so I roamed with dove-feet sunwards
donned in a raiment of shattered glass, I kneel
before the moon's phosphorous jeopardy
and prayed a succinct and embarrassed plea
to be taken in the cradles of your lost lullaby

But the cacophonous propinquity of the
dungeons where I abolished my only wish and
the suppuration of your tender pensiveness
toppled in a gravid dyslexia of niceties
and the entropy of empathy succumbs
to the larceny where the mindless
dandelions gave up their roots and family

What is more austere than the grief in wanting
something as perilous as a freefall in a gully
of fatally abundant-coloured finches is to
tether one's desire to the sullen bliss of
an empty tableau that ousts every blood
etched upon its obstinate ashen skin

The windless sand caught the fire seething
with the raining lances and the insinuation
of naivety personified, and in that cold war,
haplessly naked to the merciless conflagrations

[...] Read more

poem by Norman Santos
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Severance, With Veering Hands

The languid nimbuses amplified
the grass bugs under an ocher sunset
and their metallic sirens wailed
for nostalgia with veering hands
and it revved like a highway
and haunted like taillights

The maladroit afternoons strangled
in yellow haze and cigarette lace
dawned again, with waning iridescence
and a blinding severance cleaving
from the stark light of veracity
in the equipoise of day and night
your figure sank dithering

One hundred forty nine dismal days
exhumed the antebellum bones
and hoarded them in the closet
to thwart the besieging of time and change

The emollient influx cloys the somnolence
with a sweet pang from the drudgery
but by this window pane, you still remain
sauntering back and forth my alleyways

You hold my breath, you engulf my silence
Days become a metronomic deadweight
encumbering the flyleaf to flay for amends
and in the insatiable stagnancy
I remember the stride, the long haul,
and amongst these far-fetched visions
I remember you and our perdition
that peppered this willowy gust of morose
with the brusqueness of squalor

In this seamless, bleak pensiveness
our loose threads knitted themselves
mantling me in a velvet luster
with a mendaciloquent verve
drowning in the depths of its veneer
like how I bask in this unreality.

poem by Norman Santos
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Water Under The Bridge

The sun repents and we vied
to make the loose ends meet
but our knots would not tie
like how our burned bridges did

As I craned to peek underneath
this coaxing pensiveness
the water under the bridge
revealed the mirrors in my eyes:

Discontent is a serpent
with venomous heads on both ends
and many a gnarl on the abdomen
but this titivation cannot be corrected

Satisfaction is the quelling
of ardor flames that burned the stars
and scintillated their insinuation
and should I lie to submission?

The clockwork gears won't
carry the burden alone and time
will pillage all these afterthoughts
until the terse anticipation is decapitated

There is injury and the old bones
are slow to heal and the constitutions
are made to believe and paid to lie
that the cessation of war cannot repair

But recuperation shall come
and leave deep and haunting scars
and regret will teach us, mend us
into our separate devices

Because we cannot make corrections
into our trampled paths,
but the future has its light on
to wash the shadows of the past

To bleed in different places
and smile for varied phases
is better than to drown inside
the isles of our own wrathful revenge

And I will keep on looking back
the water under this lonely bridge
waiting for the familiar resurgence
that buoyed familiar things.

poem by Norman Santos
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When The Opened Is Closed

Hiding behind the alley ensconced
In the open page of your palms
The sun never reached your core -
A cold song the harpist cannot play
Without scathing her lissome fingers
Your pernicious montage can reel
Unfathomable pensiveness stalled
With a detrimental distraught

And like the gyratory leaves of July
We plummet down into an ennui
Of counting the withered petals
And plucking the defensive thorns
Reading behind the taut lines
That strode in the rousing verses
But when the library closes
How do we festoon the metronome
Slowly sojourning to decadence?

The sunset leaned on a pillar
And the moths confabulated with dusts
Shook from their giddy wings
Drowning the very poison of their being
Into their virulent eyes and even
Fatally caustic jellyfish wings
I asked for all the poison
Now I am but a living treason
With apathetic bones
In parsimony of truth and humility

But when the light had flown
Away with the peripatetic time
Your sad song devoured
By the luminance of the sand:
Your pensive theater closed
With all the eloquent environs
And visions obdurate from doom;
And castles and lore revolves
In the innocent corner of the mind
What reason or unreason can oppose
The closing of the latched doors?

As the mousetrap closes
A two-faced charade spoke of
The floodgates being opened;
In this hunger game
We will never win

When the opened is closed
And dabbed with a bulwark flood

[...] Read more

poem by Norman Santos
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Alastor: or, the Spirit of Solitude

Earth, Ocean, Air, belovèd brotherhood!
If our great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness;
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs;
If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first sweet kisses,--have been dear to me;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherished these my kindred; then forgive
This boast, belovèd brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favor now!

Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness,
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange tears,
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmèd night
To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought,
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Added by Poetry Lover
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