All the genius I have lies in this; when I have a subject in hand, I study it profoundly.
quote by Alexander Hamilton Stephens
Added by Lucian Velea
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Magnificently enchanting night
The calm which the stringent day miserably dithered to provide; was profoundly imparted by the chilly breeze of the dark night,
The tumultuous passion which the austerely acerbic day failed to provide; was profoundly imparted by the agony of the resplendent night,
The ocean of dreams which the acrimonious day floundered every second to provide; was profoundly imparted by the mesmerizing fantasy of the velvety night,
The cloud of tingling sensations which the sultry day stumbled to provide; was profoundly imparted by the tantalizing charisma of the moonlit night,
The poignant aroma of romance which the brilliantly sweltering day tripped to provide; was profoundly imparted by the overwhelmingly silvery night,
The delectably sweet flavor which the harshly perspiring day dawdled to provide; was profoundly imparted by the surreal and stormy night,
The stupendous congeniality which the monstrously illuminated day succumbed to provide; was profoundly imparted by the superlatively friendly and voluptuous night,
The tunnel of unrelenting adventure which the monotonous day ludicrously refrained to provide; was profoundly imparted by the spell binding and exotically perfumed night,
The astoundingly fragrant aura which the nondescript day faltered to provide; was profoundly imparted by the piquantly pepped up night,
The enigmatic tales of fascinating mystery which the day abysmally shirked to provide; was profoundly imparted by the enticing and profusely titillating night,
The vivacious rainbow of colors which the incorrigibly boring day fluttered to provide; was profoundly imparted by the gorgeously whispering night,
The flamboyant rays of fire which the cloudy day horrendously nictitated to provide; was profoundly imparted by the vividly vibrant night,
The dreary trail of incredulous sedation that the day obnoxiously dwindled to provide; was profoundly imparted by the incomprehensibly seductive night,
The magical wave of longing that the stoical day irrevocably refused to provide; was profoundly imparted by the mystically simmering night,
The cold beads of unprecedented exhilaration that the abysmally hot day pathetically slithered to provide; was profoundly imparted by the majestic and princely night,
The ardently milky aroma which the intractably bright day disastrously shivered to provide; was profoundly imparted by the ravishingly dainty night,
The unparalleled tremors of ecstasy which the brutal beams of day insurmountably struggled to provide; was profoundly imparted by the stringently spicy winds of night,
The opulent showers of nostalgia which the murderously blazing day wavered to provide; was profoundly imparted by the opalescent shades of the night,
And the celestial stupor which the savagely bubbling day thoroughly failed to provide; was profoundly imparted by the magnificently enchanting night…
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Down By The Riverside
(public domain)
Im gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside, down by the riverside
Im gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside,
Im gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
Well, Im gonna put on my long white robe, (where? ) down by the riverside (oh)
Down by the riverside, down by the riverside
Im gonna put on my long white robe, (where? ) down by the riverside
Im gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
Well, Im gonna lay down my sword and shield, (where? ) down by the riverside
Down by the riverside, down by the riverside
Im gonna lay down my sword and shield, (a-ha) down by the riverside
Im gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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GENIUS IN FRANCE
I'm not the brightest crayon in the box
Everyone says I'm dumber than a bag of rocks
I barely even know how to put on my own pants
But I'm a genius in France (yeah), genius in France, genius in France
Hoom chaka laka hoom chaka laka hoom chaka
I may not be the sharpest hunk of cheese
I got a negative number on my SATS
I'm not good looking, and I don't know how to dance
But nevertheless and in spite of the evidence I am still widely considered to be a
Genius in France, genius in France, genius in France
People say I'm a geek, a moronic little freak
An annoying pipsqueak with an unfortunate physique
If I was any dumber, they'd have to water me twice a week
But when the Mademoiselles see me, they all swoon and shriek
They dig my mystique, they think I'm c'est magnifique
When I'm in Par-ee, I'm the chic-est of the chic
They love my body odor and my bad toupee
They love my stripey shirt and my stupid beret
And when I'm sipping on a Perrier
In some caf down in St. Tropez
It's hard to keep the fans at bay
They say, "Sign my poodle, s'il vous plat"
"Sign my poodle, s'il vous plat"
Hemenene humenene himenene homenene
Poodle... poodle...
Folks in my hometown think I'm a fool
Got too much chlorine in my gene pool
A few peas short of a casserole
A few buttons missing on my remote control
A few fries short of a happy meal
I couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel
Instructions on the heel
But when I'm in Provence, I get free croissants *Bela bark*
Yeah, I'm the guy every French lady wants
And if you ask 'em why, you're bound to get this response:
(He's a genius in France! Genius in France!) That's right!
(He's a genius in France! Genius in France!) You know it!
(He's a genius in France, genius in France, genius in France!)
I'm not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree
But the folks in France, they don't seem to agree
They say, "Bonjour, Monsieur, would you take ze picture with me?"
I say, "Oui oui"
That's right, I say, "Oui oui"
"Oui oui"
He says, "Oui oui"
I'm dumber than a box of hair
But those Frenchies don't seem to care
Don't know why, mon frre
But they love me there
I'm a genius in France
[...] Read more
song performed by Weird Al Yankovic
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lies, Lies, Lies
[verse 1]
I see you coming through the door
Creepin
Its a quarter past four
And
I smell the scent of cheap perfume
Who is she?
You step in the room
With a guilty look upon your face
Busted
And you started to say
but really baby I can explain
Save your breath
Ive got something to say
[chorus:]
Every word you say is
Lies, lies, lies
And now Im leaving you, so
Bye, bye, bye
And I cant take no more of this
Cry, cry, cryin
You know that you aint @#%$
With your
Lies, lies, lies
Ohhhhh
[verse 2]
Dont bother to apologize
Its too late
Ive heard it all before
And
This should come as no surprise
Im leaving
Ive packed my things
Cause Im through with this merry go around
Im getting off
Ive finally found
My strength waiting down
I should have left your @#%$
After the first round
Ohhhh
[chorus:]
Every word you say is
Lies, lies, lies
And now Im leaving you, so
Bye, bye, bye
And I cant take no more of this
Cry, cry, cryin
You know that you aint @#%$
With your
Lies, lies, lies
[...] Read more
song performed by Toni Braxton
Added by Lucian Velea
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Life's A Genius
Life's a genius.
Not a mediocrity
looking for reasons to live in the morning.
Life's not a plan.
It's a spirit that doesn't need one
whether things go right or wrong.
Life is light and water.
It delights in going everywhere at once.
Mediocrities have genius
but they don't know how
to play with it like a child.
Their eyes peek
through knotholes in the fence
but they sacrifice their longing
on the conventional altars of common-sense
and never throw the ball back over the hills
like the moon coming up
or the sun going down
without worrying about
breaking the neighbours'windows.
Life throws whole mountains around
and turns the cornerstones into quicksand
and goes down with Atlantis
only to come up again like Moby Dick
spewing stars out of its blowhole.
Mediocrity has its feet planted firmly on the ground.
It never goes anywhere it hasn't gone before.
It's the kind of fire
that sleeps with an extinquisher
in case things get too hot to put out.
Mediocrity shares.
But life's the kind of genius
that gives like an apple-tree
that fully expresses itself
through infinitely more
than four seasons
no two alike
without caring if it's of any benefit to anyone.
Mediocrity's stunned by the blossoms.
Genius tastes the fruit.
Life's the kind of fire
that doesn't have a root
you can pull up and take home with you
to add to your garden
like a new word to your vocabulary.
Mediocrity spells it out.
But genius is the dream grammar
of a spiritual alphabet
that isn't used to taking orders.
It doesn't have twenty-six words for inspiration
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
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The Only Way To Control Things
The only way to control things is with an open hand.
Water on rock
a fist can't do anything to stop the rain
that keeps washing its bloody knuckles
by kissing the raw red buds
of the pain-killing poppies clean.
Anger grows ashamed of itself
in the presence of unopposable compassion
just as planets are humbled by their atmospheres.
The soft supple things of life insist
and the hard brittle ones comply.
Bullies are the broken toys of wimps.
Power limps.
But space is an open hand.
Mass may shape it
but it teaches matter how to move
just as the sky converts its openness
into a cloud and a bird
or the silence nurtures
the embryo of a blue word
in the empty womb of the dark mother
like the echo of something that can't be said.
The only way to control things is with an open hand.
Not a posture of giving.
Not a posture of receiving.
Not a posture of greeting or farewell.
Not hanging on or letting go
but the single bridge they both make
when they're both at peace with the flow.
It's not the branch it's not the trunk
it's not the root it's not the fruit
but the open handedness of its leaves
that is a tree's consummate passion.
Isis tattoos her star on their palms
like sailors and sails
to keep them from drowning
and into the valleys of their open hands
that lie at the foot of their crook-backed mountains
the aloof stars risk the intimacy of fireflies
and fate flows down like tributaries into the mindstream
as life roots its wildflowers on both shores
as if there were no sides to the flowing
of our binary lifelines.
The only way to control things is with an open hand.
You cannot bind the knower to the knowing
as if time had to know where eternity was going
before anything could change.
X marks the spot where all maps are born
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
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Table Talk
A. You told me, I remember, glory, built
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt;
The deeds that men admire as half divine,
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design.
Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears
The laurel that the very lightning spares;
Brings down the warrior’s trophy to the dust,
And eats into his bloody sword like rust.
B. I grant that, men continuing what they are,
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war,
And never meant the rule should be applied
To him that fights with justice on his side.
Let laurels drench’d in pure Parnassian dews
Reward his memory, dear to every muse,
Who, with a courage of unshaken root,
In honour’s field advancing his firm foot,
Plants it upon the line that Justice draws,
And will prevail or perish in her cause.
‘Tis to the virtues of such men man owes
His portion in the good that Heaven bestows.
And, when recording History displays
Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days,
Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died,
Where duty placed them, at their country’s side;
The man that is not moved with what he reads,
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave,
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch to nought but his ambition true,
Who, for the sake of filling with one blast
The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste.
Think yourself station’d on a towering rock,
To see a people scatter’d like a flock,
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels,
With all the savage thirst a tiger feels;
Then view him self-proclaim’d in a gazette
Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet.
The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced,
Those ensigns of dominion how disgraced!
The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour,
And Death’s own scythe, would better speak his power;
Then grace the bony phantom in their stead
With the king’s shoulder-knot and gay cockade;
Clothe the twin brethren in each other’s dress,
The same their occupation and success.
A. ‘Tis your belief the world was made for man;
Kings do but reason on the self-same plan:
Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn,
Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.
[...] Read more
poem by William Cowper
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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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Schooling Relationship
you are the subject which i study
understanding and getting to know you psychologically
learning new ways to do right
ways to out do the wrong
you are the subject which i study
practicing and testing the goods and bads
you are the subject which i study
the time has come graduation is here
learn the subject by studing its psychology
understanding is the only way for success
now we move on to the next step
you are the subject which i study to major
as i take hold of your hand
guide you through rough times throughout this life
you are the subject which i study to major
as time goes by ticking away
i studied you all those days
i understand your past history life
your psychology means alot to me
mentally physically emotionally speaking
you are the subject which i study to major...
poem by Diara Armstead
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An Epistle To William Hogarth
Amongst the sons of men how few are known
Who dare be just to merit not their own!
Superior virtue and superior sense,
To knaves and fools, will always give offence;
Nay, men of real worth can scarcely bear,
So nice is jealousy, a rival there.
Be wicked as thou wilt; do all that's base;
Proclaim thyself the monster of thy race:
Let vice and folly thy black soul divide;
Be proud with meanness, and be mean with pride.
Deaf to the voice of Faith and Honour, fall
From side to side, yet be of none at all:
Spurn all those charities, those sacred ties,
Which Nature, in her bounty, good as wise,
To work our safety, and ensure her plan,
Contrived to bind and rivet man to man:
Lift against Virtue, Power's oppressive rod;
Betray thy country, and deny thy God;
And, in one general comprehensive line,
To group, which volumes scarcely could define,
Whate'er of sin and dulness can be said,
Join to a Fox's heart a Dashwood's head;
Yet may'st thou pass unnoticed in the throng,
And, free from envy, safely sneak along:
The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown
To saints whose lives are better than his own,
Shall spare thy crimes; and Wit, who never once
Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
But should thy soul, form'd in some luckless hour,
Vile interest scorn, nor madly grasp at power;
Should love of fame, in every noble mind
A brave disease, with love of virtue join'd,
Spur thee to deeds of pith, where courage, tried
In Reason's court, is amply justified:
Or, fond of knowledge, and averse to strife,
Shouldst thou prefer the calmer walk of life;
Shouldst thou, by pale and sickly study led,
Pursue coy Science to the fountain-head;
Virtue thy guide, and public good thy end,
Should every thought to our improvement tend,
To curb the passions, to enlarge the mind,
Purge the sick Weal, and humanise mankind;
Rage in her eye, and malice in her breast,
Redoubled Horror grining on her crest,
Fiercer each snake, and sharper every dart,
Quick from her cell shall maddening Envy start.
Then shalt thou find, but find, alas! too late,
How vain is worth! how short is glory's date!
Then shalt thou find, whilst friends with foes conspire,
To give more proof than virtue would desire,
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
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English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire
'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare
'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.
Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse?
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar today, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.
When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.
Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
[...] Read more
The Subject On This Love
The subject on this love is an object,
And the object is very sound and beautiful;
The subject on this love is a valley,
And the valley is very quiet and lovely;
The subject on this love is a fruit,
And the fruit is very sound and attractive;
The subject on this love is a mountain,
And the mountain is very high and lonely;
The subject on this love is a river,
And the river is very smooth and slippery;
The subject on this love is a seed,
And the seed is very fruitful and sweet;
The subject on this love is your milk,
And your milk is very thick and sweet;
The subject on this love is your lake,
And your lake is very fresh and aromantic;
The subject on this love is a garden,
And the garden is very thick and bushy;
The subject on this love is a room,
And that room is very romantic and peaceful;
The subject on this love is your apples,
And your apples are very passinate and emotional;
The subject on this love is a tree,
And that tree is very tall and bushy;
But the peace of this subject brings is like,
Two lovers swimming across the blue sea of love and blues.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Added by Poetry Lover
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La La La Lies
If Im so lost without a friend
If Im so lost without a friend
Tell me, whos this by my side?
Tell me, whos this by my side?
This girl with eyes like gems
This girl with eyes like gems
And cool reactions to your lies
And cool reactions to your lies
Lies
Lies
La la la la la la lies
La la la la la la lies
You cant repeat what you put round
You cant repeat what you put round
All the things that made me cry
All the things that made me cry
You kicked me when I was down
You kicked me when I was down
And they hurt me all those lies
And they hurt me all those lies
Lies
Lies
La la la la la la lies
La la la la la la lies
Ive got my girl and together were strong
Ive got my girl and together were strong
To laugh at you and prove you wrong
To laugh at you and prove you wrong
I dont insist that you feel bad
I dont insist that you feel bad
I just want to see you smile
I just want to see you smile
Dont ever think you made me mad
Dont ever think you made me mad
I didnt listen to your lies
I didnt listen to your lies
Lies
Lies
La la la la la la lies
La la la la la la lies
If Im so lost without a friend
If Im so lost without a friend
Tell me, whos this by my side?
Tell me, whos this by my side?
This girl with eyes like gems
This girl with eyes like gems
And cool reactions to your lies
And cool reactions to your lies
Lies
Lies
[...] Read more
song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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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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III. The Other Half-Rome
Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!
There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto the Fourth
I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
III.
In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
IV.
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
V.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] 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
Added by Poetry Lover
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Little Lies
If I could turn the page
In time then Id rearrange just a day or two
Close my, close my, close my eyes
But I couldnt find a way
So Ill settle for one day to believe in you
Tell me, tell me, tell me lies
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
(tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies)
Oh, no, no you cant disguise
(you cant disguise, no you cant disguise)
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
Although Im not making plans
I hope that you understand theres a reason why
Close your, close your, close your eyes
No more broken hearts
Were better off apart lets give it a try
Tell me, tell me, tell me lies
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
(tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies)
Oh, no, no you cant disguise
(you cant disguise, no you cant disguise)
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
If I could turn the page
In time then Id rearrange just a day or two
Close my, close my, close my eyes
But I couldnt find a way
So Ill settle for one day to believe in you
Tell me, tell me, tell me lies
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
(tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies)
Oh, no, no you cant disguise
(you cant disguise, no you cant disguise)
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
(tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies)
Oh, no, no you cant disguise
(you cant disguise, no you cant disguise)
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
(tell me, tell me lies)
song performed by Fleetwood Mac
Added by Lucian Velea
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