Reading was a big thing, yes. Books were a big thing. But the things that stick out were the newspapers.
quote by James Earl Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Head For The Barricade
FIGHT, FIGHT
FIGHT, FIGHT
FIGHT, FIGHT
FIGHT, FIGHT
Sometimes you gotta fight for your right
When your not sure you're in a fight for your life right?
If you ain't packin any tactics
You might get ass kicked
Even if you are you little knucklehead
I'm kinda sick of being aggravated
I'm glad I'm hated
I guess I'm doing something right
But that's what happened back in Columbine
You gotta know when to stop
And not go over the top
Cause there's a chamber deep inside the brain
It's covered with chains
So don't be shaking them loose
And if you do I'll be running for the hills
Cause I'm ready to rock and now we're playing for real
I gotta
FIGHT FIGHT
You better watch out when my adrenaline kicks I gotta
FIGHT FIGHT
IT'S TOO LATE, YOU ALREADY BEEN HIT, DAMN!
STICK 'EM STICK 'EM
STICK 'EM HA HAHA STICK 'EM
STICK 'EM STICK 'EM
YEAH! (Head for the barricades)
STICK 'EM STICK 'EM
STICK 'EM HA HAHA STICK 'EM
STICK 'EM STICK 'EM
YEAH! (Head for the barricades)
This world can make you stick to your stomach so I
Put on my headphones, listen to the Deftones
It's getting crowded in my spaceship
Living in a dream
Running from the hate machine
You know it's,
Such a drag when there's people talking down to ya
Such a drag when everything sucks do ya,
Walk away with spit on your face or do ya,
Draw lines and give them a taste cause I,
Know it's never gonna end
If it happens again I'm going straight for the throat
Another note
Don't forget you had a chance
Now I'm over the sidelines and ready to dance
I gotta
FIGHT FIGHT
[...] Read more
song performed by Limp Bizkit
Added by Lucian Velea
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Held Up With Just A Stick
Held up with just a stick.
Held up with just a stick.
Held up with just a stick.
Held up with just a stick.
Held up with just a stick,
It seems...
Held up with just a stick,
One's head...
Held up with just a stick,
Their arms and their legs...
Needing to be fed.
And...
Held up with just a stick,
One's pride...
Held up with just a stick,
Two eyes and two ears...
Living poverty so near,
To...
Famish it is clear.
And...
Held up with just a stick,
Hunger.
Held up with just a stick,
Life!
Held up with just a stick,
Blight!
And those who fight death in their sight.
Held up with just a stick,
Life!
Held up with just a stick,
Pride!
Held up with just a stick,
Blight!
And those who fight death in their sight.
Held up with just a stick,
And...
There's no benefit to it.
Held up with just a stick,
Life!
Held up with just a stick,
Pride!
Held up with just a stick,
Blight!
And living this is NOT a gift.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Revel In The Joy Of Books
Revel in the Joy of books
Revel in the joy of books
On the joy of get hooked
It’s an addiction that’s boredom proof
Indulge, it’s fun to revel in the joy of books
Take up a book and get hooked
Nothing’s wrong with getting hooked on the joy of books
Don’t’ be a fool change your outlook take up a book
Look into the joy of books
Revel in the joy of books
In monotony don’t remain stuck take a journey with a book
Find adventure and excitement in the joy of books
A book will certainly change your gloomy outlook
Take up a boot and leisurely get hooked
Books are enlightening just try reading
Free your imagination with a book allow it to roam freely
Shucks get with the program revel in the joy of books
Books they are boredom proof just revel in the joy of books.
Anthony S.Phillander©280112
Revel in the Joy of books
Revel in the joy of books
On the joy of get hooked
It’s an addiction that’s boredom proof
Indulge, it’s fun to revel in the joy of books
Take up a book and get hooked
Nothing’s wrong with getting hooked on the joy of books
Don’t’ be a fool change your outlook take up a book
Look into the joy of books
Revel in the joy of books
In monotony don’t remain stuck take a journey with a book
Find adventure and excitement in the joy of books
A book will certainly change your gloomy outlook
Take up a boot and leisurely get hooked
[...] Read more
poem by Anthony Shurland Phillander
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First Book
OF writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,–
Will write my story for my better self,
As when you paint your portrait for a friend,
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it
Long after he has ceased to love you, just
To hold together what he was and is.
I, writing thus, am still what men call young;
I have not so far left the coasts of life
To travel inland, that I cannot hear
That murmur of the outer Infinite
Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep
When wondered at for smiling; not so far,
But still I catch my mother at her post
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up,
'Hush, hush–here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes
Leap forward, taking part against her word
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel
My father's slow hand, when she had left us both,
Stroke out my childish curls across his knee;
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew
He liked it better than a better jest)
Inquire how many golden scudi went
To make such ringlets. O my father's hand,
Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,–
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee!
I'm still too young, too young to sit alone.
I write. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life–
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternised my soul
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,–
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children, (to be just,)
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Big Night
Oh, it's gonna be a big night
We're gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night
1,2,3, all my boys and girls
We gonna party like it's the end of the world
Let's get it started, started, started, whoa, oh
Waitin' on weekends it's Friday night
We gonna get dressed up
For the time of our lives
Let's get it started, started, started
'Cause I've been feelin' down, down, down
I need a pick me up, round, round, round
I wanna spin it up loud, loud, loud
DJ take me away
Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We're gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night
Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night
It's been a long week
Been workin' overtime
I need a heartbeat
To get this party right
I'm on another level
Turn up the bass and treble
Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up
'Cause I've been feelin' down, down, down
I need a pick me up, round, round, round
I wanna spin it up loud, loud, loud
DJ take me away
Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night
Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time
[...] Read more
poem by Jojo Jonna
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Stick By Me
Stick by me and I'll stick by you
Stick by me and I'll stick by you
My life here on earth would be useless can't you see
If I didn't have you to stick by me
I love you darling and that's no lie
Stick by me and I'll stick by you
When you cry I cry too
Stick by me and I'll stick by you
Friends may try to hurt us
Scandalise our name
But no one (no-one) can tear us apart
You have a place in my heart
I love you darling and that's no lie
Stick by me and I'll stick by you
Remember my heart and love belongs to you
Stick by me and I'll stick by you
When you cry I'll cry too
Stick by me and I'll stick by you
Repeat from "Friends may try to hurt us ..."
song performed by UB40 from Labour Of Love 2
Added by Lucian Velea
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Books
The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges
Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn
poem by Erica Jong
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A Fable For Critics
Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'
Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.
Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,
[...] Read more
poem by James Russell Lowell
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Big Time
Suc cess
Im on my way, Im making it
Ive giot to make it show, yeah
So much larger than life
Im going to watch it growing
The place where I come from is a small town
They think so small
They use small words
-but not me
Im smarter than that
I worked it out
Ive been stretching my mouth
To let those big words come right out
Ive had enough, Im getting out
To the city, the big big city
Ill be a big noise with all the big boys
Theres so much stuff I will own
And I will pray to a big god
As I kneel in the big church
Big time
Im on my way-Im making it
Big time big time
Ive got to make it show yeah
Big time big time
So much larger than life
Big time
Im going to watch it growing
Big time
My parties all have big names
And I greet them with the widest smile
Tell them how my life is one big adventure^
And always theyre amazed
When I show them round my house, to my bed
I had it made like a mountain range
With a snow-white pillow for my big fat head
And my heaven will be a big heaven
And I will walk through the front door
Big time
Im on my way-Im making it
Big time big time
Ive got to make it show-yeah
Big time big time
So much larger than life
Im going to watch it growing
Big time big time
My car is getting bigger
Big time
My house is getting bigger
Big time
My eyes are getting bigger
[...] Read more
song performed by Peter Gabriel
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stick Around
Youve been smiling lately baby
Youve been singing in the bath
Youve been acting like a lady
Not a dirty photograph
Then tonight you came home early
Packed a bag or two
Its been worrying me honey
Just what youre gonna do
Stick around, yeah, stick around
Stick around, babe, stick around
Well you came on like a hurricane
About a month ago
Blowing like a stiff breeze
Always on the go
All the good times that we had
All stayed in the past
All the good lays that I get
Never seem to last
Stick around, yeah, stick around
Stick around, babe, stick around
(come on baby, sit on this)
What have I been doing lately
To make you wanna go
I take you out dancing
Honey we can go out to a show
Spend a night romancing
Nights out on the town
Listen to me baby
Youll be glad you stopped around
Stick around, yeah, stick around
Stick around, babe, stick around
song performed by AC-DC
Added by Lucian Velea
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Keep 'Em Big
Keep 'em big...
Baby.
Keep 'em big.
Keep 'em big...
Baby.
Keep,
'Em Big...
Baby.
Keep 'em big.
Your dreams,
Keep 'em big...
Baby,
Keep 'em big....baby.
And,
Maybe they'll come 'true',
'Cause...
If you
Keep 'em big,
Baby.
Keep 'em big,
Baby.
Keep 'em big,
Baby.
Keep 'em big...baby!
'Cause...
You know what you need.
And,
You know what it takes..
To,
Really really please...
You!
Keep 'em big...
Baby.
Keep 'em big,
Keep 'em big,
Baby.
Keep,
'Em big...
Baby.
'Cause...
You know what you need.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sweet Summer Day
(4.04)
I'm gonna stick by you, everyday
Iwon't let you down now
No matter what they say
I won't let them get to you, no way
I'll stick by you
I'm going to stick by you
Now I know
No matter what tomorrow brings
I won't let you go
I won't let them get to you, Oh no
I'll stick by you
And when the laughter seems to fade away
And Mr Sun becomes a rainy day
Oh it don't matter cause you'll know anyway
I won't let you down
I'm gonna stick by you
I'll stick by you
Going to stick by you, now I know
No matter what tomorrow brings
I won't let you go
I won't let them get to you, no
I'll stick by you, I'll stick by you
I'll stick by you, I'll stick by you
Written and performed by Chris Rea (vocals, guitars)
Bass by Silvan Marc
Keyboards by Max Middleton
Drums and percussion by Martin Ditcham
Transcribed by IITI
song performed by Chris Rea
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stifle not the reader
Reading is an art,
reading is a tool.
Those who think it dumb,
must be such a fool.
Reading is enjoyment,
reading is a blast.
Reading is a separate entity
from the future and the past.
Reading is done in present,
though written in a tense.
Reading is about life,
in surprise or suspense.
Reading is a place of joy,
full of hope and song,
Reading is a place I feel
that I truly do belong.
A trapdoor to a fantasy,
A world thought lost to us,
Reading is a place of wonder,
a place that we can trust.
Why read about reality,
when I can delve into magic.
Why stifle my own happiness,
with scenarios so tragic.
Stifle not the reader,
for it is their choice alone.
Reading is an outlet,
for hearts that turned to stone.
poem by Mandy Lee
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On Books
Books are my first love, I’m so proud to read;
They give me knowledge and help life to lead;
Hours, days just pass by, by reading life-time;
Life would not be worth, if not for my rhyme.
Great are those people who write books all life;
Burning just candles, with Goose-quills in strife;
Tired of writing though day-long or night,
They keep on writing in such a bad light.
Books serve a great cause; their value can’t cease;
It takes years to write but reading is ease;
Book-makers struggle to print a few books;
And keep spending time to, improve their looks.
Some find their way to libraries in town;
Some remain untouched and nev’r taken down;
Silver-fish, Moths eat the books that are old;
Some are gone obsolete, some sold like gold.
Some are in tatters and must be rebound;
Books are Man’s best friends where solace is found;
Reading for long hours, does help you to learn;
Books give much knowledge and wisdom to men.
Read books with great care whose weight is in gold;
Serve generations though they may be old;
Source of much Info, deserving respect;
Books are life-partners whom you ne’er reject!
poem by John Celes
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Tale XXI
The Learned Boy
An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and
hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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Second Hand Books
Books! Books! Books! There are so many different designs.
There are some which, by the author, are personally signed.
Some books have pages with gilt edges, which look all posh.
Some have nice pictures on their covers, which are embossed.
Some books have hard covers, while some have soft.
Some are all dusty, where they’ve been kept in the loft.
Some books have fancy covers; some just have plain.
Some have suffered mishaps, and are now all stained.
Some books are all dog-eared at the corners of their pages.
Some have gone yellow, where they’ve been around ages.
Inside some books, there can be seen a pencilled name;
Someone, who once, on this particular book, had a claim.
Some are obviously well read; their spines are all creased.
From out of a book, amazing adventures can be unleashed.
Some books have pages which are spoiled or a bit torn.
Some have covers which are grubby and look well worn.
Some just have text, while others also include illustrations.
Some are former prize winners; once the toast of the nation.
There are books by famous authors, as well as the lesser known.
Some are former library books which, to the public, were loaned.
There are romances, poetry, classics, sci-fi, humour, and histories;
Gardening, cookery, travel, thrillers, manga, and murder mysteries.
In wooden bookcases, the books are categorised, and are neatly lined.
In a second hand bookshop, you just never know what you may find.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The peter-bird
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened,
And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.
Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky
One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices;
Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic--
Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains!
Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders--
These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest.
Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning
Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;
And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley
Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror--
"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"
Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor,
Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.
One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,
Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;
Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter
Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!
Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you;
Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions!
It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.
Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes;
What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil,
Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming!
"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin of
Peter!"
So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,
Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms,
Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating,
Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him--
Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!
[...] Read more
poem by Eugene Field
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator
Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!
It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!
Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dad and Me
Inside our house you'll find crannies and nooks.
Crevices and cracks and fissures and books!
Books under the bed and on the floor,
Books around the table and beside the door,
Books on the bookshelf and surrounding it,
Books all over the house, every single bit!
Not a one of these books are non-fiction,
Different worlds are their depiction.
Fictional, sci-fi, dark and fantasy,
Horror and happy, more books for me!
Books belonging to my father,
Or belonging to me as I rather.
My father and I in bookworm heaven,
Until mum cleans up around half past seven.
She throws the books in a huff,
Says it's a mess and to clean it up!
Well dad and I try to clean,
But on the work we quickly wean
And in one of the larger nooks
You'll find dad and me reading our books.
poem by Lenore Lee
Added by Poetry Lover
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Third Book
'TO-DAY thou girdest up thy loins thyself,
And goest where thou wouldest: presently
Others shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 'to go
Where thou would'st not.' He spoke to Peter thus,
To signify the death which he should die
When crucified head downwards.
If He spoke
To Peter then, He speaks to us the same;
The word suits many different martyrdoms,
And signifies a multiform of death,
Although we scarcely die apostles, we,
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.
For tis not in mere death that men die most;
And, after our first girding of the loins
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery,
To run up hill and meet the rising sun,
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,
While others gird us with the violent bands
Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up
Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts,
Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world.
Yet He can pluck us from the shameful cross.
God, set our feet low and our forehead high,
And show us how a man was made to walk!
Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed.
The room does very well; I have to write
Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away;
Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room,
Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters! throw them down
At once, as I must have them, to be sure,
Whether I bid you never bring me such
At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse.
You choose to bring them, as I choose perhaps
To throw them in the fire. Now, get to bed,
And dream, if possible, I am not cross.
Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,–
A mere, mere woman,–a mere flaccid nerve,-
A kerchief left out all night in the rain,
Turned soft so,–overtasked and overstrained
And overlived in this close London life!
And yet I should be stronger.
Never burn
Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare
With red seals from the table, saying each,
'Here's something that you know not.' Out alas,
'Tis scarcely that the world's more good and wise
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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