
I detest converts almost as much as I do missionaries.
quote by H.L. Mencken
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Hind And The Panther, A Poem In Three Parts : Part III.
Much malice, mingled with a little wit,
Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ;
Because the muse has peopled Caledon
With panthers, bears, and wolves, and beasts unknown,
As if we were not stocked with monsters of our own.
Let Æsop answer, who has set to view
Such kinds as Greece and Phrygia never knew;
And Mother Hubbard, in her homely dress,
Has sharply blamed a British lioness;
That queen, whose feast the factious rabble keep,
Exposed obscenely naked, and asleep.
Led by those great examples, may not I
The wonted organs of their words supply?
If men transact like brutes, 'tis equal then
For brutes to claim the privilege of men.
Others our Hind of folly will indite,
To entertain a dangerous guest by night.
Let those remember, that she cannot die,
Till rolling time is lost in round eternity;
Nor need she fear the Panther, though untamed,
Because the Lion's peace was now proclaimed;
The wary savage would not give offence,
To forfeit the protection of her prince;
But watched the time her vengeance to complete,
When all her furry sons in frequent senate met;
Meanwhile she quenched her fury at the flood,
And with a lenten salad cooled her blood.
Their commons, though but coarse, were nothing scant,
Nor did their minds an equal banquet want.
For now the Hind, whose noble nature strove
To express her plain simplicity of love,
Did all the honours of her house so well,
No sharp debates disturbed the friendly meal.
She turned the talk, avoiding that extreme,
To common dangers past, a sadly-pleasing theme;
Remembering every storm which tossed the state,
When both were objects of the public hate,
And dropt a tear betwixt for her own children's fate.
Nor failed she then a full review to make
Of what the Panther suffered for her sake;
Her lost esteem, her truth, her loyal care,
Her faith unshaken to an exiled heir,
Her strength to endure, her courage to defy,
Her choice of honourable infamy.
On these, prolixly thankful, she enlarged;
Then with acknowledgments herself she charged;
For friendship, of itself an holy tie,
Is made more sacred by adversity.
Now should they part, malicious tongues would say,
They met like chance companions on the way,
[...] Read more
poem by John Dryden
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Wetness
Keeping it a thought you detest...
Is a kept confession,
You love wetness.
You're no different than the rest.
Those who undress quick,
For sex and wetness.
Denying heat wont make it go away.
Saying something different,
Is in conflict with your mission.
Keeping it a thought you detest...
Is a kept confession,
You love wetness.
You're no different than the rest.
Those who undress quick,
For sex and wetness.
Lie about it!
Try to hide those naked wishes in your mind.
Deny and fight it.
But you know fresh meat is what you want to find.
To bump and grind as you're sighing.
Keeping it a thought you detest...
Is a kept confession,
You love wetness.
You're no different than the rest.
Those who undress quick,
For sex and wetness.
You despair for nakedness and wetness.
You want it there,
Some sex and wetness.
Keeping you uptight at night,
And restless.
Ooooohhhyeah...
Keeping it a thought you detest...
Is a kept confession,
You love wetness.
You're no different than the rest.
Those who undress quick,
For sex and wetness.
mmmmm...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Truth, Goodness And Integrity
THE BEARER OF TRUTH COURTS TROUBLE IN THE WORLD OF LIARS,
THE BEARER OF LIES COURTS TROUBLE IN THE WORLD OF THE TRUTHFULL,
WHY DOST MY WORLD DETEST TRUTH?
WHY DOST MY LAND DETEST GOODNESS?
YES, EVEN MINE HOUSE DETESTS INTEGRITY,
THUS I AM BECOME UNWELCOME IN MINE WORLD,
LO AND BEHOLD, I AM NOW BECOME AN ABOMINATION IN MY LAND,
YES, I AM NOW BECOME DETESTED IN MY OWN HOUSE,
YES, I AM BECOME THAT WHICH THEY DETEST,
I AM BECOME TRUTHFULL,
I AM BECOME GOOD,
YES, I NOW GLOW WITH INTEGRITY,
YES INDEED, I AM TRUELY BECOME THAT WHICH THEY DETEST,
GOODNESS, TRUTHFULL, AND FILLED OF INTEGRITY!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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Hatred Is A Heavy Load
My hatred for life knows no bounds,
Anything to me is fair game,
Why I am like this really confounds,
I even abhor my own name.
I detest being fat I hate being thin,
Why can't I be shapely but lean,
Regardless of size I can never win,
For me there is no in between.
I loathe my work with a passion,
I'd just walk away if I could,
But as hatred is part of my fashion,
I don't really see why I should.
When I look around me it springs to mind,
I hate the whole concept of living,
To people and animals I can be so unkind,
At times I am so unforgiving.
I try to find faults wherever I go,
It's my aim in life to be cruel,
If I find one in you believe me you'll know,
I'll leave you feeling the fool.
I detest people telling me what to do,
Why don't they just see the light,
Regardless I'll tell them you haven't a clue,
For even when wrong I am right.
I may not know you but I don't even care,
There'll be something in you I can hate,
I'll search till I find it so please be aware,
Your character I will cremate.
I loathe religion with it's thousands of Gods,
How many Heavens can there be,
It preaches love and peace yet we're all at odds,
All trying to set our souls free.
I detest myself I hear you ask why,
To be honest I'm not really sure,
I hate the thought that one day I'll die,
Yet to me it has a certain allure.
Why am I like this I hear you all ask,
There's no answer or any excuse,
If truth be told it's really a mask,
It's my form of self abuse.
[...] Read more
poem by Bri Mar
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Believing They Are Best Kept Unknown
So many sighing.
And some are hiding...
Their emotions from becoming,
A civil unrest.
So many sighing.
And some are hiding...
Their emotions from becoming,
A cause to arrest.
So many sighing.
And some are hiding...
Their emotions from becoming,
A joke to detest.
So many sighing.
And some are hiding...
Their emotions from becoming,
Scenes to detest.
So many sighing.
And some are hiding...
Their emotions from becoming,
Scenes to detest.
Believing them best,
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
So many sighing.
And some are hiding...
Their emotions from becoming,
A civil unrest.
Believing them best,
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
Believing they are best,
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
Kept unknown.
And...
Believing they are best,
Left alone.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Sorcerer: Act II
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Sir Marmaduke Pointdextre, an Elderly Baronet
Alexis, of the Grenadier Guards--His Son
Dr. Daly, Vicar of Ploverleigh
John Wellington Wells, of J. W. Wells & Co., Family Sorcerers
Lady Sangazure, a Lady of Ancient Lineage
Aline, Her Daughter--betrothed to Alexis
Mrs. Partlet, a Pew-Opener
Constance, her Daughter
Chorus of Villagers
(Twelve hours are supposed to elapse between Acts I and II)
ACT II-- Grounds of Sir Marmaduke's Mansion, Midnight
Scene--Exterior of Sir Marmaduke's mansion by moonlight. All the
peasantry are discovered asleep on the ground, as at the end
of Act I.
Enter Mr. Wells, on tiptoe, followed by Alexis and Aline. Mr. Wells
carries a dark lantern.
TRIO--ALEXIS, ALINE, and MR. WELLS
'Tis twelve, I think,
And at this mystic hour
The magic drink
Should manifest its power.
Oh, slumbering forms,
How little ye have guessed
That fire that warms
Each apathetic breast!
ALEXIS. But stay, my father is not here!
ALINE. And pray where is my mother dear?
MR. WELLS. I did not think it meet to see
A dame of lengthy pedigree,
[...] Read more
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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I counseled many returning missionaries. I interviewed 1,700 missionaries all over the world. My advice to them is that you should study and prepare for your life's work in a field that you enjoy.
quote by Thomas S. Monson
Added by Lucian Velea
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St. Mother Teresa (2)
How could the world ignore the poor in streets?
How could the world neglect the souls sans sheets?
How could the world revel in happy meets?
How could the world deny the suffering, sweets?
How could one live in affluence when most,
In poverty and misery, lives spent?
How could one live in skyscrapers and rent,
The shelterless and starved souls, the pavement?
How could one serve the Creator unseen,
By being stingy, cruel, selfish and mean?
How could one walk unmindful of the scene,
When neighbors looked famished, ravished and lean?
How can you hate your neighbor and love God?
How can you sin and yet escape God’s rod?
The world is not as good as it was made;
The good we do nevertheless can’t fade.
In deep waters, no one can ever wade;
To love your neighbor as yourself, God bade;
Mother Teresa listened to God’s call;
Maybe, life was to her like bitter gall!
But, Jesus would lift her when she did fall.
The dying souls needed at least a pall!
She hadn’t the money to buy from a stall;
Her ambition to serve the poor was tall!
The future looked gloomy and like a wall!
She prayed to God to give her all the grace;
She wore a smile and showed a pleasant face;
While Kolkata served as her Indian base.
She had the world at large, all in her gaze!
And she would come out of this virtual maze;
And she would turn on to a running pace!
She saw through all the mist and fog and haze.
God helped her to finish in style, her race!
Her message read, “Love God through fellowmen.”
The world can be better if not Heaven!
The world could be made for all more even
By her Missionaries of Charity’s-haven!
Dedicated to Mother Teresa and her Missionaries of Charity
by dr john celes, COIMBATORE, T.N., India
poem by John Celes
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oh yes, Mr. Shaun, the Bible was not written in English
The Gospel of Christ and, in general,
the Holy Bible are written with the inspiration of God.
The Prophets and the Apostles
have recorded in written form
a portion of the oral teaching of the Old Testament
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
These are the original languages of the Holy Bible from' which all the translations have been derived. God's inspiration is confined to the original languages and utterances, not the many translations. There are 1,300 languages and dialects into which the Holy Bible, in its entirety or in portions, has been
translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.
This does not mean that the translations do not convey the meaning of the Bible for spiritual uprightness of the readers in their own language. On the contrary the Bible should be spread and preached to 'all nations'. The missionaries in foreign lands learn the language or the dialect of. the new area into which they bring the Bible and other religious teachings. For example, the missionaries from Constantinople, Saints Cyril and Methodios, sent to Christianize the Slavic peoples in the 9th century, first translated the Bible and the ritual books into the language of the people.
yes, Mr. Shaun, my friend the Bible was not written in English.IT was written in HEBREW, ARAMAIC, and GREEK....
But i like it written in English too, how i wish it were written in such a
language,
with a sense of class
and fashionable disguise,
for without it, how could i ever understand, God,
oh, my, God!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Missionaries of Africa
Missionaries of Africa
Men and women with different stories to share
In one goal, responding to God’s calling
Service through the mission of the Catholic Church
So too, to dedicating their lives for Africa and for her people where ever they maybe;
Ideals of Cardinal Charles Lavegerie, the founding father
Outlined from the Gospel –examples of Jesus the Christ
No matter what, where, when, name and title, status and condition
And to whom they are called to live and work with
Reality therefore, fostering each giftedness to build a community
In health and in sickness; in wealth and in distress
Even amidst of conflict till death confronts them
So does the promise of chastity, obedience, and poverty;
will guide them to holiness with the help of Mary –Queen of Africa.
Open to dialogue –the opportunities of encounter and experience
From simple details to complex points: conventional discipline to practical science
-the culture of balance;
All these years, from their root and their beginnings
From the City of Algiers, Africa, to all the corners of the world
Remains committed in keeping and sharing the legacy of Love, Faith and Hope
In-trusted to them; the spirituality of many facets of God’s goodness
Coming together: Priests, Sisters, Brothers, Associates, Students, and extended families
Again taking their promises,
to continue building the Church of Africa,
forming men and women to be apostles of Christ, and
shaping history through justice and peace of Jesus’ cross.
Note:
Missionaries of Africa or otherwise known as White Fathers is a society of priests, brothers, and associates together with their counter part sisters is working in Africa and with her people all over the world.
The society was founded by a French Cardinal and the first primate of Africa, Charles Lavegiery.
The poem was written in January 2010 AD.
poem by Jordan Legaspi
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The Legend Of St. Sophia Of Kioff
I.
[The Poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova.]
A thousand years ago, or more,
A city filled with burghers stout,
And girt with ramparts round about,
Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore.
In armor bright, by day and night,
The sentries they paced to and fro.
Well guarded and walled was this town, and called
By different names, I'd have you to know;
For if you looks in the g'ography books,
In those dictionaries the name it varies,
And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow.
II.
[Its buildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil.]
Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt,
Kiova within was a place of renown,
With more advantages than in those dark ages
Were commonly known to belong to a town.
There were places and squares, and each year four fairs,
And regular aldermen and regular lord-mayors;
And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace;
And a church with clocks for the orthodox—
With clocks and with spires, as religion desires;
And beadles to whip the bad little boys
Over their poor little corduroys,
In service-time, when they DIDN'T make a noise;
And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green
With ancient trees, underneath whose shades
Wandered nice young nursery-maids.
[The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kioff, a godly
clergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons.]
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding,
The bells they made a merry merry ring,
From the tall tall steeple; and all the people
(Except the Jews) came and filled the pews—
Poles, Russians and Germans,
To hear the sermons
Which HYACINTH preached godly to those Germans and Poles,
For the safety of their souls.
[...] Read more
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Tale XV
ADVICE; OR THE 'SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST.
A wealthy Lord of far-extended land
Had all that pleased him placed at his command;
Widow'd of late, but finding much relief
In the world's comforts, he dismiss'd his grief;
He was by marriage of his daughters eased,
And knew his sons could marry if they pleased;
Meantime in travel he indulged the boys,
And kept no spy nor partner of his joys.
These joys, indeed, were of the grosser kind,
That fed the cravings of an earthly mind;
A mind that, conscious of its own excess,
Felt the reproach his neighbours would express.
Long at th' indulgent board he loved to sit,
Where joy was laughter, and profaneness wit;
And such the guest and manners of the hall,
No wedded lady on the 'Squire would call:
Here reign'd a Favourite, and her triumph gain'd
O'er other favourites who before had reign'd;
Reserved and modest seemed the nymph to be,
Knowing her lord was charm'd with modesty;
For he, a sportsman keen, the more enjoy'd,
The greater value had the thing destroyed.
Our 'Squire declared, that from a wife released,
He would no more give trouble to a Priest;
Seem'd it not, then, ungrateful and unkind
That he should trouble from the priesthood find?
The Church he honour'd, and he gave the due
And full respect to every son he knew;
But envied those who had the luck to meet
A gentle pastor, civil and discreet;
Who never bold and hostile sermon penned,
To wound a sinner, or to shame a friend;
One whom no being either shunn'd or fear'd:
Such must be loved wherever they appear'd.
Not such the stern old Rector of the time,
Who soothed no culprit, and who spared no crime;
Who would his fears and his contempt express
For irreligion and licentiousness;
Of him our Village Lord, his guests among,
By speech vindictive proved his feelings stung.
'Were he a bigot,' said the 'Squire, 'whose zeal
Condemn'd us all, I should disdain to feel:
But when a man of parts, in college train'd,
Prates of our conduct, who would not be pain'd?
While he declaims (where no one dares reply)
On men abandon'd, grov'ling in the sty
(Like beasts in human shape) of shameless luxury.
Yet with a patriot's zeal I stand the shock
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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The Borough. Letter IV: Sects And Professions In Religion
'SECTS in Religion?'--Yes of every race
We nurse some portion in our favour'd place;
Not one warm preacher of one growing sect
Can say our Borough treats him with neglect:
Frequent as fashions they with us appear,
And you might ask, 'how think we for the year?'
They come to us as riders in a trade,
And with much art exhibit and persuade.
Minds are for Sects of various kinds decreed,
As diff'rent soils are formed for diff'rent seed;
Some when converted sigh in sore amaze,
And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze;
Others again will change to each extreme,
They know not why--as hurried in a dream;
Unstable, they, like water, take all forms,
Are quick and stagnant; have their calms and storms;
High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow,
Then muddily they move debased and slow;
Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow.
Yet none the cool and prudent Teacher prize.
On him ther dote who wakes their ectasies;
With passions ready primed such guide they meet,
And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat;
'Tis he who wakes the nameless strong desire,
The melting rapture and the glowing fire;
'Tis he who pierces deep the tortured breast,
And stirs the terrors never more to rest.
Opposed to these we have a prouder kind,
Rash without heat, and without raptures blind;
These our Glad Tidings unconcern'd peruse,
Search without awe, and without fear refuse;
The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ,
Call forth their spleen, and exercise their wit;
Respect from these nor saints nor martyrs gain,
The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain:
And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view,
Of that which must be tried, and doubtless may be true.
Friends of our Faith we have, whom doubts like these,
And keen remarks, and bold objections please;
They grant such doubts have weaker minds oppress'd,
Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest.
'But still,' they cry, 'let none their censures spare.
They but confirm the glorious hopes we share;
From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies,
With five-fold triumph sacred Truth shall rise.'
Yes! I allow, so Truth shall stand at last,
And gain fresh glory by the conflict past: -
As Solway-Moss (a barren mass and cold,
Death to the seed, and poison to the fold),
The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid,
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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The religious hatred
Muslims and Christians
Who are converts of Hindus,
Have got no nostalgia that
They were once Hindus
As Hindus who were converts
Of Jain or Buddhists,
Having no nostalgia that
They were Jain or Buddhists.
Temples were replaced by mosques
As shrines of Jain and Buddha
Had been replaced by temples.
Religions destroyed brotherliness
04.05.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The vepour
Matter converts to energy;
Energy converts to matter.
Births and deaths are inclusive.
Love and hate are but vepour.
04.04.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Whenever we read the obscene stories, voluptuous debaucheries, the cruel and tortous executions, the unrelenting vindictivenes, with which more than half the Bible is filled, it would be more consistant that we called it the word of a Demon than the word of God. It is a history of wickedness that has served to corrupt and brutalize mankind, and, for my part, I sincerly detest it as I detest everything that is cruel.
quote by Thomas Paine
Added by Lucian Velea
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You Have No Morals
The preachers of hate claim they hate the west,
While on their moral throne they sit,
Yet they'll take our money when put to the test,
Their ideals are straight from a pit.
If they really hate us why do they stay,
Don't you find it sickeningly funny,
They abuse our system then cause us affray,
But love taking our hard earned money.
Hypocrisy in terrorists will forever remain,
They are cowards every one,
Like their masters they're completely insane,
As for principles truth is they have none.
They have no scruples or moral code,
Their cowardice is for all to see,
Bravery to them is too heavy a load,
They wouldn't know the meaning of free.
To murder innocents is a total disgrace,
It's a cowardly and heinous act,
When you meet your maker he will say to your face,
Hell's where you're heading that's a fact.
The people you claim to represent,
Are very few and far between,
Decent people think you're ideals are bent,
With terrorist scum they wouldn't be seen.
If you truly detest the way we are,
Your choice is crystal clear,
Leave our country and travel afar,
But that thought just fills you with fear.
If you detest us as people the way you claim,
Return to the country you adore,
We will never allow you to achieve your aim,
Your ideals are rotten to the core.
You insult our freedom and our way of life,
Go elsewhere to have your quarrels,
The fact you can take from the people you hate,
Proves to us,
‘' You Have No Morals ‘'
poem by Bri Mar
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The Candidate
Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care,
Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where?
As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote,
On the tair type, or the embroider'd coat;
Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly
Where princely Popes and mighty Miltons lie?
Taught but to sing, and that in simple style,
Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile; -
Go then! and taste a yet unfelt distress,
The fear that guards the captivating press;
Whose maddening region should ye once explore,
No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more.
But thus ye'll grieve, Ambition's plumage stript,
'Ah, would to Heaven, we'd died in manuscript!'
Your unsoil'd page each yawning wit shall flee,
- For few will read, and none admire like me. -
Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe,
Squeezed betwixt Cibber's Odes and Blackmore's Job;
Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform,
Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm;
Then sent disgraced--the unpaid printer's bane -
To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane,
On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire,
Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire,
Who half reluctant has his care resign'd,
Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind.
Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth,
View the strange land, and tell us of its worth;
And should he there barbarian usage meet,
The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat.
And thou, the first of thy eccentric race,
A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place,
Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard,
Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard;
Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize,
The Muses yield, as the Hesperides;
Who bribes the guardian, all his labour's done,
For every maid is willing to be won.
Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand,
And beg our passage through the fairy land:
Beg more--to search for sweets each blooming field,
And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield,
To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow;
And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow;
Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop,
Soothe without fear, and without trembling, hope.
TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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The Odyssey: Book 18
Now there came a certain common tramp who used to go begging all
over the city of Ithaca, and was notorious as an incorrigible
glutton and drunkard. This man had no strength nor stay in him, but he
was a great hulking fellow to look at; his real name, the one his
mother gave him, was Arnaeus, but the young men of the place called
him Irus, because he used to run errands for any one who would send
him. As soon as he came he began to insult Ulysses, and to try and
drive him out of his own house.
"Be off, old man," he cried, "from the doorway, or you shall be
dragged out neck and heels. Do you not see that they are all giving me
the wink, and wanting me to turn you out by force, only I do not
like to do so? Get up then, and go of yourself, or we shall come to
blows."
Ulysses frowned on him and said, "My friend, I do you no manner of
harm; people give you a great deal, but I am not jealous. There is
room enough in this doorway for the pair of us, and you need not
grudge me things that are not yours to give. You seem to be just
such another tramp as myself, but perhaps the gods will give us better
luck by and by. Do not, however, talk too much about fighting or you
will incense me, and old though I am, I shall cover your mouth and
chest with blood. I shall have more peace to-morrow if I do, for you
will not come to the house of Ulysses any more."
Irus was very angry and answered, "You filthy glutton, you run on
trippingly like an old fish-fag. I have a good mind to lay both
hands about you, and knock your teeth out of your head like so many
boar's tusks. Get ready, therefore, and let these people here stand by
and look on. You will never be able to fight one who is so much
younger than yourself."
Thus roundly did they rate one another on the smooth pavement in
front of the doorway, and when Antinous saw what was going on he
laughed heartily and said to the others, "This is the finest sport
that you ever saw; heaven never yet sent anything like it into this
house. The stranger and Irus have quarreled and are going to fight,
let us set them on to do so at once."
The suitors all came up laughing, and gathered round the two
ragged tramps. "Listen to me," said Antinous, "there are some goats'
paunches down at the fire, which we have filled with blood and fat,
and set aside for supper; he who is victorious and proves himself to
be the better man shall have his pick of the lot; he shall be free
of our table and we will not allow any other beggar about the house at
all."
The others all agreed, but Ulysses, to throw them off the scent,
said, "Sirs, an old man like myself, worn out with suffering, cannot
hold his own against a young one; but my irrepressible belly urges
me on, though I know it can only end in my getting a drubbing. You
must swear, however that none of you will give me a foul blow to
favour Irus and secure him the victory."
They swore as he told them, and when they had completed their oath
Telemachus put in a word and said, "Stranger, if you have a mind to
settle with this fellow, you need not be afraid of any one here.
[...] Read more
poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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A Poem At The Approach Of Spring
It's spring. I suppose I ought to be impressed
By snowdrops, daffodils and all the rest -
Quite frankly I detest
The whole goddamn scene,
I'm sick of every platitude
That betrays some soppy poetic attitude -
I'm feeling quite depressed!
The world is young again and green
But, what the hell,
I feel about a hundred years old!
Yes, I detest
The way the poets are so obsessed
With snowdrops, daffodils and all the rest!
I suppose you've guessed
I've lost my poet's interest
In life and growing things,
The way the blackbird sings
And builds its nest,
I am a man apart
And nothing will ever comfort my empty heart.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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