Quotes like One single vision fills all...

One single vision fills all minds: that of our independence endangered. One single duty imposes itself upon our wills: the duty of stubborn resistance.

quote by King Albert II
Added by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes

On A Path Of Least Resistance

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.

I'm on a path of least resistance,
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.

Pain,
And its existence.
Felt,
And its existence.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.
Oh!
Pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

Oh pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Happy Independence Day

Blow up them firecrackers.
Light up the sky.
Because it's Happy Independence Day.
I've been meaning to say..

Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happ..
Happy Independence Day, Happy Independence Day.
Happy Independence Day.Happy Independence Day.

Sparklers glowing.Stars and stripes showing.
Nothing but happy people.Celebrating the Fourth Of July.
The birth of our country.The birth of our flag.
Because our founding fathers.Always wanted it this way.

Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happ..
Happy Independence Day.Happy Independence Day.
Happy Independence Day.Happy Independence Day.

Fifty stars and thirteen stripes.
The flag still flies.The American way.
Old Glory's the name.Old Glory's the same.
Join with the crowd, for the American dream.

So blow up them firecrackers.
Light up the sky.
Because it's Happy Independence Day.
I've been meaning to say.

Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happ..
Happy Independence Day.Happy Independence Day.
Happy Independence Day.Happy Independence Day.

Independence Day-Song Poetry By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2006,2009..
ALL rights reserved..

Note; This wonderful Song-Poem was written on the Fourth Of July,
in the year 2006..

poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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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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Headlines (demo 1)

we call ourselves the crown of creation
i wonder what does it mean
we're not the owners of the moon and the earth
it's like a roundabout and it goes round and round for free
we've made some gruesome inventions
yet we're mastered by those systems
we're endangered danger, we're running out of fashion
if we don't care for responsibility, hey-hey
we're endangered danger, we're endangered danger,
we're the headlines today but all that we say is
we're endangered danger,
eric says that we're a lonely species
that's why we're playing the fools
but once we'll enter the aquarian age
i sometimes catch him floating in his swimming-pool, he says
if we'd tune in to our brighter sides
we'd feel like jesus on the waters
cause we're sailors not soldiers so much more for this show
than a guest-appearance in the universe, here we go
we're endangered danger, we're endangered danger,
we're the headlines today but all that we say is
we're endangered danger

song performed by Alphaville
Added by Lucian Velea
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Independence Day

Well papa go to bed now its getting late
Nothing we can say is gonna change anything now
Ill be leaving in the morning from st. marys gate
We wouldnt change this thing even if we could somehow
'cause the darkness of this house has got the best of us
Theres a darkness in this town thats got us too
But they cant touch me now and you cant touch me now
They aint gonna do to me what I watched them do to you
So say goodbye its independence day
Its independence day all down the line
Just say goodbye its independence day
Its independence day this time
Now I dont know what it always was with us
We chose the words and yeah we drew the lines
There was just no way this house could hold the two of us
I guess that we were just too much of the same kind
Well say goodbye its independence day
All boys must run away come independence day
So say goodbye its independence day
All men must make their way come independence day
Now the rooms are all empty down at frankies joint
And the highway shes deserted down to breakers point
Theres a lot of people leaving town now
Leaving their friends their homes
At night they walk that dark and dusty highway all alone
Well papa go to bed now its getting late
Nothing we can say can change anything now
Because theres just different people coming down here now
And they see things in different ways
And soon everything weve known will just be swept away
So say goodbye its independence day
Papa now I know the things you wanted that you could not say
But wont you just say goodbye its independence day
I swear I never meant to take those things away

song performed by Bruce Springsteen
Added by Lucian Velea
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State Of Independance (feat. J. Anderson)

State of life-may I live-may I love
Coming out the sky, I name me a name
Coming out-silver word-what it is
It is the very nature of the sound the game
Siamese, indionese. to tibet treat the life
As a game, if you please
(hey)
Coming up-carabi-this sense of freedom
Derives from a medative state
Movin on, believe thats it, call it magic
Third world, it is, I only guessed it
Shablam idi shablam ida
Shablam idi shablam ida
Shablam idi shablam ida
Shot to the soul-the flame of oroladin
The essence of the word
The state of independence
[interlude]
Sounds like a signal from you
Bring me to meet your sound
And I will bring you to my heart
Love like a signal you call
Touching my body my soul
Bring to me, you to meet me here
Home be the temple of your heart
Home be the body of your love
Just like holy water to my lips
(hey, hey)
Yes I do know how I survive
(yes I do know) know why Im alive
To love and be with you
Day by day by day by day
(hey, hey)
Say-aye yaya oh
(yayah yaya oh)
be the sound of higher love today
(yayah)
(hey, hey)
Time, time again, it is said
We will hear, we will see
See it all-in his wisdom-hear
His truth will abound the land
This truth will abound the land
This state of independence shall be
This state of independence shall be
Time, time again, it is said
We will hear, we will see
See it all-in his wisdom-hear
His truth will abound the land
This truth will abound the land

[...] Read more

song performed by Vangelis
Added by Lucian Velea
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State Of Independence

[...] Read more

song performed by Vangelis
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Dream

'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,

To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Canto the Eighth

I
Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will -- they mean but wars.

II
All was prepared -- the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay, --
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.

III
History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

IV
And why? -- because it brings self-approbation;
Whereas the other, after all its glare,
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,
Which (it may be) has not much left to spare,
A higher title, or a loftier station,
Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles,
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.

V
And such they are -- and such they will be found:
Not so Leonidas and Washington,
Whose every battle-field is holy ground,
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
While the mere victor's may appal or stun
The servile and the vain, such names will be
A watchword till the future shall be free.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Independence Day

One electrified eye
Freezing metalized smile
No more cheating the code
The scene is set - emotions disconnected
Welcome to the cyber trail
Laser cops and sirens wail
Held down with magnetic force
Said: come with us - you broke the law
Obey the rules - dont do no wrong
A thought too loud - and crime is done
No appeal for the common man
Just cold hard facts - in computer land
All freedom burns on eternal fire
Theres no more independence day
Forever gone never have another
No other independence day
Cyborg arms put the straps around
One more second till the switch comes down
Flaching lights - a cage of steel
Turns my head into a dead dogs meal
In this world - robotic rage
Youll understand the acid pain
Do no right - you wont last long
Remote controlled - under the heel of submission
All freedom burns on eternal fire
Theres no more independence day
Forever gone never have another
No other independence day
No remorse - for human kind
No recourse - to keep your mind
Its too late - theres no escape
Is this the end of the line
All freedom burns on eternal fire
Theres no more independence day
Forever gone never have another
No other independence day
All freedom burns on eternal fire
Theres no more independence day
Forever gone never have another
No other independence day
No use for humanity
Well never ever be free again
No tomorrows
Zero - the number of the year
Zero - the number of the year

song performed by U. D. O.
Added by Lucian Velea
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Independance Day

song performed by U. D. O.
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Holy Grail

From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale,
Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure,
Had passed into the silent life of prayer,
Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl
The helmet in an abbey far away
From Camelot, there, and not long after, died.

And one, a fellow-monk among the rest,
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest,
And honoured him, and wrought into his heart
A way by love that wakened love within,
To answer that which came: and as they sat
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn
That puffed the swaying branches into smoke
Above them, ere the summer when he died
The monk Ambrosius questioned Percivale:

`O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke,
Spring after spring, for half a hundred years:
For never have I known the world without,
Nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee,
When first thou camest--such a courtesy
Spake through the limbs and in the voice--I knew
For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall;
For good ye are and bad, and like to coins,
Some true, some light, but every one of you
Stamped with the image of the King; and now
Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round,
My brother? was it earthly passion crost?'

`Nay,' said the knight; `for no such passion mine.
But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail
Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries,
And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out
Among us in the jousts, while women watch
Who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength
Within us, better offered up to Heaven.'

To whom the monk: `The Holy Grail!--I trust
We are green in Heaven's eyes; but here too much
We moulder--as to things without I mean--
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours,
Told us of this in our refectory,
But spake with such a sadness and so low
We heard not half of what he said. What is it?
The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?'

`Nay, monk! what phantom?' answered Percivale.

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Runaround On The Underground

(a. bell / v. clarke)
Im waiting at the bus stop for a double-decker ride.
Supermarket checkout boy finds his way inside.
A shady looking character, his beady eyes on me.
I slip into a window seat, and then pretend to read.
Its a wild, its a wild, wild, wild world.
The hardest thing is holding on,
Holding on and take the strain.
Theyre coming at me at angles that I never knew existed.
They aint gonna get me.
Im building up my colours of resistance. (colours of resistance)
Its a runaround on the underground.
A cybermatic shopper, with a slight sadistic grin,
Pulls a zipper on her sleeping bag; shuts herself within.
A triple quilted chrysalis waiting for the sales.
A bargain basement butterfly going off the rails
Its a wild, its a wild, wild, wild world.
The hardest thing is holding on,
Holding on and take the strain.
Theyre coming at me at angles that I never knew existed...woah
They aint gonna get me.
Im building up my colours of resistance. (colours of resistance)
Its a runaround on the underground.
Its a wild, its a wild, wild, wild world.
The hardest thing is holding on,
Holding on and take the strain.
Theyre coming at me at angles that I never knew existed.
They aint gonna get me.
Im building up my colours of resistance. (colours of resistance)
Its a runaround on the underground the hardest thing is holding on,
Holding on and take the strain.
Theyre coming at me at angles that I never knew existed.
They aint gonna get me.
Im building up my colours of resistance. (colours of resistance)
The hardest thing is holding on,
Holding on and take the strain.

song performed by Erasure
Added by Lucian Velea
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Gnostic Texts

Described as snobbish and elite
by Garry Wills,
what the Church wished to delete
provides me thrills.
I’m thinking of the Gnostic text
that, somewhat rude, is
opposed to those disciples vexed
by deeds of Judas,
proposing that he was opposed
to martyrdom,
which Christians have so long supposed
to be the bomb
that made so popular the myth
this text explodes.
Like Pagels, I am happy with
such Gnostic codes.

Inspired by “Reading Judas: The Gospel of Judas and the Shaping of Christianity, ” by Elaine Pagels and Karen L. King (New York: Penguin,2007) , and Gary Wills’s description of second century Gnostic texts such as “The Gospel of Juddas” as “elite and snobbish” in his book “What The Gospels Meant, ” reviewed by David Gibson (“What Jesus Really Did, ” NYT, March 2,2008) :
“What the Gospels Meant” starts straightforwardly with a helpful explanation of just what a Gospel is: “a meditation on the meaning of Jesus in the light of sacred history as recorded in the sacred writings.” Wills then parses the Gospel of Mark, the earliest account, as a “report from the suffering body of Jesus, ” written to comfort early Christians facing persecution. Matthew’s is the teaching Gospel, recounting many of Christianity’s most familiar sermons. The erudite Luke presents “the reconciling body of Jesus, ” a Gospel of poignant stories like the Prodigal Son and the Good Samaritan that display the humanity of Jesus and the universality of his message. John is, as ever, the theologian, a prophetic voice from “the mystical body of Jesus.” Yet the paradox of modern Christianity is that the growth of biblical scholarship, and the fervor of believers in sola Scriptura (Scripture alone) , has done so little to affect the mass of biblical illiterates who proclaim their convictions about what Jesus would do while knowing precious little about what he actually did or, more important, what he meant. Neo-atheists aren’t much better, sneering at Christians but displaying ignorance about Christianity. And neo-Gnostics — academics and acolytes who claim to channel the rebel spirit of various early Christian offshoots — routinely confer on “elite and snobbish” (Wills’s phrase) second-century texts an authority they rarely grant to the canon. Such literalism sustains a fragile faith.
In this sense, Wills is a dangerous man. He does not create a foolish consistency out of differing Gospels, but underscores the attributes of each narrative to highlight truths more crucial than whether there were four discrete Evangelists, or whether three wise men actually followed a star in the East. The credulous will be shocked by his rationality, while skeptics will be scandalized by his respect for the faith. To be sure, Wills includes asides that will win few points with Rome, like his claim that the virgin birth “is not a gynecological or obstetric teaching, but a theological one.” And he throws in facts that can be mischievously tossed out at family gatherings or, worse, to the pastor after Sunday services — for example, that the crown of thorns was probably a wreath of acanthus leaves. (Wills also provides his own translations of the original “marketplace” Greek, though I’m not sure that killing the “pampered” calf or hearing that the Word became flesh and “bivouacked with us” will catch on.)

12/28/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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The mother and the artist

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling

[...] Read more

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 12

WHEN Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, 5
The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; 10
But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, 15
Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
“No more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, 20
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war. 25
The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied: 30
“Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own: 35
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, 40
Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne: 45
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied, 50

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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The Recluse - Book First

HOME AT GRASMERE

ONCE to the verge of yon steep barrier came
A roving school-boy; what the adventurer's age
Hath now escaped his memory--but the hour,
One of a golden summer holiday,
He well remembers, though the year be gone--
Alone and devious from afar he came;
And, with a sudden influx overpowered
At sight of this seclusion, he forgot
His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been
As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said,
'What happy fortune were it here to live!
And, if a thought of dying, if a thought
Of mortal separation, could intrude
With paradise before him, here to die!'
No Prophet was he, had not even a hope,
Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought,
A fancy in the heart of what might be
The lot of others, never could be his.
The station whence he looked was soft and green,
Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth
Of vale below, a height of hills above.
For rest of body perfect was the spot,
All that luxurious nature could desire;
But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze
And not feel motions there? He thought of clouds
That sail on winds: of breezes that delight
To play on water, or in endless chase
Pursue each other through the yielding plain
Of grass or corn, over and through and through,
In billow after billow, evermore
Disporting--nor unmindful was the boy
Of sunbeams, shadows, butterflies and birds;
Of fluttering sylphs and softly-gliding Fays,
Genii, and winged angels that are Lords
Without restraint of all which they behold.
The illusion strengthening as he gazed, he felt
That such unfettered liberty was his,
Such power and joy; but only for this end,
To flit from field to rock, from rock to field,
From shore to island, and from isle to shore,
From open ground to covert, from a bed
Of meadow-flowers into a tuft of wood;
From high to low, from low to high, yet still
Within the bound of this huge concave; here
Must be his home, this valley be his world.
Since that day forth the Place to him--'to me'
(For I who live to register the truth
Was that same young and happy Being) became

[...] Read more

poem by William Wordsworth
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Stubborn

Stubborn, stubborn
He was stubborn as a mule.
He refused to budge
in the world so cruel.
'Cause what good would it do,
one step or two?
It would get him nowhere
'cause the word's so cruel.

Stubborn, stubborn.
He was stubborn as a mule.
His eyes were defiant
with fire and fuel.
He'd been born into pain
where no one had cared.
He was alone in the world
but never was he scared.

He was just stubborn.

poem by Edwina Reizer
Added by Poetry Lover
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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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Spirit of Independence

I, am the Spirit of Independence.
Long before I was known, I existed.
I was born and reside in the air.
On wings of all winds I fly free.
I am immortal and unconquerable.
At times, subtle ‘n’ soft, fleeting.
Gentle, silent as a summer’s zephyr.
Others, rampant as a gale’s fury.
Infectious to all I caress.
Upon me, many have attempted,
to impose their wills.
Successful, only at inviting failure.
In the hearts of free peoples, I thrive.
Those who endure, under tyranny’s rule,
I infect with rebellious paragons.
Souls desiring independence and freedom.
I search out to liberate from their shackles,
all who envision a free life I influence.
To pursue their dreams I encourage.
In all free lands I dwell,
abiding, in the hearts of those craving liberation.
To souls fleeing despotism, my doors are open.
Within each, I instill the will to resist enforced domination,
diabolic temptations, disguised by false promises.

The flame of Liberty’s torch, a beacon to freedom.
At America’s gates I am present.
Joyously, I shout a welcome to newcomers.
From those who walk a path of malevolence.
Should my adopted, now free charges,
suffer threat or intimidation.
My warriors shall bare, girded sword’s points in defense.
Those who attempt to oppress shall be conquered,
and driven from Freedom’s portal.
They shall be forced back to the shadows and shrouds,
from whence they craftily emerged.

Grasslands to remain fertile plains,
to yield bountiful harvest to accommodate all.
Warriors of independence shall ensure.
The wills of the people will not be subverted,
by alien forces and determined oppression.
Freedom to never succumb to domination,
or rule by dictatorship.
This I vow, for I am the Spirit of Independence.

01Feb10

poem by Kurt Hearth
Added by Poetry Lover
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