Don Quixote's misfortune is not his imagination, but Sancho Panza.
quote by Franz Kafka
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Related quotes
The Bagman's Dog, : Mr. Peters's Story
Stant littore Puppies!-- Virgil.
It was a litter, a litter of five,
Four are drown'd and one left alive,
He was thought worthy alone to survive;
And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup.
The Bagman taught him many a trick;
He would carry and fetch, and run after a stick,
Could well understand
The word of command,
And appear to doze
With a crust on his nose,
Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand:
Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,
As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.
Never was puppy so bien instruit,
Or possess'd of such natural talent as he;
And as he grew older,
Every beholder
Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.--
Time, however, his wheels we may clog,
Wends steadily still with onward jog,
And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog!
When just at the time,
He was reaching his prime,
And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime,
One unlucky day,
How, no one could say,
Whether some soft liaison induced him to stray,
Or some kidnapping vagabond coax'd him away,
He was lost to the view
Like the morning dew;
He had been, and was not -- that's all that they knew;
And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore,
As never a Bagman had sworn before;
But storming or swearing but little avails,
To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.--
In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,
Stands a mansion old, but in thorough repair,
The only strange thing, from the general air
Of its size and appearance, is, how it got there;
In front is a short semicircular stair
Of stone steps,-- some half score,--
Then you reach the ground floor,
With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door.
[...] Read more
poem by Richard Harris Barham
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The Last Picasso
Words and music by neil diamond
The last picasso, the last picasso was just acquired by some old museum, and don quixote, well don quixote the old mans rhyme has lost its reason; which only reminds me have I remembered to say that without you this life of plenty, would seem so empty, the last picasso. oh me and you--me oh me oh me oh me and you-- we, we can sigh--me oh me oh me oh me oh we can sigh. the last picasso, the last picasso may gather dust amid the ruins, and don quixote, well don quixote may no longer make his wishful tunes; but I still have you and I will have you when evrything else is gone and done with. well be like one with the last picasso. oh me and you--me oh me oh me oh me oh me and you-- we, we can sigh--me oh me oh me oh me oh we can sigh. oh, me and you--me oh me oh me oh me oh me and you-- we, we can sigh--me oh me oh me oh me oh we can sigh. oh, me and you--we we can sigh me oh me oh me oh we can sign. oh, me and you.
song performed by Neil Diamond
Added by Lucian Velea
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Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self.
quote by W.H. Auden
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The Key (A Moorish Romance)
'On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra.'
—Scott's
Travels in Morocco and Algiers.
'Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?'
Sancho Panza in
Don Quixote
The Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapor
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!
One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger
And is busy with the lock—
The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell'd hilt—
Oh! much of gore in days of yore
That crooked blade has spilt!
His brows are knit, his eyes of jet
In vivid blackness roll,
And gleam with fatal flashes
Like the fire-damp of the coal;
His jaws are set, and through his teeth
He draws a savage breath,
As if about to raise the shout
Of Victory or Death!
For why? the last Zebeck that came
And moor'd within the Mole,
Such tidings unto Tunis brought
As stir his very soul—
The cruel jar of civil war,
The sad and stormy reign,
That blackens like a thunder cloud
The sunny land of Spain!
No strife of glorious Chivalry,
For honor's gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Hood
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It Must Be Imagination
by Kenny Loggins & Tom Snow
When the feeling isn't right
They say you see it in a lovers eye
But I'm wide awake tonight
'N I'm looking for a reason why
It doesn't show
Still somehow I know
Tell me that it just ain't so
Say I made the whole thing up
It must be imagination
Why can't I forget it
God, you'd think I'd know better
It must be imagination
Gone completely out of my mind
It must be imagination
Tearin' me apart
'N breakin' my heart
You can say what is real
You can tell me if I'm in a dream
'Cause I know what I feel
But I don't know what to believe
Turn on the night light
Even if it takes us all night
I gotta be sure by daylight
If I've made this whole thing up
It must be imagination
Tell me if I'm right
'Cause it's changing my life
It must be imagination
Everybody knows
There ain't no way to fight it
It must be imagination
Breakin' my heart
'N tearing me apart
If I'm only dreamin'
Then I'm cryin' in my sleep
You should be shakin' me
Why ain't you wakin' me up?
It must be imagination
God I must be losin' my mind
It must be imagination
Does anybody know
Is there anyway to fight it?
It must be imagination
All in my mind, all in my mind
It must be imagination
If you wanna go, I just got to know
It must be imagination
Oooh tell me what's the problem
Why you wanna go on breakin' my heart?
[...] Read more
song performed by Kenny Loggins
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Your Imagination
Lyrics & music: daryl hall
I remember when i used to be the jealous kind
I got over it, now you're taking over my old line
You're caring too much about what i say
You're wondering too much about what i do
And baby, your imagination
Imagination's got the best of you
I ain't doin' nothing that you could really say was wrong
Just one oversight and no that didn't last too long
Listen, you're caring too much about what i say
You're wondering too much about what i do
And baby, your imagination
Imagination's got the best of you
Don't know what you're looking for
What's this thing about "true blue"
You know i ain't no danger boy
You're the one i like to touch, touch you, you
When the mood is right, change the light and the moment's gone
Better turn around, 'cause the light doesn't last too long
You're caring too much about what i say
You're wondering too much about what i do
And baby, your imagination
Imagination's got the best of you
Imagination, your imagination
Imagination, use your imagination.
song performed by Hall & Oates
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Hermann And Dorothea - I. Kalliope
FATE AND SYMPATHY.
'NE'ER have I seen the market and streets so thoroughly empty!
Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy
Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there.
People are so inquisitive! All are running and racing
Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile.
Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is,
And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday.
As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at
Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry,
Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine-stream,
Over to us are crossing, and wander through the delightful
Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings.
Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them,
Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too,
Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them.
How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses!
Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; inside it
Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox.
This time he is alone; how easily-turns it the corner!'
Thus to his wife the host of the Golden Lion discoursed,
Sitting at ease in the porch of his house adjoining the market.
Then replied as follows the shrewd and sensible hostess
'Father, I don't like giving old linen away, for I find it
Useful in so many ways, 'tis not to he purchased for money
Just when it's wanted. And yet to-day I gladly have given
Many excellent articles, shirts and covers and suchlike;
For I have heard of old people and children walking half-naked.
Will you forgive me, too, for having ransacked your presses?
That grand dressing-gown, cover'd with Indian flowers all over,
Made of the finest calico, lined with excellent flannel,
I have despatch'd with the rest; 'tis thin, old, quite out of fashion.'
But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd
I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment,
Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer.
Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward
Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket,
Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!'
'See,' continued his wife, 'a few are already returning
Who have seen the procession, which long ago must have pass'd by.
See how dusty their shoes are, and how their faces are glowing
Each one carries a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
I, for one, wouldn't hurry and worry myself in such weather
Merely to see such a sight! I'm certain to hear all about it.'
And the worthy father, speaking with emphasis, added
'Such fine weather seldom lasts through the whole of the harvest
[...] Read more
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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About My Imagination
I kept my eyes open and tried to see
The point of what went on in front of me
I kept what moved me, forgot about the rest
And took my young imagination to the acid test
And it was easy then to say what love could do
It's so easy when your world is new
It's been so hard sometimes to find my way
I let my pleasure lead my little world astray
And if I'm truthful I'll say that I was blind
To everything about this life but what I had in mind
And it was easy then to say where love could go
It's so easy when there's so much you don't know
About my imagination, it got me through somehow
Without my imagination, I wouldn't be here now
And it was easy then when love was guaranteed
It's so easy when love is all you need
About my imagination
I'm making this investigation
Into my imagination
According to my computations
We're overdue for a transformation
Or is it my imagination?
I keep my eyes open and try to see
This life in terms of possibility
With so much changing, and changing for the worse
You got to keep your head up, Baby
From the cradle to the hearse
And it was easy then to say where love could go
It's so easy when love is all you know
About my imagination
I'm getting ready for the celebration
I'm bringing my imagination
Taking charge of my elevation
No fear, no trepidation
Register my affirmation
No doubt, no hesitation
People get ready for the embarkation
About my imagination
Calling out across the nation
It's time for some kind of re-dedication
Not talking 'bout just my generation
I'm sending out this invocation
I keep getting these excitations
More light, more love
More truth, and more innovation
Lyrics by Jackson Browne
Music by Jackson Browne, Kevin McCormick, Mark Goldenberg, Mauricio Lewak, Jeff Young
(Swallow Turn Music, ASCAP; Eye Cue Music, ASCAP; Bossypants Music/Songs of Windswept Pacific, BMI; Bateria Music, ASCAP; Glad Brad Music, Inc., ASCAP)
song performed by Jackson Browne
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lines on and from
("Sir: For the first time in twenty-three years 'Bartlett's Familiar Quotations' has been revised and enlarged, and under a separate cover we are sending you a copy of the new edition. We would appreciate an expression of opinion from you of the value of this work after you have had an ample opportunity of examining it." --THE PUBLISHERS)
Of making many books there is no end--
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I.
Thou wert my guide, philosopher and friend
When only one is shining in the sky.
Books cannot always please, however good;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
To be great is to be misunderstood,
The anointed soverign of sighs and groans.
The Moving Finger writes, and having writ,
I never write as funny as I can.
Remote, unfriendly, studious let me sit
And say to all the world, "This was a man!"
Go, lovely Rose, that lives its little hour!
Go, little booke! and let who will be clever!
Roll on! From yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moon and I could keep this up forever.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Part II
So, they ring bell, give orders, pay, depart
Amid profuse acknowledgment from host
Who well knows what may bring the younger back.
They light cigar, descend in twenty steps
The 'calm acclivity,' inhale—beyond
Tobacco's balm—the better smoke of turf
And wood fire,—cottages at cookery
I' the morning,—reach the main road straitening on
'Twixt wood and wood, two black walls full of night
Slow to disperse, though mists thin fast before
The advancing foot, and leave the flint-dust fine
Each speck with its fire-sparkle. Presently
The road's end with the sky's beginning mix
In one magnificence of glare, due East,
So high the sun rides,—May's the merry month.
They slacken pace: the younger stops abrupt.
Discards cigar, looks his friend full in face.
"All right; the station comes in view at end;
Five minutes from the beech-clump, there you are!
I say: let's halt, let's borrow yonder gate
Of its two magpies, sit and have a talk!
Do let a fellow speak a moment! More
I think about and less I like the thing—
No, you must let me! Now, be good for once!
Ten thousand pounds be done for, dead and damned!
We played for love, not hate: yes, hate! I hate
Thinking you beg or borrow or reduce
To strychnine some poor devil of a lord
Licked at Unlimited Loo. I had the cash
To lose—you knew that!—lose and none the less
Whistle to-morrow: it's not every chap
Affords to take his punishment so well!
Now, don't be angry with a friend whose fault
Is that he thinks—upon my soul, I do—
Your head the best head going. Oh, one sees
Names in the newspaper—great this, great that,
Gladstone, Carlyle, the Laureate:—much I care!
Others have their opinion, I keep mine:
Which means—by right you ought to have the things
I want a head for. Here's a pretty place,
My cousin's place, and presently my place.
Not yours! I'll tell you how it strikes a man.
My cousin's fond of music and of course
Plays the piano (it won't be for long!)
A brand-new bore she calls a 'semi-grand,'
Rosewood and pearl, that blocks the drawing-room.
And cost no end of money. Twice a week
Down comes Herr Somebody and seats himself.
Sets to work teaching—with his teeth on edge—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Inn Album (1875)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Git Along Little Dogies
As I was walking one morning for pleasure
I spied a cowpuncher riding along
His hat was throwed back and his spurs were a-jingling
And as he approached he was singing this song
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
Early in the springtime we round up the dogies
Mark 'em and brand 'em and bob off their tails
Round up the horses, load up the chuck wagon
Then throw the little dogies out on the long trail
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
Night comes on and we hold 'em on the bedground
The same little dogies that rolled on so slow
We roll up the herd and cut out the stray ones
Then roll the little dogies like never before
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
Some boys go up the long trail for pleasure
But that's where they get it most awfully wrong
For you'll never know the trouble they give us
As we go drivin' them dogies along
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
song performed by Nickel Creek
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Tower
SAILING TO BYZANTIUM
I
THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-- Those dying generations -- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out Of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
WHAT shall I do with this absurdity --
O heart, O troubled heart -- this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible --
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
[...] Read more
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Go For The Throat (Use Your Own Imagination)
Words and music by rick nielsen
Dont call me baby
Dont call me your inspiration
Dont call me jealous
I dont need you
Dont try to use me
You can use your own imagination
Just a little bit of information before I leave you
You gotta go for the throat (you can use your own imagination)
You gotta do it alone (just a little bit of information)
I am what I am (you can use your own imagination)
When I go for the throat
Dont try to please me
You just give me idle conversation
Doesnt give me any indication or reason
Dont try to use me
You can use your own imagination
Must be some sort of explanation or reason
And I go for the throat (you just give me idle conversation)
And I do it alone (you can use your own imagination)
And I am what I am (must be some sort of explanation)
When I go for the throat
If I say it again would you listen to me
If I shout it this time
If I say it again would you listen to me
If I shout it this time
Get a grip on yourself try to do it in time
Gotta say to yourself
If I say it again would you listen to me
If I shout it this time
I cant stand it no more (you can use your own imagination)
I go for the throat (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
I am what I am (you can use your own imagination)
cause I go for the throat (must be some sort of explanation)
I cant stand it no more (you can use your own imagination)
I am what I am (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
cause I go for the throat (must be some sort of explanation)
I am what I am (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
song performed by Cheap Trick
Added by Lucian Velea
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Go For The Throat
Words and music by rick nielsen
Don't call me baby
Don't call me your inspiration
Don't call me jealous
I don't need you
Don't try to use me
You can use your own imagination
Just a little bit of information before i leave you
You gotta go for the throat (you can use your own imagination)
You gotta do it alone (just a little bit of information)
I am what i am (you can use your own imagination)
When i go for the throat
Don't try to please me
You just give me idle conversation
Doesn't give me any indication or reason
Don't try to use me
You can use your own imagination
Must be some sort of explanation or reason
And i go for the throat (you just give me idle conversation)
And i do it alone (you can use your own imagination)
And i am what i am (must be some sort of explanation)
When i go for the throat
If i say it again would you listen to me
If i shout it this time
If i say it again would you listen to me
If i shout it this time
Get a grip on yourself try to do it in time
Gotta say to yourself
If i say it again would you listen to me
If i shout it this time
I can't stand it no more (you can use your own imagination)
I go for the throat (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
I am what i am (you can use your own imagination)
'cause i go for the throat (must be some sort of explanation)
I can't stand it no more (you can use your own imagination)
I am what i am (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
'cause i go for the throat (must be some sort of explanation)
I am what i am (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
song performed by Cheap Trick
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dear Keats
Already six years past your age!
The steps in Rome,
the house near Hampstead Heath,
& all your fears
that you might cease to be
before your pen had glean'd. . . .
My dear dead friend,
you were the first to teach me
how the dust could sing.
I followed in your footsteps
up the Heath.
I listened hard
for Lethe's nightingale.
& now at 31, I want to live.
Oblivion holds no adolescent charms.
& all the 'souls of poets
dead & gone,'
& all the 'Bards
of Passion & Mirth'
cannot make death-
its echo, its damp earth-
resemble birth.
You died in Rome-
in faltering sunlight-
Bernini's watery boat still sinking
in the fountain in the square below.
When Severn came to say
the roses bloomed,
you did not 'glut thy sorrow,'
but you wept-
you wept for them
& for your posthumous life.
& yet we all lead posthumous lives somehow.
The broken lyre,
the broken lung,
the broken love.
Our names are writ in newsprint
if not water.
'Don't breathe on me-' you cried,
'it comes like ice.'
×
Last words.
(I can't imagine mine.
[...] Read more
poem by Erica Jong
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For Howard Moss
Already six years past your age!
The steps in Rome,
the house near Hampstead Heath,
& all your fears
that you might cease to be
before your pen had glean'd. . . .
My dear dead friend,
you were the first to teach me
how the dust could sing.
I followed in your footsteps
up the Heath.
I listened hard
for Lethe's nightingale.
& now at 31, I want to live.
Oblivion holds no adolescent charms.
& all the 'souls of poets
dead & gone,'
& all the 'Bards
of Passion & Mirth'
cannot make death-
its echo, its damp earth-
resemble birth.
You died in Rome-
in faltering sunlight-
Bernini's watery boat still sinking
in the fountain in the square below.
When Severn came to say
the roses bloomed,
you did not 'glut thy sorrow,'
but you wept-
you wept for them
& for your posthumous life.
& yet we all lead posthumous lives somehow.
The broken lyre,
the broken lung,
the broken love.
Our names are writ in newsprint
if not water.
'Don't breathe on me-' you cried,
'it comes like ice.'
×
Last words.
(I can't imagine mine.
[...] Read more
poem by Erica Jong
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Intro
I don't practice Santeria I ain't got no crystal ball
well I had a million dollars but I, I'd spend it all
if I could find that hina and that sancho that she's found
well I'd pop a cap in sancho and I'd slap her down
what I really wanna know..I ready mmhmm
what I really wanna say I can't define
well it's love that I need oh,whoa
my soul will have to wait 'til I get back
find a hina of my own daddy's gonna love one and all
I feel the break feel the break feel the break
and I gotta live it up oh, yeah, huh well, I swear that I
what I really wanna know..I'm ready
what I really wanna say I can't define
that love make it go my soul will have to...
ooh what I really wanna say..I'm petty
what I really wanna say is I've got mine and I'll make it well, yes I'm comin' up
tell sanchito that if he knows what is good for him
he'd best go run and hide daddy's got a new .45
and I won't think twice to stick that barrel straight down sanchos throught
belive me when I say that I got somthing for his punk ass
what I really wanna know..I'm ready oooh
what I really wanna say is there's just one
way back and I'll make it yeah, well, my soul will have to wait
song performed by Sublime
Added by Lucian Velea
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Santeria
I dont practice santeria
I aint got no crystal ball.
I had a million dollars but id,
Id spend it all.
If I could find that heina and that sancho that shes found,
Well Id pop a cap in sancho and Id slap her down.
What I really wanna know,
My baby, what I really want to say I cant define.
Well its love,
That I need, oh ,
But my soul will have to,
Wait till I get back and find heina of my own.
Daddys gonna love one and all.
I feel the break,
Feel the break,
Feel the break and I got to live it up,
Oh, yea huh, well I swear that i.
What I really wanna know, baby,
What I really want to say I cant define.
That love make it go,
My soul will have to...
What I really wanna say,
My baby,
What I really wanna say is Ive got mine.
And Ill make it, yes, Im comin up.
Tell sanchito that if he knows what is good for him he best go run and hide.
Daddys got a new .45.
And I wont think twice to stick that barrel straight down sanchos throat.
Believe me when I say that I got somethin for his punk ass.
What I really wanna know, my baby,
What I really wanna say is theres just one,
Way back,
And Ill make it, yea,
But my soul will have to wait.
Yea, yea, yea
song performed by Sublime
Added by Lucian Velea
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For Whittier’s Seventieth Birthday
DECEMBER 17, 1877
I BELIEVE that the copies of verses I've spun,
Like Scheherezade's tales, are a thousand and one;
You remember the story,--those mornings in bed,--
'T was the turn of a copper,--a tale or a head.
A doom like Scheherezade's falls upon me
In a mandate as stern as the Sultan's decree
I'm a florist in verse, and what would people say
If I came to a banquet without my bouquet?
It is trying, no doubt, when the company knows
Just the look and the smell of each lily and rose,
The green of each leaf in the sprigs that I bring,
And the shape of the bunch and the knot of the string.
Yes,--'the style is the man,' and the nib of one's pen
Makes the same mark at twenty, and threescore and ten;
It is so in all matters, if truth may be told;
Let one look at the cast he can tell you the mould.
How we all know each other! no use in disguise;
Through the holes in the mask comes the flash of the eyes;
We can tell by his--somewhat--each one of our tribe,
As we know the old hat which we cannot describe.
Though in Hebrew, in Sanscrit, in Choctaw you write,
Sweet singer who gave us the Voices of Night,
Though in buskin or slipper your song may be shod;
Or the velvety verse that Evangeline trod,
We shall say, 'You can't cheat us,--we know it is you,'
There is one voice like that, but there cannot be two,
Maestro, whose chant like the dulcimer rings
And the woods will be hushed while the nightingale sings.
And he, so serene, so majestic, so true,
Whose temple hypethral the planets shine through,
Let us catch but five words from that mystical pen,
We should know our one sage from all children of men.
And he whose bright image no distance can dim,
Through a hundred disguises we can't mistake him,
Whose play is all earnest, whose wit is the edge
(With a beetle behind) of a sham-splitting wedge.
Do you know whom we send you, Hidalgos of Spain?
Do you know your old friends when you see them again?
Hosea was Sancho! you Dons of Madrid,
[...] Read more
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Added by Poetry Lover
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A Jeremiad
As the swimmer propelled himself through the watery furrows
His arms thrashing admirably to clear a path
His legs churning admirably to push and be pulled
Into the vaccuum created by his sweeping arms
The cameras followed his course from every conceivable angle
Even-yes, even from below, leaving nothing to the imagination
The TV viewer being denied not a single drop
Not a single breath or gasp for air:
Such coverage is, indeed, admirable-
Nothing is left to the dull imagination:
To the dull imagination, thrashing away behind closed lids.
Nothing at all.
Soon, when there has long been nothing to imagine
When image replaces imagination, entirely,
When 'news' replaces reason entirely
When imagination is replaced entirely by technology
And reality by its virtual version
Imagination will prove an unnecessary, even risky, commodity
Soon the imagination will prove an encumbrance
And be forbidden completely by people with cameras and badges.
But please don't get me wrong, I've a camera myself-
In fact, my best friend is a photographer.
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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