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Believe It...Or Not

I Believe

I believe, that life is likened to, a
piece of fine crystal. It can be
beautiful, or in a moments notice,
be shattered, beyond repair.

If you do not believe in love at
first sight, believe...that perhaps,
your vision is impaired.

It matters not your age in life,
I believe love, should be
welcomed and treasured.

I believe, that many of our unanswered
questions, are only answered, when
we are no longer, of earthly matter.

I believe that some things are better
kept to ones self.

I believe that there are rooms in life's
experience, that should not be entered.

Do you believe in your God? Do you
believe, that your religion is the right
religion? What do you believe of the
billions of people who do not believe,
as you believe?

I believe, it could not be, that one religion,
is the true way to worship.
I believe, that there is one Supreme Being.
I believe this Supreme Being, is by-lingual,
multi-colored and of all ethnic races.
I believe He loves and blesses us all.

I believe, in order for this to be a better
world, it must begin with each
of us trying to be better.

I believe that the billions, upon billions
of dollars spent on the machine of war,
could better be used for poor and
disenfranchised.

I believe in a new days discovery.
I believe, in the beauty of nature.
I believe, in the kiss of the rain.

[...] Read more

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
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Tamar

I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.

The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Thurso’s Landing

I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.

II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks

1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass

Under the old trees with rosy fruit.

In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a

basket,

The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.

Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.

Fayne snatched for it and missed;

Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small

Finely cut features in a dance of delight;

Fayne with one sweep flung at his face

All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Lancelot And Elaine

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it
A case of silk, and braided thereupon
All the devices blazoned on the shield
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
A border fantasy of branch and flower,
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.
Nor rested thus content, but day by day,
Leaving her household and good father, climbed
That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,
Now made a pretty history to herself
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:
And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!
And here a thrust that might have killed, but God
Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down,
And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

How came the lily maid by that good shield
Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,
Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

For Arthur, long before they crowned him King,
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave
Like its own mists to all the mountain side:
For here two brothers, one a king, had met
And fought together; but their names were lost;
And each had slain his brother at a blow;
And down they fell and made the glen abhorred:
And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,
And lichened into colour with the crags:
And he, that once was king, had on a crown
Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.
And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass,
All in a misty moonshine, unawares

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Eighth Book

ONE eve it happened when I sate alone,
Alone upon the terrace of my tower,
A book upon my knees, to counterfeit
The reading that I never read at all,
While Marian, in the garden down below,
Knelt by the fountain (I could just hear thrill
The drowsy silence of the exhausted day)
And peeled a new fig from that purple heap
In the grass beside her,–turning out the red
To feed her eager child, who sucked at it
With vehement lips across a gap of air
As he stood opposite, face and curls a-flame
With that last sun-ray, crying, 'give me, give,'
And stamping with imperious baby-feet,
(We're all born princes)–something startled me,–
The laugh of sad and innocent souls, that breaks
Abruptly, as if frightened at itself;
'Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above
In sudden shame that I should hear her laugh,
And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book,
And knew, the first time, 'twas Boccaccio's tales,
The Falcon's,–of the lover who for love
Destroyed the best that loved him. Some of us
Do it still, and then we sit and laugh no more.
Laugh you, sweet Marian! you've the right to laugh,
Since God himself is for you, and a child!
For me there's somewhat less,–and so, I sigh.

The heavens were making room to hold the night,
The sevenfold heavens unfolding all their gates
To let the stars out slowly (prophesied
In close-approaching advent, not discerned),
While still the cue-owls from the cypresses
Of the Poggio called and counted every pulse
Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually
The purple and transparent shadows slow
Had filled up the whole valley to the brim,
And flooded all the city, which you saw
As some drowned city in some enchanted sea,
Cut off from nature,–drawing you who gaze,
With passionate desire, to leap and plunge,
And find a sea-king with a voice of waves,
And treacherous soft eyes, and slippery locks
You cannot kiss but you shall bring away
Their salt upon your lips. The duomo-bell
Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms down,
So deep; and fifty churches answer it
The same, with fifty various instances.
Some gaslights tremble along squares and streets
The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in fire:

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Merlin And Vivien

A storm was coming, but the winds were still,
And in the wild woods of Broceliande,
Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old
It looked a tower of ivied masonwork,
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay.

For he that always bare in bitter grudge
The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark
The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice,
A minstrel of Caerlon by strong storm
Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say
That out of naked knightlike purity
Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl
But the great Queen herself, fought in her name,
Sware by her--vows like theirs, that high in heaven
Love most, but neither marry, nor are given
In marriage, angels of our Lord's report.

He ceased, and then--for Vivien sweetly said
(She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark),
'And is the fair example followed, Sir,
In Arthur's household?'--answered innocently:

'Ay, by some few--ay, truly--youths that hold
It more beseems the perfect virgin knight
To worship woman as true wife beyond
All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl.
They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen.
So passionate for an utter purity
Beyond the limit of their bond, are these,
For Arthur bound them not to singleness.
Brave hearts and clean! and yet--God guide them--young.'

Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup
Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose
To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him,
Turned to her: 'Here are snakes within the grass;
And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear
The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure
Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.'

And Vivien answered, smiling scornfully,
'Why fear? because that fostered at THY court
I savour of thy--virtues? fear them? no.
As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear,
So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear.
My father died in battle against the King,
My mother on his corpse in open field;
She bore me there, for born from death was I
Among the dead and sown upon the wind--

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Nothing Even Matters

Now the skies could fall
Not even if my boss should call
The world it seems so very small
'Cause nothing even matters at all

Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters at all
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters at all

See I don't need no alcohol
Your love makes me feel ten feet tall
Without it I'd go through withdrawal
'Cause nothing even matters at all

Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters at all
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters at all

These buildings could drift out to sea
Some natural catastrophe
Still there's no place I'd rather be
'Cause nothing even matters to me

Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters to me
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters to me

You're part of my identity
I sometimes have the tendency
To look at you religiously
'Cause nothing even matters to me

Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters to me
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters to me

Now you won't find me at no store
I have no time for manicures
With you it's never either or
'Cause nothing even matters no more

Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters no more
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters no more

[...] Read more

song performed by Lauryn Hill from The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill
Added by Lucian Velea
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My Lovers Box

My lovers charms
Are in a box
Beneath my bed
And piece by piece
Ill cherish them
Until the end
Send me an angel to love
I need to feel a little piece of heaven
Send me an angel to love
Im afraid Ill never get to heaven
They burn my hands
Scar my face
And blind my eyes
Ill steal your breath
And throw away
What I despise
Send me an angel to love
I need to feel a little piece of heaven
Send me an angel to love
Im afraid Ill never get to heaven
Between these walls
And darkened halls
Ive done my time
If I should die
Before I wake
Then youll know why
Send me an angel to love
I need to feel a little piece of heaven
Send me an angel to love
Im afraid Ill never get to heaven, piece by piece
Send me an angel to love, piece by piece
I need to feel a little piece of heaven, piece by piece
Send me an angel to love, piece by piece
Im afraid Ill never get to heaven, piece by piece
Piece by piece
Piece by piece, send me an angel
Piece by piece, send me an angel
Piece by piece, send me an angel
Piece by piece, send me an angel
Piece by piece, send me an angel
Piece by piece, send me an angel
Piece by piece, send me an angel
Piece by piece, send me an angel

song performed by Garbage
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Reasons For LIving...

I Believe

I believe, that life is likened to, a
piece of fine crystal. It can be
beautiful, or in a moments notice,
be shattered, beyond repair.

If you do not believe in love at
first sight, believe...that perhaps,
your vision is impaired.

It matters not your age in life,
I believe love, should be
welcomed and treasured.

I believe, that many of our unanswered
questions, are only answered, when
we are no longer, of earthly matter.

I believe that some things are better
kept to ones self.

I believe that there are rooms in life's
experience, that should not be entered.

Do you believe in your God? Do you
believe, that your religion is the right
religion? What do you believe of the
billions of people who do not believe,
as you believe?

I believe, it could not be, that one religion,
is the true way to worship.
I believe, that there is one Supreme Being.
I believe this Supreme Being, is by-lingual,
multi-colored and of all ethnic races.
I believe He loves and blesses us all.

I believe, in order for this to be a better
world, it must begin with each
of us trying to be better.

I believe that the billions, upon billions
of dollars spent on the machine of war,
could better be used for poor and
disenfranchised.

I believe in a new days discovery.
I believe, in the beauty of nature.
I believe, in the kiss of the rain.

[...] Read more

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Something To Believe In...

I Believe

I believe, that life is likened to, a
piece of fine crystal. It can be
beautiful, or in a moments notice,
be shattered, beyond repair.

If you do not believe in love at
first sight, believe...that perhaps,
your vision is impaired.

It matters not your age in life,
I believe love, should be
welcomed and treasured.

I believe, that many of our unanswered
questions, are only answered, when
we are no longer, of earthly matter.

I believe that some things are better
kept to ones self.

I believe that there are rooms in life's
experience, that should not be entered.

Do you believe in your God? Do you
believe, that your religion is the right
religion? What do you believe of the
billions of people who do not believe,
as you believe?

I believe, it could not be, that one religion,
is the true way to worship.
I believe, that there is one Supreme Being.
I believe this Supreme Being, is by-lingual,
multi-colored and of all ethnic races.
I believe He loves and blesses us all.

I believe, in order for this to be a better
world, it must begin with each
of us trying to be better.

I believe that the billions, upon billions
of dollars spent on the machine of war,
could better be used for poor and
disenfranchised.

I believe in a new days discovery.
I believe, in the beauty of nature.
I believe, in the kiss of the rain.

[...] Read more

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

004-I Believe.

..

I believe, that life is likened to, a
piece of fine crystal. It can be
beautiful, or in a moments notice,
be shattered, beyond repair.

If you do not believe in love at
first sight, believe...that perhaps,
your vision is impaired.

It matters not your age in life,
I believe love, should be
welcomed and treasured.

I believe, that many of our unanswered
questions, are only answered, when
we are no longer, of earthly matter.

I believe that some things are better
kept to ones self.

I believe that there are rooms in life's
experience, that should not be entered.

Do you believe in your God? Do you
believe, that your religion is the right
religion? What do you believe of the
billions of people who do not believe,
as you believe?

I believe, it could not be, that one religion,
is the true way to worship.
I believe, that there is one Supreme Being.
I believe this Supreme Being, is by-lingual,
multi-colored and of all ethnic races.
I believe He loves and blesses us all.

I believe, in order for this to be a better
world, it must begin with each
of us trying to be better.

I believe that the billions, upon billions
of dollars spent on the machine of war,
could better be used for poor and
disenfranchised.

I believe in a new days discovery.

[...] Read more

poem by Waldon Pond Productions
Added by Poetry Lover
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Convictions Of Life

.

I believe, that life is likened to, a
piece of fine crystal. It can be
beautiful, or in a moments notice,
be shattered, beyond repair.

If you do not believe in love at
first sight, believe...that perhaps,
your vision is impaired.

It matters not your age in life,
I believe love, should be
welcomed and treasured.

I believe, that many of our unanswered
questions, are only answered, when
we are no longer, of earthly matter.

I believe that some things are better
kept to ones self.

I believe that there are rooms in life's
experience, that should not be entered.

Do you believe in your God? Do you
believe, that your religion is the right
religion? What do you believe of the
billions of people who do not believe,
as you believe?

I believe, it could not be, that one religion,
is the true way to worship.
I believe, that there is one Supreme Being.
I believe this Supreme Being, is by-lingual,
multi-colored and of all ethnic races.
I believe He loves and blesses us all.

I believe, in order for this to be a better
world, it must begin with each
of us trying to be better.

I believe that the billions, upon billions
of dollars spent on the machine of war,
could better be used for poor and
disenfranchised.

I believe in a new days discovery.

[...] Read more

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Believe

I believe, that life is likened to, a
piece of fine crystal. It can be
beautiful, or in a moments notice,
be shattered, beyond repair.

If you do not believe in love at
first sight, believe...that perhaps,
your vision is impaired.

It matters not your age in life,
I believe love, should be
welcomed and treasured.

I believe, that many of our unanswered
questions, are only answered, when
we are no longer, of earthly matter.

I believe that some things are better
kept to ones self.

I believe that there are rooms in life's
experience, that should not be entered.

Do you believe in your God? Do you
believe, that your religion is the right
religion? What do you believe of the
billions of people who do not believe,
as you believe?

I believe, it could not be, that one religion,
is the true way to worship.
I believe, that there is one Supreme Being.
I believe this Supreme Being, is by-lingual,
multi-colored and of all ethnic races.
I believe He loves and blesses us all.

I believe, in order for this to be a better
world, it must begin with each
of us trying to be better.

I believe that the billions, upon billions
of dollars spent on the machine of war,
could better be used for poor and
disenfranchised.

I believe in a new days discovery.
I believe, in the beauty of nature.
I believe, in the kiss of the rain.
I believe that true friends are rare.

[...] Read more

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
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Beautiful

The most beautiful girl in the world
Beautiful
Beautiful
Beautiful
(beautiful)
Beau - beau
Could u be
The most beautiful girl in the world
Its plain 2 see
Ure the reason that God made a girl
When the day turns into the last day of all time
I can say, I hope that u are in these arms of mine (oh yeah) (beautiful)
When the night falls before that day I will cry
I will cry tears of joy cause after u all one can do is die (oh yeah)
Could u be
The most beautiful girl in the world (beautiful)
Its plain 2 see
Ure the reason that God made a girl (beautiful)
How can I get through days when I cant get through hours
(tick tock u dont stop, tick tock u dont stop)
I can try but when I do I see u and Im devoured
Oh yes
Whod allow, whod allow a face 2 be as soft as a flower (oh yeah)
(beautiful)
I could bow and feel proud in the light of this power
Oh yeah (beautiful)
Could u be
The most beautiful girl in the world (beautiful)
Its plain 2 see
Ure the reason that God made a girl (beautiful)
Oh yes u are
(beautiful)
Beautiful beautiful
(beautiful)
Beautiful beautiful
(beautiful)
Beautiful beautiful
(beautiful)
(beautiful)
And when the stars fall one by one from the sky
I know mars could not be 2 far behind
Cuz baby, this kind of beauty has got no reason 2 ever be shy
Cuz honey this kind of beauty is the kind that comes from inside
Could u be (could u be)
The most beautiful girl in the world
So beautiful, beautiful (beautiful)
Its plain 2 see (its plain 2 see)
Ure the reason that God made a girl (beautiful) (ooh yeah yeah yeah yeah)
Could u be
Beautiful (beautiful) (oh yeah)

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song performed by Prince
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The Odyssey: Book 19

Ulysses was left in the cloister, pondering on the means whereby
with Minerva's help he might be able to kill the suitors. Presently he
said to Telemachus, "Telemachus, we must get the armour together and
take it down inside. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you
have removed it. Say that you have taken it to be out of the way of
the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went
away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot. Add to this more
particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel
over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may
disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes
tempts people to use them."
Telemachus approved of what his father had said, so he called
nurse Euryclea and said, "Nurse, shut the women up in their room,
while I take the armour that my father left behind him down into the
store room. No one looks after it now my father is gone, and it has
got all smirched with soot during my own boyhood. I want to take it
down where the smoke cannot reach it."
"I wish, child," answered Euryclea, "that you would take the
management of the house into your own hands altogether, and look after
all the property yourself. But who is to go with you and light you
to the store room? The maids would have so, but you would not let
them.
"The stranger," said Telemachus, "shall show me a light; when people
eat my bread they must earn it, no matter where they come from."
Euryclea did as she was told, and bolted the women inside their
room. Then Ulysses and his son made all haste to take the helmets,
shields, and spears inside; and Minerva went before them with a gold
lamp in her hand that shed a soft and brilliant radiance, whereon
Telemachus said, "Father, my eyes behold a great marvel: the walls,
with the rafters, crossbeams, and the supports on which they rest
are all aglow as with a flaming fire. Surely there is some god here
who has come down from heaven."
"Hush," answered Ulysses, "hold your peace and ask no questions, for
this is the manner of the gods. Get you to your bed, and leave me here
to talk with your mother and the maids. Your mother in her grief
will ask me all sorts of questions."
On this Telemachus went by torch-light to the other side of the
inner court, to the room in which he always slept. There he lay in his
bed till morning, while Ulysses was left in the cloister pondering
on the means whereby with Minerva's help he might be able to kill
the suitors.
Then Penelope came down from her room looking like Venus or Diana,
and they set her a seat inlaid with scrolls of silver and ivory near
the fire in her accustomed place. It had been made by Icmalius and had
a footstool all in one piece with the seat itself; and it was
covered with a thick fleece: on this she now sat, and the maids came
from the women's room to join her. They set about removing the
tables at which the wicked suitors had been dining, and took away
the bread that was left, with the cups from which they had drunk. They
emptied the embers out of the braziers, and heaped much wood upon them

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poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Second Book

TIMES followed one another. Came a morn
I stood upon the brink of twenty years,
And looked before and after, as I stood
Woman and artist,–either incomplete,
Both credulous of completion. There I held
The whole creation in my little cup,
And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank,
'Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine
And all these peoples.'
I was glad, that day;
The June was in me, with its multitudes
Of nightingales all singing in the dark,
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.
I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!
So glad, I could not choose be very wise!
And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull
My childhood backward in a childish jest
To see the face of't once more, and farewell!
In which fantastic mood I bounded forth
At early morning,–would not wait so long
As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,
But, brushing a green trail across the lawn
With my gown in the dew, took will and way
Among the acacias of the shrubberies,
To fly my fancies in the open air
And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on,
As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves;
'The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone,
And so with me it must be, unless I prove
Unworthy of the grand adversity,–
And certainly I would not fail so much.
What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day
In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,
Before my brows be numb as Dante's own
To all the tender pricking of such leaves?
Such leaves? what leaves?'
I pulled the branches down,
To choose from.
'Not the bay! I choose no bay;
The fates deny us if we are overbold:
Nor myrtle–which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dare not touch
So early o' mornings. This verbena strains
The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
Ah–there's my choice,–that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fine

A lovers quarrel
Death by a shotgun barrel
With a cleaning solution the instruments are made sterile.
A hairy situation.
Like a plastic surgeon.
Rewriting the expression.
In both the date and time.

Now its fine
Now its fine.
Fine as fine can be.
I no longer need you and you no longer need me.
Can you hear the anger scream.
Reaching out for mercy in its desperate pleas.

Now its fine
Now its fine.
Fine as fine can be.
I no longer need you and you no longer need me.
Can you hear the anger scream.
Reaching out for mercy in its desperate pleas.

Changing my identity
Becoming that man I never use to be
With all niceties, and pleasantries wrapped in a little bow tie.
I don't even know how I survived.
Some thought I would have committed suicide.
But my drive just wouldn't let me.

Well, Now its fine
Now its fine.
Fine as fine can be.
I no longer need you and you no longer need me.
Can you hear the anger scream.
Reaching out for mercy in its desperate pleas.

Now its fine
Now its fine.
Fine as fine can be.
I no longer need you and you no longer need me.
Can you hear the anger scream.
Reaching out for mercy in its desperate pleas.

A murders escape.
A mind debates.
With shouts of hate.
How can you? Just how can you?
Emotional distress.
In all this I digest the worthiness
Worthless I've been called.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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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.

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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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