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Soul Surfer

My soul is the soul surfer
And is now surfing on the beach
But the weaves on the beach are very strong and very high at the same Time

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Surfer Girl

Little surfer little one
Made my heart come all undone
Do you love me, do you surfer girl
Surfer girl my little surfer girl
I have watched you on the shore
Standing by the oceans roar
Do you love me do you surfer girl
Surfer girl surfer girl
We could ride the surf together
While our love would grow
In my woody I would take you everywhere I go
So I say from me to you
I will make your dreams come true
Do you love me do you surfer girl
Surfer girl my little surfer girl
Well
Girl surfer girl my little surfer girl
Well
Girl surfer girl my little surfer girl
Well
Girl surfer girl my little surfer girl

song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Surfer Boy

Surfer boy , surfer boy , surfer boy , surfer boy
Surfer boy you love the sea so much
And riding waves so big and blue
But Im in love with you , surfer boy
Why cant you learn to love me too
Im so afraid that youll get hurt someday
You say that this could never be
But Im in love with you , surfer boy
So wont you please come home to me
You say you love me , but you treat me mean
You are the meanest boy Ive ever seen
You leave me lonely and you leave me blue
I wish you wouldnt treat me like you do
Surfer boy, why dont you settle down
With a love you know is true
Yes , Im in love with you , surfer boy
Why dont you say you love me too
You say you love me but you treat me mean
You are the meanest boy Ive ever seen
You leave me lonely and you leave me blue
I wish you wouldnt treat me like you do
Surfer boy, why dont you settle down
With a love you know is true
Yes , Im in love with you , surfer boy
Why dont you say you love me too
Surfer boy , surfer boy, surfer boy, surfer boy , surfer boy

song performed by Bee Gees
Added by Lucian Velea
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Noble Surfer

Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
The surfers call him noble
And thats just what he is
Hes dedicated to the mighty sea
Surfin night and day
Never twice in one spot
Hes somethin you and I would like to be
Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
Noble (hes movin)
Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
Hes not afraid of body whop
From ten feet or more
He never backs away from a swell
Hurachis on his feet
Bushy hair on his head
And where hes going hed never tell
Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
Noble (hes movin)
Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
Noble (hes movin)
Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
A surfin cassanova
With his customized board
A woody and his dirty white jeans
He takes his choice of honeys
Up and down the coast
The finest surfer yet to make the scene
Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
Noble (hes movin)
Noble (aint joshin)
Surfer (aint joshin)
Hes the number one man (hes movin)
Noble (hes movin)

[...] Read more

song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Moms A Surfer

Yo, my mom was a surfer
She surfed the big old waves
In avalon new jersey
She had a big ole brown board
With red stripes
Back in the day on the beach
When the break was right
Shell make you tight
Shell do the mashed potato
And the buckaroo
When she was inside the tube
Her legs was renewed
She was juice
And loose with her caboose in the bikini
All the fellas would whine
That she gets all the waves
And she looks so fine and pretty
So I wrote a ditty
In the days that I walked on the earth
Thats right, I said my mom can surf
Say oh yeah
Shes got the motion
Thats right
Say oh yeah
Shes got the motion
Yo, mary jane lorraine
Thats my mommas name
And when she steals your wave
Yo man, please dont complain
The biggest wave of the day
Is for grabbing Im not bragging
Thats right
I said my mom can surf
Like smurfette
Shell be the only girl in the lineup
And at the bunkroom
All the fellows would line up
My dad couldnt surf
But you know he got lucky
Momma 52 years old and still truckin
In hawaii, escondido and california
Biaritz and austrailia I think you better wait
South america, south africa
What Im telling ya
Is my mom can surf
And dont ask her where shes from
Or even start joking
Cuz shes good for a girl
And yes shes always local
Oh, thats right

[...] Read more

song performed by G. Love & Special Sauce
Added by Lucian Velea
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Turning The Heat To Hotter

Nobody came to party knew somebody who sat,
In a corner to sigh.
This was a heat to hotter party.

Nobody came to party knew somebody who sat,
In a corner to sigh.
This was a heat to hotter party.

Everybody here took off the roof to cry,
'High, high, high...high.'
With their hands up,
'High, high, high...high.'
And sweating bodies soakin'.
'High, high, high...high.'

Everybody on the scene holla'd and screamed...
'High, high, high...high.'
With their hands up,
'High, high, high...high.'

Nobody came to this party knew somebody who sat.
This was a heat to hotter party.

Everybody here took off the roof to cry,
'High, high, high...high.'
With their hands up,
'High, high, high...high.'
And sweating bodies soakin'.
'High, high, high...high.'
Turning the heat to hotter.
'High, high, high...high.'
Turning the heat to hotter.
'High, high, high...high.'
Turning the heat to hotter.
'High, high, high...high.'

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Four Seasons : Autumn

Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost
Nitrous prepared; the various blossom'd Spring
Put in white promise forth; and Summer-suns
Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,
Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.
Onslow! the Muse, ambitious of thy name,
To grace, inspire, and dignify her song,
Would from the public voice thy gentle ear
A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows,
The patriot virtues that distend thy thought,
Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow;
While listening senates hang upon thy tongue,
Devolving through the maze of eloquence
A roll of periods, sweeter than her song.
But she too pants for public virtue, she,
Though weak of power, yet strong in ardent will,
Whene'er her country rushes on her heart,
Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries
To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame.
When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,
And Libra weighs in equal scales the year;
From Heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,
With golden light enliven'd, wide invests
The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise,
Sweet-beam'd, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad, and brown, below
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain:
A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air
Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined field,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily chequer'd heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around,
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.
These are thy blessings, Industry! rough power!
Whom labour still attends, and sweat, and pain;
Yet the kind source of every gentle art,
And all the soft civility of life:
Raiser of human kind! by Nature cast,
Naked, and helpless, out amid the woods
And wilds, to rude inclement elements;
With various seeds of art deep in the mind

[...] Read more

poem by James Thomson
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Quatrains Of Life

What has my youth been that I love it thus,
Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,
Stale as the news which last week wearied us,
Or a tired actor's tale told to an empty house?

What did it bring me that I loved it, even
With joy before it and that dream of Heaven,
Boyhood's first rapture of requited bliss,
What did it give? What ever has it given?

'Let me recount the value of my days,
Call up each witness, mete out blame and praise,
Set life itself before me as it was,
And--for I love it--list to what it says.

Oh, I will judge it fairly. Each old pleasure
Shared with dead lips shall stand a separate treasure.
Each untold grief, which now seems lesser pain,
Shall here be weighed and argued of at leisure.

I will not mark mere follies. These would make
The count too large and in the telling take
More tears than I can spare from seemlier themes
To cure its laughter when my heart should ache.

Only the griefs which are essential things,
The bitter fruit which all experience brings;
Nor only of crossed pleasures, but the creed
Men learn who deal with nations and with kings.

All shall be counted fairly, griefs and joys,
Solely distinguishing 'twixt mirth and noise,
The thing which was and that which falsely seemed,
Pleasure and vanity, man's bliss and boy's.

So I shall learn the reason of my trust
In this poor life, these particles of dust
Made sentient for a little while with tears,
Till the great ``may--be'' ends for me in ``must.''

My childhood? Ah, my childhood! What of it
Stripped of all fancy, bare of all conceit?
Where is the infancy the poets sang?
Which was the true and which the counterfeit?

I see it now, alas, with eyes unsealed,
That age of innocence too well revealed.
The flowers I gathered--for I gathered flowers--
Were not more vain than I in that far field.

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.

Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.

Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.

Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.

But who shall look from Alfred's hood

[...] Read more

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Twin State

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university of dayton soccer camp
university of dayton summer soccer camp
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university of delaware baseball camp
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university of delaware volleyball camp
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university of denver and lacrosse camp
university of denver swimming summer cam

[...] Read more

poem by Caasder Fronds
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Rubaiyat Of A Robin - After Edward Fitzgerald - Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam

Jest plays with rubaiyat and, four by four,
unseals for your amusement more and more
verses together thread in rosary
unreeled to bloom till tomb will curtains draw.

Repealed are value judgement and perspective
revealed through standpoint purely introspective,
darkside concealed of moon’s yin-yang shines clear
when we’re in orbit, - option more effective.

Rolled form performs rôle midwife to perception,
sprung tongue in cheek, tweaks sense of imperfection
or willingness to leach between the lines,
impeach entrenched ideas of self-[s]election.

This prose arose as stream deprived of section,
where ‘dip at will’ will still sustain inspection,
the current’s sense, at odds with current views
ignores round holes, square pegs, top-down direction.

Here there’s no fear of critics’ peer rejection,
contention treated with due circumspection
intention is to mention for retention
an overview or clue to extrospection.

Life’s curtains are a veil through which few see,
as many haste taste-waste eternity,
mixed up, ignore life fixes finite sum
to/through infinite opportunity.

Can “Truth” exist? all ask, who seek its core,
we, modest, etch our words to sketch the score,
diverse the verses which converge to link
reflections mirrored many times before.

Vast content, style, a while, united are,
aim at soul stimulation, nothing bar,
to pleasure, treasure, or discard at will
as minds outreach to other minds on par.

Meditating, we shed light on what
tomorrow’s tot may factor into ‘bot’ -
the poet’s lot, forgot, to help all think
ahead of time, enhance life for a lot

Some seek Nirvana, Faith speaks more than “how”.
Others reject Salvation’s wraith, - w[h]ine “now”.
Verifying facts? Inventing dreams?
Each furrow-burrows with a different plough.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Forest Sanctuary - Part I.

I.
The voices of my home!-I hear them still!
They have been with me through the dreamy night-
The blessed household voices, wont to fill
My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight!
I hear them still, unchang'd:-though some from earth
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth-
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright!
Have died in others,-yet to me they come,
Singing of boyhood back-the voices of my home!

II.
They call me through this hush of woods, reposing
In the grey stillness of the summer morn,
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born;
Ev'n as a fount's remember'd gushings burst
On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst,
E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say-
Oh! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee away,

III.
And find mine ark!-yet whither?-I must bear
A yearning heart within me to the grave.
I am of those o'er whom a breath of air-
Just darkening in its course the lake's bright wave,
And sighing through the feathery canes -hath power
To call up shadows, in the silent hour,
From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave!-
So must it be!-These skies above me spread,
Are they my own soft skies?-Ye rest not here, my dead!

IV.
Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping,
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear,
Save one!-a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping
High o'er one gentle head-ye rest not here!-
'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying,
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing
Through my own chesnut groves, which fill mine ear;
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell,
And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell.

V.
Peace!-I will dash these fond regrets to earth,
Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain
From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me birth,
And lineage, and once home,-my native Spain!
My own bright land-my father's land-my child's!

[...] Read more

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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High In The City

I got the time, I got my feet
Lets go hit the street
High in the city
High in the city
I got my mace and you got your knife
You gotta protect your own life
High in the city
High in the city
I wanna get high in the city
I wanna stay alive here in the city
I wanna stay high in the city
High in the city
High in the city
Lets not walk down sutton place
You know everybody there got an akitas
High in the city
High in the city
Dont wanna talk politics today
I feel too good let me have my way
High in the city
High in the city
Watch out for that guy on your right
Seen him on the news last saturday night
He was high in the city
High in the city
Hey, look theyre setting fire to that jeep
Theres not much you can keep
High in the city
High in the city
I wanna get high in the city
I wanna stay alive in the city
I wanna stay high in the city
High in the city
High in the city
So many people feeling low
And theres only one way to go to
Get high in the city
High in the city
Lets grap a pie, lets hit the park
Ill kiss and hug you till it gets dark
Here in the city
Getting high in the city
(high in the city)
(high in the city and youre looking so pretty)
(feelin pretty witty, gettin high off of the city)
(hi-ai-ai-ai, high in the city)
(high in the city)
(high in the city and youre looking so pretty)
(feelin pretty witty, gettin high off of the city)
(hi-ai-ai-ai, high in the city)

[...] Read more

song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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Because I Got High (Radio Edit)

I was gonna clean my room until I got high
I was gonna get up and find the broom but then I got high
my room is still messed up and I know why
- cause I got high
cause I got high
cause I got high

I was gonna go to class before I got high
I coulda cheated and I coulda passed but I got high
I am taking it next semester and I know why
- cause I got high
cause I got high
cause I got high

I was gonna go to court before I got high
I was gonna pay my child support but then I got high
they took my whole paycheck and I know why
- cause I got high
cause I got high
cause I got high

I wasnt gonna run from the cops but I was high
I was gonna pull right over and stop but I was high
Now I am a paraplegic
- because I got high
because I got high
because I got high

I was gonna make love to you but then I got high
I was gonna eat yo p***y too but then I got high
now I'm j***ing off and I know why
- cause I got high
cause I got high
cause I got high

I messed up my entire life because I got high
I lost my kids and wife because I got high
now I'm sleeping on the sidewalk and I know why
- cause I got high
cause I got high
cause I got high

I'm gonna stop singing this song because I'm high
I'm singing this whole thing wrong because I'm high
and if I dont sell one copy I know why
- cause I'm high
cause I'm high
cause I'm high

song performed by Afroman from The Good Times
Added by Lucian Velea
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On This Beach...

Life is a beach.
There are jellyfish. And sea urchins…the painful bumps along the road that we all encounter in life. On this beach.
In life..and on a beach there is warm water-like times, when we are happy, and have good times and enjoy living. On this beach.
We also have times, like a beach, when we have cold water times; when we are sad, or upset about losing someone or something. On this beach.
There are rough times, the same way the sea has rough water that pounds angrily against the shore. On this beach.
Life, like the sea, has high and low times, or tides. There is low tide when you think u can no longer go on, that life has done too much damage to you. Then the tide comes back in…and you are reminded that life goes on. Life gets better. You cannot give up on life, like you can’t give up on a beach because of a rough day or low tides. On this beach.
Life has sharks. Maybe not the same sharks from a beach, but they are there. They are the people that thrive on your pain and tears and hardship, the same way a shark sustains itself through brutal killing of unaware seals who don’t know what is coming or how bad it is. The sharks are there. Waiting. For someone…for you…like an unsuspecting seal, to come along and unknowingly become trapped in their lies and hurt. On this beach.
Life…has good times. Wonderful times where the only thoughts you have are about how much life is worth living and how much you love life. It is like the clear, cool blue water on a beautiful day at the beach. On this beach.
Life has those amazing people….akin to the beachgoers on a sandy shore…just along for the ride…to enjoy the good…and pack up and leave when it rains or something goes wrong. But there are the surfers..the daredevils…going back into the fear and love of the sea….of life. They risk the sharks, and jellyfish, and rough water and low and high tides, not because they are invincible, but because they know about the good that is to be had in this world. On this beach.
Life is so comparable to a beach…most importantly in that it has sand like a beach. Billions upon billions of unique grains of sand, like the 7 billion different people in this world, on this beach.

poem by Dark Fallout
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The Loves of the Angels

'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.

Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!

One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!

Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Moore
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Oh My Golly!

Dentro las piones y las olas riquenas
Oh my golly! oh my golly!
Caminamos bajo la luna caribe
Oh my golly! oh my golly!
Besando, chichando con surfer rosa
Oh my golly! oh my golly!
Huesped de su manera
Oh my golly! oh my golly!
Rosa, oh oh ooh rosa!
Rosa, oh oh ooh rosa!
Yo soy playero pero no hay playa
Oh my golly! oh my golly!
Bien perdido por la surfer rosa
Oh my golly! oh my golly!
La vida total es un porqueria, porqueria
Oh my golly! oh my golly!
Hecho de menos mas que vida
Oh my golly! oh my golly!
Rosa, oh oh ooh rosa! huh huh
Rosa, oh oh ooh rosa! huh huh
Translation
Between pine seeds and puertorican waves
Walkin under the carribean moon
Kissing and chewing with surfer rosa
Guest of her ways
Rosa, oh oh ooh rosa
Im a beachgoer but there is no beach
Totally crazy for my surfer rosa
All of life is a pigstay, pigstay
I long (for her) more than my for life

song performed by Pixies
Added by Lucian Velea
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Still Surfin

He used to ride the sidewalks in a landlocked town
A solitary surfer still he got around
He had his favorite spots now
Where the best rides could be found
With posters on his wall from surfer magazine
His room looked like a shrine to the surfin scene
Go to hawaii out of high school was his big time college dream
(thats where the girls are)
Did you ever wonder what happened to surfer joe
He up and took a ? ? ? down to mexico
With a pretty senorita we both used to know
You can see him catch a wave in the mornin light
And sometimes you can find him on his board at night
A silouette on water as the sun dips outta sight
Hes still surfin
(still surfin)
Hes still surfin
(still surfin)
Youll catch him on a wave on his way to class
Then be back there after school [til his daylight pass? ? ? ]
Hes still surfin
(still surfin)
Hes still surfin
(still surfin)
Surfers always love them summer days
With a board in the water rollin with the waves
Hes still surfin
Hes always been a surfer since the early days
Spendin the summer searchin for that perfect wave
He and his surfin senorita never seem to age
He doesnt do a whole lot with his law degree
They thought about a major oceanography
But he does a lot of thinkin bout how to save the sea
(thats where the waves are)
Things up north were gettin kinda out of hand
So he got a break to see the ride on the sand
With his little mama seated in a surfers never never land
You can see him catch a wave in the mornin light
And sometimes you can find him on his board at night
A silouette on water as the sun dips outta sight
Hes still surfin
(still surfin)
Hes still surfin
(still surfin)
Youll catch him on a wave on his way to class
Then be back there after school [til his daylight pass? ? ? ]
Hes still surfin
(still surfin)
Hes still surfin
(still surfin)

[...] Read more

song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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A poem on divine revelation

This is a day of happiness, sweet peace,
And heavenly sunshine; upon which conven'd
In full assembly fair, once more we view,
And hail with voice expressive of the heart,
Patrons and sons of this illustrious hall.
This hall more worthy of its rising fame
Than hall on mountain or romantic hill,
Where Druid bards sang to the hero's praise,
While round their woods and barren heaths was heard
The shrill calm echo of th' enchanting shell.
Than all those halls and lordly palaces
Where in the days of chivalry, each knight,
And baron brave in military pride
Shone in the brass and burning steel of war;
For in this hall more worthy of a strain
No envious sound forbidding peace is heard,
Fierce song of battle kindling martial rage
And desp'rate purpose in heroic minds:
But sacred truth fair science and each grace
Of virtue born; health, elegance and ease
And temp'rate mirth in social intercourse
Convey rich pleasure to the mind; and oft
The sacred muse in heaven-breathing song
Doth wrap the soul in extasy divine,
Inspiring joy and sentiment which not
The tale of war or song of Druids gave.
The song of Druids or the tale of war
With martial vigour every breast inspir'd,
With valour fierce and love of deathless fame;
But here a rich and splendid throng conven'd
From many a distant city and fair town,
Or rural seat by shore or mountain-stream,
Breathe joy and blessing to the human race,
Give countenance to arts themselves have known,
Inspire the love of heights themselves have reach'd,
Of noble science to enlarge the mind,
Of truth and virtue to adorn the soul,
And make the human nature grow divine.

Oh could the muse on this auspicious day
Begin a song of more majestic sound,
Or touch the lyre on some sublimer key,
Meet entertainment for the noble mind.
How shall the muse from this poetic bow'r
So long remov'd, and from this happy hill,
Where ev'ry grace and ev'ry virtue dwells,
And where the springs of knowledge and of thought
In riv'lets clear and gushing streams flow down
Attempt a strain? How sing in rapture high

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poem by Hugh Henry Brackenridge
Added by Poetry Lover
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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