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The whole history of civilization is strewn with creeds and institutions which were invaluable at first, and deadly afterwards.

quote by Walter Bagehot
Added by Lucian Velea
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7 Deadly Sins

7 seven deadly sins
Thats how the world begins
Watch out when you step in
For seven deadly sins
Seven deadly sins
Thats when the fun begins
(seven deadly sins)
(sin number one) was when you left me
(sin number two) you said goodbye
(sin number three) was when you told me a little white lie
Seven deadly sins
Once it starts, it never ends (seven deadly sins)
Watch out aroung the bend (seven deadly sins)
A seven deadly sins (seven deadly sins)
(sin number four) was when you looked my way
(sin number five) was when you smiled
(sin number six) was when you let me stay
Sin number seven was when you touched me and told me why
Seven deadly sins
So many rules to bend
Time and time again
Seven deadly sins
Seven deadly sins
(seven deadly sins)
(seven deadly sins)
(seven deadly sins)
Seven deadly sins
Thats how the world begins (seven deadly sins)
Watch out when you step in (seven deadly sins)
For seven deadly sins
Seven (seven) seven (seven) seven (seven) seven (deadly sins)

song performed by George Harrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The History Of Tomorrow

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of light
By dumping us in the dark with pits everywhere

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of food
By asking us to chop several fire-woods to heat up a pot full of stones

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of job creation
By making us slaves on our own soil

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of education
By dumping us in dilapidated buildings without teachers

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of accountability
By looting our treasury and asking us for yet another term in office

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of safety
By leaving pot holes large enough to swallow countless accident victims on our roads

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our bows and arrows
Would secure our future

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless heroes
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless robbers
Robbers with fame
Robbers without shame
Robbers that we would roast with flame

© Adegbenro Adekunle Jacob

Tomorrow’s history is today. All world leaders must make real democracy work. They must be selfless. We must not wait until there is horror and terror before we learn. Nigerian leaders must shun CORRUPTION.

poem by Adegbenro Adekunle
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Code Of Silence

Deep in the night
I can hear you calling my name
How can I try to help you woman
If you go on hiding your pain
Baby, baby, the tears on your pillow are real
You cant go on pretending to me
When I see the pain that you feel
A code of silence, is a dreadful thing
It can make you feel harder
It can keep you hanging on a string
Here in the darkness
When I hear you calling my name
A code of silence is a deadly game
Its a deadly game (whats that you say)
Its a deadly game (speak to me now)
Its a deadly game (deadly game)
Lost in your dreams
Trouble on your face in the pale moonlight
Nowhere to run youve got to let me know
Where you are standing tonight
Baby baby baby
I know that youre hurting inside
Open your heart
I know that we can make it
If you talk to me now
A code of silence, is a deadly thing
It can make you feel harder
It can keep you hanging on a string
Here in the darkness
When I hear you calling my name
A code of silence is a deadly game
Its a deadly game (whats that you say)
Its a deadly game (speak to me now)
Its a deadly game (deadly game).....

song performed by 10 Cc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems

March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan

Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.

Sincerely,

George W. Bush

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.

They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.

The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.

They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.

The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.

[...] Read more

poem by Tom Zart
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Black History Month

In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.

But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!

Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...

*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Love Deadly Love

A greyhound bus weaves its way across town
Im sitting here thinking
Never thought I could be brought down
And low yes Im sinking
* bet on a wild one, I got stitched
Caught up in a fight
I was dreaming, dreaming, oh I saw you last night
(I got a) 4 by 8 on rikers yard
8 to 15 Im doin hard
For you and your lover
Shot through the head
Air conditioning lead
The honeymoon was over
With the telephone bill
Yes youve been tumbled
With your fingers in the till
The chelsea hotel with a private line
Now its payback time
** sha la la la I cant let you go
Its not over till its over, no
Sha la la la I cant set you free
Oh no cant let go
cause I put you right above
Love deadly love
Love deadly love
Through the shadows of my backyard
Now brother Im leaving a calling card
This mission tonight
Feels so right mr. d.o.a.
Some they can take it and some lie down
Some just wear that thorny crown
Like a halo round the head
Oh now youre better off dead
** repeat
[instrumental]
** repeat
Theres a visit and one phone call
And sometimes a stroll
If Im straight in five years
Maybe remission or parole
* repeat
Five card stud thats your game
Ill cut stack and lose its all the same
You could never say no never say no no no no
Love deadly love, love deadly love
Love deadly love, love deadly love
Love deadly love, love deadly love

song performed by Ufo
Added by Lucian Velea
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Defining History

DEFINING HISTORY *

History is neither for us nor against us;
It is a record of our accumulating past!
That past which we humans had once made,
And we can learn from our mistakes, it is often
said!
A wit had once put things together, saying; -
'History dose not repeat itself, only historians
repeat each other! ! '

'Civilization is a movement and not a condition,
a voyage, not a harbour, ' said Arnold Toynbee;
'It has the right and the capacity to choose its destiny! '
But many others did not seem to agree!
The early Mayans said that History repeats itself in
every 260 cyclic years,
History is not cyclic said Tonybee, to allay our fears!
The Greek Plato had felt that History was rather cynical;
While Oswald Spengler the German, had similar
views held!
Spengler said that all things that grow, must mature,
decay and decline;
The Western Civilization was no exception of any
kind!
But Carrol Quigley, a scientist by training, could not
accept any of the above views!
And in his 'The Evolution of Civilisation ', he pays
History its dues!
Quigley attempts to create an acceptable synthesis,
Which the critics praised with positive comments!
Quigley advocated that systems come into being
adapted to their environment;
Which changes and evolves with a gradual motion,
While he has laid down the seven stages of this
evolution! **
And he concludes by declaring with some flourish,
That those civilizations which cannot adapt to such
changes, -
Will one day perish!
- Raj Nandy
New Delhi
31 Aug 08
(* I tried to pay my tribute to three of our greatest Historians, -
being an old student of History. Spengler is unpopular in the
West.
** Mixture, Gestation, Expansion, Age of Conflict, Universal Empire,
Decay and Invasion.)

poem by Raj Nandy
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Makin History

Tonight theres a magic that I cant explain
Tune-up and start the show all set now ready to go
This bands gonna really rock tonight
Steppin out upon the stage
Under those lights again
Were gonna shake the place tonight
They gotta new song high in the charts you know
You must have heard them play it on the radio
When that flat top starts that picking
Hear the bass drum start that kicking
The joint is really jumpin now
Ooh mama its so exiting to feel
That tension rising when they turn the house lights down
Its a strange kinda magic that never seems to age
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory
That is rocknroll
Rock on
They gotta new song
High in the charts you know
You must have heard them play it on the radio
Hear the start and the jumbo gibson
You dont know what youre missing if youre not
Painting the town tonight
Ooh mama its so exiting to feel
That tension rising when they turn the house lights down
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory
That is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory that is rocknroll
Mama its so exiting-oh oh
Dont you find the beat exiting

song performed by Cliff Richard
Added by Lucian Velea
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The History of Now

The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.

The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.

It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.

Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.

We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.

The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.

The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.

It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.

poem by David SmithWhite
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Justin

DEDICATION

O POOR, sad hearts that struggle on and wait,
Like shipwrecked sailors on a spar at sea,
Through deepening glooms, if haply, soon or late,
Some day-dawn glimmer of what is to be,
Not knowing Christ, nor gladdened by His Love
5
And Life indwelling—to you I dedicate
These humble musings, praying that from above,
On you, being faithful found, the light may shine
Of Life incarnate and of Love divine.
Take, then, these thoughts, in loving memory
10
Of those dead hearts that brought it first to me.

DOWN by the sea, in infinite solitude
And wrapt in darkness, save when gleams of light
Broke from the moon aslant the hurrying clouds
That fled the wind, lay Justin, worn with grief,
And heart-sick with vain searching after God.

15
He heeded not the cold white foam that crept
In silence round his feet, nor the tall sedge
That sighed like lonely forest round his head;
His heart was weary of this weight of being,
Weary of all the mystery of life,
20
Weary of all the littleness of men,
And the dark riddle that he could not solve—
Why men should be, why pain and sin and death,
And where were hid the lineaments of God.
No voice was near. Behind, a lofty cape,
25
Whose iron face was scarred by many a storm,
Loomed threatening in the dark, and cleft the main,
And laid its giant hand upon the deep.
One grizzled oak tree crowned it, and the surf
Broke ever at its base, with ceaseless voice
30
Powerless to mar its silent majesty.
Sweet was the loneliness to Justin, sweet
Perturbèd nature, as in harmony
With the dark thoughts that beat upon his soul.
Nor speechless long he lay. The tide of grief,
35

[...] Read more

poem by Frederick George Scott
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Kiss Me Deadly

lemme tell you what I did. what did you do?)
I went to a party last saturday night,
I didnt get laid I got in a fight
uh huh, it aint no big thing (really?)
late for my job and the traffic was bad
had to borrow ten bucks from tavis's dad
uh huh, it aint no big thing
I went to a party last saturday night,
I told you that story and I'll be allright
uh huh, it aint no big thing
but I know what I like
I know I like dancin with you
And I know what you like,
I know you like dancin with me
kiss me once, kiss me twice
come on pretty baby kiss me deadly
kiss me once, kiss me twice
come on pretty baby kiss me deadly
had a few beers, gettin high
sittin, watchin the time go by
uh huh, it aint no big thing
nothin to eat and no tv
lookin in the mirror dont do it for me
uh huh, it aint to big thing
but I know what I like
I know I like dancin with you
and I know what you like
I know you like dancin with me
(dance with me!)
kiss me once
kiss me twice
come on pretty baby kiss me deadly
kiss me once
kiss me twice
come on pretty baby kiss me deadly
(well I know you like dancin with me)
kiss me once, kiss me twice
come on pretty baby kiss me deadly
kiss me once
kiss me twice
come on pretty baby kiss me
come on pretty baby kiss me
come on pretty baby kiss me deadly
kiss me deadly
went to a party last night
I didnt get laid
(and I fell into the jacuzzi

song performed by Reel Big Fish
Added by Lucian Velea
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Deadly

I often wish that I could fly
Up into a darkening sky
But something stops my deadly flight
A hidden voice a shining light
'What makes you want to take your life
With a cold and ruthless knife? '
The voice it asks me time and time
'I wish to wash away my crime.'
That is what I wish to say
But the words won't come my way
So I write them in a book
And hide it so no one can look
On the pages are my dreams
My plots, my plans, my deadly schemes
Deadly pleasure, deadly pain
Deadly sun and deadly rain
Poisoned food, corupted drink
Standing on the very brink
And when my soul if finally freed
Do not follow my deadly lead

poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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History Stones People.

History stones people.

They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,
history did that for all to see

Marbel and cement,
that's all it leaves behind
of a long changing life.

Great heroes of time,
fall under the mercy
of the sculptor's knife.

History stones faces,
in a way that would make
ecclestias cringe.
History stones feet,
in a way that would make
piligrims cry.

History stones life
to always stay fresh,
yet, what is life without
the sins of the flesh.

All the radical kids
get stoned
and never change
or even move a muscle.

All the sword raising warriors
history stoned
without blood in their veins.

You can see all the victims
that history stoned
when you walk in the park,
they got kings
and queens
hell, they even got Gods.

They are there captive

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Katz
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On Passing Cromwell Street

In Melbourne streets named in his honour though he does not warrant such fame
For he lived a life of dishonour yet he never felt any shame
For his crimes against the poor of Ireland the winners write the history they say
And historians are too kind to Cromwell the one who did awful things in his day.

He evicted the poor of rural Ireland those who only knew of poverty
And put them on the hard road to Connacht the victims of crimes against humanity
His army were thugs and not soldiers for they did things that soldiers ought not do
The winners always write the history though their version of history is often not true.

In Cromwell's time the winners wrote the history and the winners still write the history today
But for any crimes against humanity the winners too should be made to pay
But Cromwell and his army honoured for their crimes in Ireland against the poor defenceless poor
'Tis sad to think that one so unworthy of a place in history is secure.

To hell or to Connacht his catch cry he forced thousands of poor families on the road
To people who were penniless and innocent not one scrap of mercy he showed
Thousands of them died in the harsh Irish Winter when homelessness on them took it's toll
Because they were poor they were punished though their life circumstances beyond their control.

I think of the untruths of history each time I drive by Cromwell street
The history written by winners their history of lies and deceit
I say to myself they honour a tyrant and I struggle for to understand
Why they name a street after somebody who oppressed the poor of Ireland.

Andrew Marvell in verse glorified Cromwell but he was one who would not know
What Cromwell and his army got up to in Ireland in those bleak times centuries ago
But he only believed what they told him and they told him what he wanted to hear
History often written by unworthy people those who rule by terror and fear.

In Melbourne streets named in his honour his poor victims long forgotten and gone
Into the World of the forgotten but Cromwell's fame is living on
And the lessons we should have learned from history did not lead to a fair go for all
And the winners only write the story though the real truth they never recall.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Ten Words Circularly

History is ‘Nothing to be done’; and Time passes circularly.
Nothing passes circularly: History and Time is to be done.
Time is circularly Nothing and History passes to be done.
History circularly passes Time and Nothing is to be done.
To be Nothing, Time passes and History is circularly done.
Nothing is to be done: Time and History circularly passes.
Nothing is History and, to be done, Time circularly passes.
To be is History; and Time done circularly passes Nothing.
Time is to be; and Nothing circularly done passes History.
Nothing passes History and Time to be done circularly is.
To be is: Nothing done circularly passes History and Time.

poem by Alex Hamilton
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Pharsalia - Book IX: Cato

Yet in those ashes on the Pharian shore,
In that small heap of dust, was not confined
So great a shade; but from the limbs half burnt
And narrow cell sprang forth and sought the sky
Where dwells the Thunderer. Black the space of air
Upreaching to the poles that bear on high
The constellations in their nightly round;
There 'twixt the orbit of the moon and earth
Abide those lofty spirits, half divine,
Who by their blameless lives and fire of soul
Are fit to tolerate the pure expanse
That bounds the lower ether: there shall dwell,
Where nor the monument encased in gold,
Nor richest incense, shall suffice to bring
The buried dead, in union with the spheres,
Pompeius' spirit. When with heavenly light
His soul was filled, first on the wandering stars
And fixed orbs he bent his wondering gaze;
Then saw what darkness veils our earthly day
And scorned the insults heaped upon his corse.
Next o'er Emathian plains he winged his flight,
And ruthless Caesar's standards, and the fleet
Tossed on the deep: in Brutus' blameless breast
Tarried awhile, and roused his angered soul
To reap the vengeance; last possessed the mind
Of haughty Cato.

He while yet the scales
Were poised and balanced, nor the war had given
The world its master, hating both the chiefs,
Had followed Magnus for the Senate's cause
And for his country: since Pharsalia's field
Ran red with carnage, now was all his heart
Bound to Pompeius. Rome in him received
Her guardian; a people's trembling limbs
He cherished with new hope and weapons gave
Back to the craven hands that cast them forth.
Nor yet for empire did he wage the war
Nor fearing slavery: nor in arms achieved
Aught for himself: freedom, since Magnus fell,
The aim of all his host. And lest the foe
In rapid course triumphant should collect
His scattered bands, he sought Corcyra's gulfs
Concealed, and thence in ships unnumbered bore
The fragments of the ruin wrought in Thrace.
Who in such mighty armament had thought
A routed army sailed upon the main
Thronging the sea with keels? Round Malea's cape
And Taenarus open to the shades below
And fair Cythera's isle, th' advancing fleet

[...] Read more

poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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Tale I

That all men would be cowards if they dare,
Some men we know have courage to declare;
And this the life of many a hero shows,
That, like the tide, man's courage ebbs and flows:
With friends and gay companions round them, then
Men boldly speak and have the hearts of men;
Who, with opponents seated miss the aid
Of kind applauding looks, and grow afraid;
Like timid travelers in the night, they fear
Th' assault of foes, when not a friend is near.
In contest mighty, and of conquest proud,
Was Justice Bolt, impetuous, warm, and loud;
His fame, his prowess all the country knew,
And disputants, with one so fierce, were few:
He was a younger son, for law design'd,
With dauntless look and persevering mind;
While yet a clerk, for disputation famed,
No efforts tired him, and no conflicts tamed.
Scarcely he bade his master's desk adieu,
When both his brothers from the world withdrew.
An ample fortune he from them possessed,
And was with saving care and prudence bless'd.
Now would he go and to the country give
Example how an English 'squire should live;
How bounteous, yet how frugal man may be,
By well-order'd hospitality;
He would the rights of all so well maintain.
That none should idle be, and none complain.
All this and more he purposed--and what man
Could do, he did to realise his plan;
But time convinced him that we cannot keep
A breed of reasoners like a flock of sheep;
For they, so far from following as we lead,
Make that a cause why they will not proceed.
Man will not follow where a rule is shown,
But loves to take a method of his own:
Explain the way with all your care and skill,
This will he quit, if but to prove he will. -
Yet had our Justice honour--and the crowd,
Awed by his presence, their respect avow'd.
In later years he found his heart incline,
More than in youth, to gen'rous food and wine;
But no indulgence check'd the powerful love
He felt to teach, to argue, and reprove.
Meetings, or public calls, he never miss'd -
To dictate often, always to assist.
Oft he the clergy join'd, and not a cause
Pertain'd to them but he could quote the laws;
He upon tithes and residence display'd
A fund of knowledge for the hearer's aid;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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History may be past

History may be past
Embedded in memory and may not last
It is glorious past with memorable events
Preserved with honor as unforgettable counts

As the things can be clearly seen in mirror
History will site you mistakes and errors
It may not repeat in near future or for times to come
We take pride for being a part and welcome

How many bloody wars have been fought?
Was peace not explored or sought?
Why so much bitterness about past?
Why still not coming to terms very fast?

How can I forget that number of times country was invaded?
How can that easily it be wiped out that in problem we were landed?
The poverty, helplessness and backwardness come before like picture?
Making me restless with burning rage at heart for future

I am for sure and everybody will share
You can not equate past with future
The present is in between to balance
It must be thought over and given chance

We can’t carry bitterness all along
History may not pardon us for pursuing wrong
If we had rich tradition in forgiving the evil and past
We must surely feel elated with very good start

We have witnessed hostility running in for decades
It has no reasons to be continued for indefinite days
Each passing day is proving costly and very deadly
We must learn lesson from it and end it immediately

It is invaluable treasure to have it as glorious history
New generation can take pride in not feel sorry
It is freedom and free environment that we intended to give
For our lapses they may surely understand forgive

History can be considered as past milestones
The present can not ignore it and consider as bye gone
We have come to stay here as inseparable part
Even thought it may be unworthy or glorious past

What does this indicate in particular?
Do we want to create the situation like similar?
It is thing of past and must be buried sincerely
We have to pick positive threads and weave it neatly

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Its A Jungle Out There

(pilger, polen, moloney)
Producer for bonnie: jim steinman
I hear you call it civilization
Its a jungle out there
Its a jungle out there
Unending nights of temptation
Its a jungle out there
But you just dont care
Each night you dress up to kill them
Down at the watering hole
You stalk your prey with high fashion
With self control, you play the roll
The lonely and the lonely heart hunters
The neon love life, oh it cuts like a knife
I hear you call it civilization
Its a jungle out there
Its a jungle out there
The sounds and shadows surround you
Youre swinging vine to vine
Below the nightmare it gathers
Its like a jungle, at feeding time
Clawing through the crowd each night
Oh you set your trap so carefully, a trophy for your wall
Someone has you in their sights
You are both the hunters and the prey, no winners at all
I hear you call it civilization
Its ajungle out there
Its a jungle out there
Unending nights of temptation
Its ajungle out there
But you just dont care
Unending nights of temptation
Its a jungle out there
Its a jungle out there
Civilization! oh!
Its ajungle out there
You call it civilization
Its a jungle out there
Its a jungle out there

song performed by Bonnie Tyler
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rosalind and Helen: a Modern Eclogue

ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child.

SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como.

HELEN
Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.
'T is long since thou and I have met;
And yet methinks it were unkind
Those moments to forget.
Come, sit by me. I see thee stand
By this lone lake, in this far land,
Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even
United, and thine eyes replying
To the hues of yon fair heaven.
Come, gentle friend! wilt sit by me?
And be as thou wert wont to be
Ere we were disunited?
None doth behold us now; the power
That led us forth at this lone hour
Will be but ill requited
If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come,
And talk of our abandoned home!
Remember, this is Italy,
And we are exiles. Talk with me
Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,
Barren and dark although they be,
Were dearer than these chestnut woods;
Those heathy paths, that inland stream,
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream;
Which that we have abandoned now,
Weighs on the heart like that remorse
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
No more our youthful intercourse.
That cannot be! Rosalind, speak,
Speak to me! Leave me not! When morn did come,
When evening fell upon our common home,
When for one hour we parted,--do not frown;
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken;
But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me,
And not my scornèd self who prayed to thee!

ROSALIND
Is it a dream, or do I see
And hear frail Helen? I would flee
Thy tainting touch; but former years
Arise, and bring forbidden tears;

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Added by Poetry Lover
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