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For whom the Bell Tolls

PERCHANCE he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he
knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so
much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my
state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The
church is Catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she
does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action
concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which
is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member.
And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is
of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is
not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language;
and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several
translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness,
some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every
translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves
again for that library where every book shall lie open to one
another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not
upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this
bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the
door by this sickness. There was a contention as far as a suit (in

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poem by John Donne
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Broken Butterfly

Ripping the wings off the butterfly.
Now tell me, how is it suppose to survive?
Motions so slow.
The breath is fading.
Tell me, why is this so contagious?

An addiction to equally distribute a common affliction.
Enjoying the show.
Watching them suffer.
If it is for your entertainment does that make it any different?

Ripping the wings off the butterfly.
Now tell me, how is it suppose to survive?
Motions so slow.
The breath is fading.
Tell me, why is this so contagious?

Here's a lullaby go to asleep now.
It was only a dream.
Then why is their so much pain?

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Lamentations of Jeremiah I: Sorrows of Captive Zion

1 How doth the city sit solitary,
that was full of people!
How is she become as a widow!
She that was great among the nations,
and princess among the provinces,
how is she become tributary!

2 She weepeth sore in the night,
and her tears are on her cheeks:
among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her:
all her friends have dealt treacherously with her,
they are become her enemies.

3 Judah is gone into captivity
because of affliction, and because of great servitude:
she dwelleth among the heathen,
she findeth no rest:
all her persecutors overtook her between the straits.

4 The ways of Zion do mourn,

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poem by Prophet Jeremiah
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Hermann And Dorothea - IX. Urania

CONCLUSION.

O YE Muses, who gladly favour a love that is heartfelt,
Who on his way the excellent youth have hitherto guided,
Who have press'd the maid to his bosom before their betrothal,
Help still further to perfect the bonds of a couple so loving,
Drive away the clouds which over their happiness hover!
But begin by saying what now in the house has been passing.

For the third time the mother impatiently enter'd the chamber
Where the men were sitting, which she had anxiously quitted,
Speaking of the approaching storm, and the loss of the moon's light,
Then of her son's long absence, and all the perils that night brings.
Strongly she censured their friends for having so soon left the youngster,
For not even addressing the maiden, or seeking to woo her.

'Make not the worst of the mischief,' the father peevishly answer'd;
'For you see we are waiting ourselves, expecting the issue.'

But the neighbour sat still, and calmly address'd them as follows:--

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poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Resignation Pt 1

The days how few, how short the years
Of man's too rapid race!
Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,
A shorter in its place.

They who the longest lease enjoy,
Have told us with a sigh,
That to be born seems little more
Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth
With fears alarm'd; and yet,
In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
This weighty truth forget:

And am not I to these akin?
Age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes,
And am I writing still?

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poem by Edward Young
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Epitaph on a Beloved Friend

Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour’d bier!
What sighs re-echo’d to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart’s relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade’s honour and thy friend’s delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor’s art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction’s semblance bends not o’er thy tomb,
Affliction’s self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father’s sorrows cannot equal mine!

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poem by Byron (1803)
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A nearness to Tremendousness

963

A nearness to Tremendousness—
An Agony procures—
Affliction ranges Boundlessness—
Vicinity to Laws

Contentment's quiet Suburb—
Affliction cannot stay
In Acres—Its Location
Is Illocality—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal - every other affliction to forget: but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open - this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.

quote by Washington Irving
Added by Lucian Velea
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Jacob

Be ready to marry a virgin and,
Be ready to learn from her;
Like two-tenths of an ephah given out in the ninth month.
One man from a tribe is to help you,
One woman from each home is to save you,
And one man for each land is to see you through;
But you shall not cut your bodies for the death.
Each man knows the affliction of his heart,
And each woman knows the affliction of her heart;
So Jacob, you shall not put tattoo marks upon yourself;
And be ready to marry a virgin of your heart.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Madness of The Heart

Love is a complex affliction
Much aligned to many a madness
Seemingly beyond explanation
For the levels and variations
Of such a passionate emotion
Are far beyond the realms of reason
What else can there be to lose sleep
And yet still dream of another
Of the many aliments of this affliction
This love, this word we call love
I have become and been inflicted
By one such aliment, perhaps
I talk of the unrequited heart
What it is to love someone without end
To be as pure of heart, yet forlorn
Knowing they feel nothing, no love
The pain, the beautiful agony
Or being unable to control
That which we feel or others feel
It is love, it is beautiful, it is madness

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poem by Matthew Holloway
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