Circe

The sun drops luridly into the west;

darkness has raised her arms to draw him down

before the time, not waiting as of wont

till he has come to her behind the sea;

and the smooth waves grow sullen in the gloom

and wear their threatening purple; more and more

the plain of waters sways and seems to rise

convexly from its level of the shores;

and low dull thunder rolls along the beach:

there will be storm at last, storm, glorious storm.

Oh welcome, welcome, though it rend my bowers,

scattering my blossomed roses like the dust,

splitting the shrieking branches, tossing down

my riotous vines with their young half-tinged grapes

like small round amethysts or beryls strung

tumultuously in clusters, though it sate

its ravenous spite among my goodliest pines

standing there round and still against the sky

that makes blue lakes between their sombre tufts,

or harry from my silvery olive slopes

some hoary king whose gnarled fantastic limbs

wear crooked armour of a thousand years;

though it will hurl high on my flowery shores

the hostile wave that rives at the poor sward

and drags it down the slants, that swirls its foam

over my terraces, shakes their firm blocks

of great bright marbles into tumbled heaps,

and makes my preached and mossy labyrinths,

where the small odorous blossoms grow like stars

strewn in the milky way, a briny marsh.

What matter? let it come and bring me change,

breaking the sickly sweet monotony.

I am too weary of this long bright calm;

always the same blue sky, always the sea

the same blue perfect likeness of the sky,

one rose to match the other that has waned,

to-morrow's dawn the twin of yesterday's;

and every night the ceaseless crickets chirp

the same long joy and the late strain of birds

repeats their strain of all the even month;

and changelessly the petty plashing surfs

bubble their chiming burden round the stones;

dusk after dusk brings the same languid trance

upon the shadowy hills, and in the fields

the waves of fireflies come and go the same,

making the very flash of light and stir

vex one like dronings of the spinning wheel.

Give me some change. Must life be only sweet,

all honey-pap as babes would have their food?

And, if my heart must always be adrowse

in a hush of stagnant sunshine, give me then

something outside me stirring; let the storm

break up the sluggish beauty, let it fall

beaten below the feet of passionate winds,

and then to-morrow waken jubilant

in a new birth: let me see subtle joy

of anguish and of hopes, of change and growth.

What fate is mine who, far apart from pains

and fears and turmoils of the cross-grained world,

dwell, like a lonely god, in a charmed isle

where I am first and only, and, like one

who should love poisonous savours more than mead,

long for a tempest on me and grow sick

of resting, and divine free carelessness!

Oh me, I am a woman, not a god;

yea, those who tend me even are more than I,

my nymphs who have the souls of flowers and birds

singing and blossoming immortally.

Ah me! these love a day and laugh again,

and loving, laughing, find a full content;

but I know nought of peace, and have not loved.

Where is my love? Does some one cry for me,

not knowing whom he calls? does his soul cry

for mine to grow beside it, grow in it?

does he beseech the gods to give him me,

the one unknown rare woman by whose side

no other woman, thrice as beautiful,

should once seem fair to him; to whose voice heard

in any common tones no sweetest sound

of love made melody on silver lutes,

or singing like Apollo's when the gods

grow pale with happy listening, might be peered

for making music to him; whom once found

there will be no more seeking anything?

Oh love, oh love, oh love, art not yet come

out of the waiting shadows into life?

art not yet come after so many years

that I have longed for thee? Come! I am here.

Not yet. For surely I should feel a sound

of his far answering, if now in the world

he sought me who will seek me--Oh ye gods

will he not seek me? Is it all a dream?

will there be never never such a man?

will there be only these, these bestial things

who wallow in my styes, or mop and mow

among the trees, or munch in pens and byres,

or snarl and filch behind their wattled coops;

these things who had believed that they were men?

Nay but he will come. Why am I so fair,

and marvellously minded, and with sight

which flashes suddenly on hidden things,

as the gods see who do not need to look?

why wear I in my eyes that stronger power

than basilisks, whose gaze can only kill,

to draw men's souls to me to live or die

as I would have them? why am I given pride

which yet longs to be broken, and this scorn

cruel and vengeful for the lesser men

who meet the smiles I waste for lack of him

and grow too glad? why am I who I am,

but for the sake of him whom fate will send

one day to be my master utterly,

that he should take me, the desire of all,

whom only he in the world could bow to him?

Oh sunlike glory of pale glittering hairs,

bright as the filmy wires my weavers take

to make me golden gauzes; oh deep eyes,

darker and softer than the bluest dusk

of August violets, darker and deep

like crystal fathomless lakes in summer noons;

oh sad sweet longing smile; oh lips that tempt

my very self to kisses; oh round cheeks,

tenderly radiant with the even flush

of pale smoothed coral; perfect lovely face

answering my gaze from out this fleckless pool;

wonder of glossy shoulders, chiselled limbs;

should I be so your lover as I am,

drinking an exquisite joy to watch you thus

in all a hundred changes through the day,

but that I love you for him till he comes,

but that my beauty means his loving it?

Oh, look! a speck on this side of the sun,

coming--yes, coming with the rising wind

that frays the darkening cloud-wrack on the verge

and in a little while will leap abroad,

spattering the sky with rushing blacknesses,

dashing the hissing mountainous waves at the stars.

'Twill drive me that black speck a shuddering hulk

caught in the buffeting waves, dashed impotent

from ridge to ridge, will drive it in the night

with that dull jarring crash upon the beach,

and the cries for help and the cries of fear and hope.

And then to-morrow they will thoughtfully,

with grave low voices, count their perils up,

and thank the gods for having let them live,

and tell of wives or mothers in their homes,

and children, who would have such loss in them

that they must weep, and may be I weep too,

with fancy of the weepings had they died.

And the next morrow they will feel their ease

and sigh with sleek content, or laugh elate,

tasting delights of rest and revelling,

music and perfumes, joyaunce for the eyes

of rosy faces and luxurious pomps,

the savour of the banquet and the glow

and fragrance of the wine-cup; and they'll talk

how good it is to house in palaces

out of the storms and struggles, and what luck

strewed their good ship on our accessless coast.

Then the next day the beast in them will wake,

and one will strike and bicker, and one swell

with puffed up greatness, and one gibe and strut

in apish pranks, and one will line his sleeve

with pilfered booties, and one snatch the gems

out of the carven goblets as they pass,

one will grow mad with fever of the wine,

and one will sluggishly besot himself,

and one be lewd, and one be gluttonous;

and I shall sickly look, and loathe them all.

Oh my rare cup! my pure and crystal cup,

with not one speck of colour to make false

the passing lights, or flaw to make them swerve!

My cup of Truth! How the lost fools will laugh

and thank me for my boon, as if I gave

some momentary flash of the gods' joy,

to drink where I have drunk and touch the touch

of my lips with their own! Aye, let them touch.

Too cruel am I? And the silly beasts,

crowding around me when I pass their way,

glower on me and, although they love me still,

(with their poor sorts of love such as they could,)

call wrath and vengeance to their humid eyes

to scare me into mercy, or creep near

with piteous fawnings, supplicating bleats.

Too cruel? Did I choose them what they are?

or change them from themselves by poisonous charms?

But any draught, pure water, natural wine,

out of my cup, revealed them to themselves

and to each other. Change? there was no change;

only disguise gone from them unawares:

and had there been one right true man of them

he would have drunk the draught as I had drunk,

and stood unchanged, and looked me in the eyes,

abashing me before him. But these things--

why, which of them has even shown the kind

of some one nobler beast? Pah, yapping wolves

and pitiless stealthy wild-cats, curs and apes

and gorging swine and slinking venomous snakes

all false and ravenous and sensual brutes

that shame the Earth that bore them, these they are.

Lo, lo! the shivering blueness darting forth

on half the heavens, and the forked thin fire

strikes to the sea: and hark, the sudden voice

that rushes through the trees before the storm,

and shuddering of the branches. Yet the sky

is blue against them still, and early stars

glimmer above the pine-tops; and the air

clings faint and motionless around me here.

Another burst of flame--and the black speck

shows in the glare, lashed onwards. It were well

I bade make ready for our guests to-night.

Augusta Davies Webster

An April Day

When the warm sun, that brings

Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,

'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,

Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould

The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;

Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song

Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings

Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills

The silver woods with light, the green slope throws

Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born,

In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,

Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,

And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide

Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,

And the fair trees look over, side by side,

And see themselves below.

Sweet April! many a thought

Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;

Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,

Life's golden fruit is shed.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Rose The Red And White Lily

O Rose the Red and White Lilly,

Their mother dear was dead,

And their father married an ill woman,

Wishd them twa little guede.

Yet she had twa as fu fair sons

As eer brake manis bread,

And the tane of them loed her White Lilly,

And the tither lood Rose the Red.

O, biggit ha they a bigly bowr,

And strawn it oer wi san,

And there was mair mirth i the ladies' bowr

Than in a' their father's lan.

But out it spake their step-mother,

Wha stood a little foreby:

'I hope to live and play the prank

Sal gar your loud sang ly.'

She's calld upon her eldest son:

'Come here, my son, to me;

It fears me sair, my eldest son,

That ye maun sail the sea.'

'Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear,

Your bidding I maun dee;

But be never war to Rose the Red

Than ye ha been to me.'

'O had your tongue, my eldest son,

For sma sal be her part;

You'll nae get a kiss o her comely mouth

Gin your very fair heart should break.'

She's calld upon her youngest son:

'Come here, my son, to me;

It fears me sair, my youngest son,

That ye maun sail the sea.'

'Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear,

Your bidding I maun dee;

But be never war to White Lilly

Than ye ha been to me.'

'O haud your tongue, my youngest son,

For sma sall be her part;

You'll neer get a kiss o her comely mouth

Tho your very fair heart should break.'

When Rose the Red and White Lilly

Saw their twa loves were gane,

Then stopped ha they their loud, loud sang,

And tane up the still moarnin;

And their step-mother stood listnin by,

To hear the ladies' mean.

Then out it spake her, White Lily;

'My sister, we'll be gane;

Why shou'd we stay in Barnsdale,

To waste our youth in pain?'

Then cutted ha they their green cloathing,

A little below their knee;

And sae ha they their yallow hair,

A little aboon there bree;

And they've doen them to haely chapel

Was christened by Our Ladye.

There ha they changed their ain twa names,

Sae far frae ony town;

And the tane o them hight Sweet Willy,

And the tither o them Roge the Roun.

Between this twa a vow was made,

An they sware it to fulfil;

That at three blasts o a buglehorn,

She'd come her sister till.

Now Sweet Willy's gane to the kingis court,

Her true-love for to see,

And Roge the Roun to good green wood,

Brown Robin's man to be.

As it fell out upon a day,

They a did put the stane;

Full seven foot ayont them a

She gard the puttin-stane gang.

She leand her back against an oak,

And gae a loud Ohone!

Then out it spake him Brown Robin,

'But that's a woman's moan!'

'Oh, ken ye by my red rose lip?

Or by my yallow hair;

Or ken ye by my milk-white breast?

For ye never saw it bare?'

'I ken no by your red rose lip,

Nor by your yallow hair;

Nor ken I by your milk-white breast,

For I never saw it bare;

But, come to your bowr whaever sae likes,

Will find a ladye there.'

'Oh, gin ye come to my bowr within,

Thro fraud, deceit, or guile,

Wi this same bran that's in my han

I swear I will thee kill.'

'But I will come thy bowr within,

An spear nae leave,' quoth he;

'An this same bran that's i my ban,

I sall ware back on the.'

About the tenth hour of the night,

The ladie's bowr door was broken,

An eer the first hour of the day

The bonny knave bairn was gotten.

When days were gane and months were run,

The ladye took travailing,

And sair she cry'd for a bow'r-woman,

For to wait her upon.

Then out it spake him, Brown Robin:

'Now what needs a' this din?

For what coud any woman do

But I coud do the same?'

'Twas never my mither's fashion,' she says,

'Nor sall it ever be mine,

That belted knights shoud eer remain

Where ladies dreed their pine.

'But ye take up that bugle-horn,

An blaw a blast for me;

I ha a brother i the kingis court

Will come me quickly ti.'

'O gin ye ha a brither on earth

That ye love better nor me,

Ye blaw the horn yoursel,' he says,

'For ae blast I winna gie.'

She's set the horn till her mouth,

And she's blawn three blasts sae shrill;

Sweet Willy heard i the kingis court,

And came her quickly till.

Then up it started Brown Robin,

An an angry man was he:

'There comes nae man this bowr within

But first must fight wi me.'

O they hae fought that bowr within

Till the sun was gaing down,

Till drops o blude frae Rose the Red

Cam trailing to the groun.

She leand her back against the wa,

Says, 'Robin, let a' be;

For it is a lady born and bred

That's foughten sae well wi thee.'

O seven foot he lap a back;

Says, 'Alas, and wae is me!

I never wisht in a' my life,

A woman's blude to see;

An ae for the sake of ae fair maid

Whose name was White Lilly.'

Then out it spake her White Lilly,

An a hearty laugh laugh she:

'She's lived wi you this year an mair,

Tho ye kenntna it was she.'

Now word has gane thro a' the lan,

Before a month was done,

That Brown Robin's man, in good green wood,

Had born a bonny young son.

The word has gane to the kingis court,

An to the king himsel;

'Now, by my fay,' the king could say,

'The like was never heard tell!'

Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,

An a hearty laugh laugh he:

'I trow some may has playd the loun,

And fled her ain country.'

'Bring me my steed,' then cry'd the king,

'My bow and arrows keen;

I'll ride mysel to good green wood,

An see what's to be seen.'

'An't please your grace,' said Bold Arthur,

'My liege, I'll gang you wi,

An try to fin a little foot-page,

That's strayd awa frae me.'

O they've hunted i the good green wood

The buck but an the rae,

An they drew near Brown Robin's bowr,

About the close of day.

Then out it spake the king in hast,

Says, 'Arthur look an see

Gin that be no your little foot-page

That leans against yon tree.'

Then Arthur took his bugle-horn,

An blew a blast sae shrill;

Sweet Willy started at the sound,

An ran him quickly till.

'O wanted ye your meat, Willy?

Or wanted ye your fee?

Or gat ye ever an angry word,

That ye ran awa frae me?'

'I wanted nought, my master dear;

To me ye ay was good;

I came but to see my ae brother,

That wons in this green wood.'

Then out it spake the king again,

Says, 'Bonny boy, tell to me,

Wha lives into yon bigly bowr,

Stands by yon green oak tree?'

'Oh, pardon me,' says Sweet Willie,

'My liege, I dare no tell;

An I pray you go no near that bowr,

For fear they do you fell.'

'Oh, haud your tongue, my bonny boy,

For I winna be said nay;

But I will gang that bowr within,

Betide me weal or wae.'

They've lighted off their milk-white steeds,

An saftly enterd in,

And there they saw her White Lilly,

Nursing her bonny young son.

'Now, by the rood,' the king coud say,

'This is a comely sight;

I trow, instead of a forrester's man,

This is a lady bright!'

Then out it spake her, Rose the Red,

An fell low down on her knee:

'Oh, pardon us, my gracious liege,

An our story I'll tell thee.

'Our father was a wealthy lord,

That wond in Barnsdale;

But we had a wicked step-mother,

That wrought us meickle bale.

'Yet she had twa as fu fair sons

As ever the sun did see,

An the tane of them lood my sister dear,

An the tother said he lood me.'

Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,

As by the king he stood:

'Now, by the faith o my body,

This shoud be Rose the Red!'

Then in it came him Brown Robin,

Frae hunting O the deer;

But whan he saw the king was there,

He started back for fear.

The king has taen him by the hand,

An bide him naithing dread;

Says, 'Ye maun leave the good greenwood,

Come to the court wi speed.'

Then up he took White Lilly's son,

An set him on his knee;

Says--'Gin ye live to wield a bran,

My bowman ye sall bee.'

The king he sent for robes of green,

An girdles o shinning gold;

He gart the ladies be arrayd

Most comely to behold.

They've done them unto Mary kirk,

An there gat fair wedding,

An fan the news spread oer the lan,

For joy the bells did ring.

Then out it spake her Rose the Red,

An a hearty laugh laugh she:

'I wonder what would our step-dame say,

Gin she his sight did see!'

Andrew Lang

The Secret

In the profoundest ocean

There is a rainbow shell,

It is always there, shining most stilly

Under the greatest storm waves

That the old Greek called "ripples of laughter."

As you listen, the rainbow shell

Sings--in the profoundest ocean.

It is always there, singing most silently!

Katherine Mansfield

The Nobleman's Wedding

I once was a guest at a Nobleman's wedding;

Fair was the Bride, but she scarce had been kind,

And now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the shedding

Her former true lover still runs in her mind.

Attired like a minstrel, her former true lover

Takes up his harp, and runs over the strings;

And there among strangers, his grief to discover,

A fair maiden's falsehood he bitterly sings.

'Now here is the token of gold that was broken;

Seven long years it was kept for your sake;

You gave it to me as a true lover's token;

No longer I'll wear it, asleep or awake.'

She sat in her place by the head of the table,

The words of his ditty she mark'd them right well:

To sit any longer this bride was not able,

So down at the bridegroom's feet she fell.

'O one, one request, my lord, one and no other,

O this one request will you grant it to me?

To lie for this night in the arms of my mother,

And ever, and ever thereafter with thee.'

Her one, one request it was granted her fairly;

Pale were her cheeks as she went up to bed;

And the very next morning, early, early,

They rose and they found this young bride was dead.

The bridegroom ran quickly, he held her, he kiss'd her,

He spoke loud and low, and listen'd full fain;

He call'd on her waiting-maids round to assist her

But nothing could bring the lost breath back again.

O carry her softly! the grave is made ready;

At head and at foot plant a laurel-bush green;

For she was a young and a sweet noble lady,

The fairest young bride that I ever have seen.

William Allingham

To Winter

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:

The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark

Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,

Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.'

He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep

Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheathèd

In ribbèd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,

For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose 1000 skin clings

To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:

He withers all in silence, and in his hand

Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner

Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st

With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster

Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.

William Blake

Character

To be fond of learning is near to wisdom; to practice with vigor is near to benevolence; and to be conscious of shame is near to fortitude. He who knows these three things knows how to cultivate his own character.

Confucius

Greatest

Health is the greatest possession.
Contentment is the greatest treasure.
Confidence is the greatest friend.
Non-being is the greatest joy.

Dhammapada

Irritating

"Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.”

Carl Jung

Immoral

A life without love is a sinful and immoral thing.

Vincent Van Gogh

So pleasant!

It is so pleasant to come across people more stupid than ourselves. We love them at once for being so.

Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927)

Well...

Well, if I am dysfunctional, who dysfuncted me?

Kathy Lette 1958-

Wake up

Wake up with one mind, my friends, and kindle the fire, you many who share the same nest. Make your thoughts harmonious; stretch them on the loom; make a ship whose oars will carry us across...

Rig Veda

Balance

"There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long as the other in the year's course. Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word 'happy' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.”

Carl Gustav Jung

Chloe Divine

Chloe's a Nymph in flowery groves,

...A Nereid in the streams;

Saint-like she in the temple moves,

...A woman in my dreams.

Love steals artillery from her eyes,

...The Graces point her charms;

Orpheus is rivall'd in her voice,

...And Venus in her arms.

Never so happily in one

...Did heaven and earth combine:

And yet 'tis flesh and blood alone

...That makes her so divine.

Thomas D'urfey (1633-1723)

To the Muses

Whether on Ida's shady brow,

Or in the chambers of the East,

The chambers of the sun, that now

From ancient melody have ceas'd;

Whether in Heav'n ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth,

Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea

Wand'ring in many a coral grove,

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!

How have you left the ancient love

That bards of old enjoy'd in you!

The languid strings do scarcely move!

The sound is forc'd, the notes are few!

William Blake

The Maids Of Elfin-Mere

When the spinning-room was here

Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,

With their spindles every night;

One and Two and three fair Maidens,

Spinning to a pulsing cadence,

Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;

Till the eleventh hour was toll'd,

Then departed through the wold.

Years ago, and years ago;

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Three white Lilies, calm and clear,

And they were loved by every one;

Most of all, the Pastor's Son,

Listening to their gentle singing,

Felt his heart go from him, clinging

Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere.

Sued each night to make them stay,

Sadden'd when they went away.

Years ago, and years ago;

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Hands that shook with love and fear

Dared put back the village clock,-

Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock,

Flow'd the song with subtle rounding,

Till the false 'eleven' was sounding;

Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere

Swiftly, softly, left the room,

Like three doves on snowy plume.

Years ago, and years ago;

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

One that night who wander'd near

Heard lamentings by the shore,

Saw at dawn three stains of gore

In the waters fade and dwindle.

Never more with song and spindle

Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,

The Pastor's Son did pine and die;

Because true love should never lie.

Years ago, and years ago;

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

William Allingham

The Sea-Child

Into the world you sent her, mother,

Fashioned her body of coral and foam,

Combed a wave in her hair's warm smother,

And drove her away from home

In the dark of the night she crept to the town

And under a doorway she laid her down,

The little blue child in the foam-fringed gown.

And never a sister and never a brother

To hear her call, to answer her cry.

Her face shone out from her hair's warm smother

Like a moonkin up in the sky.

She sold her corals; she sold her foam;

Her rainbow heart like a singing shell

Broke in her body: she crept back home.

Peace, go back to the world, my daughter,

Daughter, go back to the darkling land;

There is nothing here but sad sea water,

And a handful of sifting sand.

Katherine Mansfield

Romance

MY Love dwelt in a Northern land.

A gray tower in a forest green

Was hers, and far on either hand

The long wash of the waves was seen,

And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,

The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night

The sunset slowly died away,

And herds of strange deer, lily-white,

Stole forth among the branches gray;

About the coming of the light,

They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green

Still girdles round that castle gray;

I know not if the boughs between

The white deer vanish ere the day;

Above my Love the grass is green,

My heart is colder than the clay!

Andrew Lang

Delia. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives,

When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,

Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,

But never will be sung to us again,

Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest

Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling; it is best.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Choosing

The thrush that, yet alone, pipes for his mate

Knows she will come in time to build the nest,

Knows she'll be she his tiny soul loves best;

'Tis love-time at the hawthorn blossom's date:

And the new flower-cups bare their hearts and wait

While careless breezes bring them love for guest;

And Youth laughs ready for the glad unrest;

But Love that chooses lingers desolate.

And I, who seek, and yearn for love to stir,

And I, who seek, and cannot love but one

And have not known her being, nor can find,

I take my homeless way for sake of her;

And love-time's here, and love-time will be done:

Birds end all singing in the autumn wind.

Augusta Davies Webster

Beyond

COLOSSAL orb of space,

Sparkling with diamond

Of countless star on star,

All whirling with wild grace

In their enwoven dance

Illimitably far,

What lies beyond

Your vasty hollow girdled by that bright

River of stellar spray

We call the Milky Way?

Immeasurable ball,

Cornpassed and clasped in light,

Can you be all,

A flock of fireflies circling in the night,

A maze of jewels that the toss of Chance

Let fall,

Sun, planet, asteroid,

One globe of glories in the utter void?

What lies beyond?

Does the sheer Dark immerse

Infinity, drowning the last faint gold

Of fleeting comets, lost and vagabond?

Or is this astral universe,

All that our utmost vision may behold,

But one amidst a host of star-strewn spheres,

Each zoned with its own stream

Of softer gleam,

Perchance each dowered with wonder, love and tears?

What lies beyond?

The puny human heart still stirs

Against those flaming barriers,

That proud, impenetrable dome

Of fire and ether, seeking for a home,

A Soul that shall respond

To all its questions, longings and despairs.

Is space but raiment that the Spirit wears,

A gem-embroidered mantle to conceal

And yet reveal

In splendors of surprise

Beauty ineffable,

Immanuel?

Or shall we rise,

Higher than dream of Dante ever trod,

From star to star, from empyrean on

To empyrean, till the sun that shone

Over our vexed mortality be wan,

Through life on life, eternal range

From form to form, from change to change,

To find the Unknown God?

Katharine Lee Bates

And Doth Not a Meeting Like This

And doth not a meeting like this make amends

For all the long years I've been wandering away --

To see thus around me my youth's early friends,

As smiling and kind as in that happy day?

Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,

The snow -- fall of time may be stealing -- what then?

Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,

We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart,

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!

The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,

Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng.

As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,

When held to the flame, will steal out on the sight,

So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced,

The warmth of a meeting like this brings to the light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,

To visit the scenes of your boyhood anew,

Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide,

The wreck of full many a hope shining through;

Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,

That once made a garden of all the gay shore,

Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,

And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;

And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.

Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,

To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,

For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,

Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,

The more we should welcome and bless them the more;

They're ours, when we meet -- they are lost when we part,

Like birds that bring Summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.

Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,

Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, through pain,

That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,

Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.

Thomas Moore

Measure

Love is space and time measured by the heart.

Marcel Proust

Mad and bad

(Of Byron) 'Mad, bad, and dangerous to know' (Journal, 1812)

Lady Caroline Lamb

Adversity

Adversity reveals genius, prosperity conceals it.

Quintus H. F. Horace

No other desire

"Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving."

Kahlil Gibran

Control

The more you can increase fear of drugs and crime, welfare mothers, immigrants and aliens, the more you control all the people.

Noam Chomsky 1928-

Dissolver of sugar

Dissolver of sugar, dissolve me, if this is the time.

Do it gently with a touch of a hand, or a look.

Every morning I wait at dawn; that's when it's happened before.

Or do it suddenly like an execution.

How else can I get ready for death?

You breathe without a body like a spark.

You grieve, and I begin to feel lighter.

You keep me away with your arm,

but the keeping away is pulling me in.

Rumi

Version by Coleman Barks

"The Essential Rumi"

HarperSanFrancisco, 1995

Angels

Music is well said to be the speech of angels.

Thomas Carlyle