Rivals

Of all the torments, all the cares,

...With which our lives are curst;

Of all the plagues a lover bears,

...Sure rivals are the worst!

By partners in each other kind

...Afflictions easier grow;

In love alone we hate to find

...Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see

...Are labouring in my breast,

I beg not you would favour me,

...Would you but slight the rest!

How great soe'er your rigours are,

...With them alone I'll cope;

I can endure my own despair,

...But not another's hope.

William Walsh (1663-1708)

I reason, earth is short

I reason, earth is short,

And anguish absolute,

And many hurt;

But what of that?

I reason, we could die:

The best vitality

Cannot excel decay;

But what of that?

I reason that in heaven

Somehow, it will be even,

Some new equation given;

But what of that?

Emily Dickinson

Crowd

We two are to ourselves a crowd.

Ovid

Fool

"In seeking wisdom thou art wise; in imagining that thou hast attained it - thou art a fool."

The Talmud

Everything

Everything comes to us that belongs to us if we create the capacity to receive it.

Rabindranath Tagore

Alone

Travel only with thy equals or thy betters; if there are none, travel alone.

The Dhammapada

Obvious

That's the way things come clear. All of a sudden. And then you realize how obvious they've been all along.

Madeleine L'Engle

Irresistible

Love talked about can be easily turned aside, but love demonstrated is irresistible.

W Stanley Mooneyham

Easy

Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead

Gene Fowler

Alone in Crowds to Wander On

Alone in crowds to wander on,

And feel that all the charm is gone

Which voices dear and eyes beloved

Shed round us once, where'er we roved --

This, this the doom must be

Of all who've loved, and loved to see

The few bright things they thought would stay

For ever near them, die away.

Though fairer forms around us throng,

Their smiles to others all belong,

And want that charm which dwells alone

Round those the fond heart calls its own,

Where, where the sunny brow?

The long-known voice -- where are they now?

Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,

If all her art cannot call forth

One bliss like those we felt of old

From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?

No, no -- her spell in vain --

As soon could she bring back again

Those eyes themselves from out the grave,

As wake again one bliss they gave.

Thomas Moore

Apollo Laughs

'APOLLO laughs,' the proverb tells,

Far echo of old oracles,

A Delphic waif, —'Once in the year,

Apollo laughs.' O laughter clear

As sunshine, blithe as golden bells!

What mortal folly parallels

Olympian jest and so impels

To mirth till Heaven's bright charioteer,

Apollo, laughs?

'Tis when the annual critic knells

The death of poetry, while swells

Some faint, fresh wood-note, pioneer

Of music earth shall thrill to hear.

Then at Apollo's infidels

Apollo laughs.

Katharine Lee Bates

Windows

Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.

Across the ocean of roofs I can see a middle-aged woman, her face already lined, who is forever bending over something and who never goes out. Out of her face, her dress, and her gestures, our of practically nothing at all, I have made up this woman's story, or rather legend, and sometimes I tell it to myself and weep.

If it had been and old man I could have made up his just as well.

And I go to bed proud to have lived and to have suffered in some one besides myself.

Perhaps you will say "Are you sure that your story is the really one?" But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?

Charles Baudelaire

To Spring

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down

Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn

Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,

Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell each other, and the listening

Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned

Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,

And let thy holy feet visit our clime.

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds

Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste

Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls

Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour

Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put

Thy golden crown upon her languished head,

Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.

William Blake

The Girl's Lamentation

With grief and mourning I sit to spin;

My Love passed by, and he didn't come in;

He passes by me, both day and night,

And carries off my poor heart's delight.

There is a tavern in yonder town,

My Love goes there and he spends a crown;

He takes a strange girl upon his knee,

And never more gives a thought to me.

Says he, 'We'll wed without loss of time,

And sure our love's but a little crime;'-

My apron-string now it's wearing short,

And my Love he seeks other girls to court.

O with him I'd go if I had my will,

I'd follow him barefoot o'er rock and hill;

I'd never once speak of all my grief

If he'd give me a smile for my heart's relief.

In our wee garden the rose unfolds,

With bachelor's-buttons and marigolds;

I'll tie no posies for dance or fair,

A willow-twig is for me to wear.

For a maid again I can never be,

Till the red rose blooms on the willow tree.

Of such a trouble I've heard them tell,

And now I know what it means full well.

As through the long lonesome night I lie,

I'd give the world if I might but cry;

But I mus'n't moan there or raise my voice,

And the tears run down without any noise.

And what, O what will my mother say?

She'll wish her daughter was in the clay.

My father will curse me to my face;

The neighbours will know of my black disgrace.

My sister's buried three years, come Lent;

But sure we made far too much lament.

Beside her grave they still say a prayer-

I wish to God 'twas myself was there!

The Candlemas crosses hang near my bed;

To look at them puts me much in dread,

They mark the good time that's gone and past:

It's like this year's one will prove the last.

The oldest cross it's a dusty brown,

But the winter winds didn't shake it down;

The newest cross keeps the colour bright;

When the straw was reaping my heart was light.

The reapers rose with the blink of morn,

And gaily stook'd up the yellow corn;

To call them home to the field I'd run,

Through the blowing breeze and the summer sun.

When the straw was weaving my heart was glad,

For neither sin nor shame I had,

In the barn where oat-chaff was flying round,

And the thumping flails made a pleasant sound.

Now summer or winter to me it's one;

But oh! for a day like the time that's gone.

I'd little care was it storm or shine,

If I had but peace in this heart of mine.

Oh! light and false is a young man's kiss,

And a foolish girl gives her soul for this.

Oh! light and short is the young man's blame,

And a helpless girl has the grief and shame.

To the river-bank once I thought to go,

And cast myself in the stream below;

I thought 'twould carry us far out to sea,

Where they'd never find my poor babe and me.

Sweet Lord, forgive me that wicked mind!

You know I used to be well-inclined.

Oh, take compassion upon my state,

Because my trouble is so very great.

My head turns round with the spinning wheel,

And a heavy cloud on my eyes I feel.

But the worst of all is at my heart's core;

For my innocent days will come back no more.

William Allingham

The Candle

By my bed, on a little round table

The Grandmother placed a candle.

She gave me three kisses telling me they were three

dreams

And tucked me in just where I loved being tucked.

Then she went out of the room and the door was shut.

I lay still, waiting for my three dreams to talk;

But they were silent.

Suddenly I remember giving her three kisses back.

Perhaps, by mistake, I had given my three little

dreams

I sat up in bed.

The room grew big, oh, bigger far than a church.

The wardrobe, quite by itself, as big as a house.

And the jug on the washstand smiled at me:

It was not a friendly smile.

I looked at the basket-chair where my clothes lay

folded:

The chair gave a creak as though it were listening

for something.

Perhaps it was coming alive and going to dress in

my clothes.

But the awful thing was the window:

I could not think what was outside.

No tree to be seen, I was sure,

No nice little plant or friendly pebbly path.

Why did she pull the blind down every night?

It was better to know.

I crunched my teeth and crept out of bed,

I peeped through a slit of the blind.

There was nothing at all to be seen.

But hundreds of friendly candles all over the sky

In remembrance of frightened children.

I went back to bed...

The three dreams started singing a little song.

Katherine Mansfield

Lord Thomas And Fair Annet

Lord Thomas and Fair Annet

Sate a' day on a hill;

Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,

They had not talkt their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest,

Fair Annet took it ill:

'A, I will nevir wed a wife

Against my ain friend's will.'

'Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,

A wife wull neir wed yee;'

Sae he is hame to tell his mither,

And knelt upon his knee.

'O rede, O rede, mither,' he says,

'A gude rede gie to mee;

O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,

And let Faire Annet bee?'

'The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,

Fair Annet she has gat nane;

And the little beauty Fair Annet haes

O it wull soon be gane.'

And he has till his brother gane:

'Now, brother, rede ye mee;

A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,

And let Fair Annet bee?'

'The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,

The nut-browne bride has kye;

I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,

And cast Fair Annet bye.'

'Her oxen may dye i' the house, billie,

And her kye into the byre;

And I sall hae nothing to mysell

Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.'

And he has till his sister gane:

'Now, sister, rede ye mee;

O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,

And set Fair Annet free?'

'I'se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,

And let the browne bride alane;

Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,

What is this we brought hame!'

'No, I will tak my mither's counsel,

And marrie me owt o hand;

And I will tak the nut-browne bride,

Fair Annet may leive the land.'

Up then rose Fair Annet's father,

Twa hours or it wer day,

And he is gane unto the bower

Wherein Fair Annet lay.

'Rise up, rise up, Fair Annet,' he says

'Put on your silken sheene;

Let us gae to St. Marie's Kirke,

And see that rich weddeen.'

'My maides, gae to my dressing-roome,

And dress to me my hair;

Whaireir yee laid a plait before,

See yee lay ten times mair.

'My maids, gae to my dressing-room,

And dress to me my smock;

The one half is o the holland fine,

The other o needle-work.'

The horse Fair Annet rade upon,

He amblit like the wind;

Wi siller he was shod before,

Wi burning gowd behind.

Four and twanty siller bells

Wer a' tyed till his mane,

And yae tift o the norland wind,

They tinkled ane by ane.

Four and twanty gay gude knichts

Rade by Fair Annet's side,

And four and twanty fair ladies,

As gin she had bin a bride.

And whan she cam to Marie's Kirk,

She sat on Marie's stean:

The cleading that Fair Annet had on

It skinkled in their een.

And whan she cam into the kirk,

She shimmerd like the sun;

The belt that was about her waist

Was a' wi pearles bedone.

She sat her by the nut-browne bride,

And her een they wer sae clear,

Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,

When Fair Annet drew near.

He had a rose into his hand,

He gae it kisses three,

And reaching by the nut-browne bride,

Laid it on Fair Annet's knee.

Up then spak the nut-browne bride,

She spak wi meikle spite:

'And whair gat ye that rose-water,

That does mak yee sae white?'

'O I did get the rose-water

Whair ye wull neir get nane,

For I did get that very rose-water

Into my mither's wame.'

The bride she drew a long bodkin

Frae out her gay head-gear,

And strake Fair Annet unto the heart,

That word spak nevir mair.

Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale,

And marvelit what mote bee;

But when he saw her dear heart's blude,

A' wood-wroth wexed bee.

He drew his dagger that was sae sharp,

That was sae sharp and meet,

And drave it into the nut-browne bride,

That fell deid at his feit.

'Now stay for me, dear Annet,' he sed,

'Now stay, my dear,' he cry'd;

Then strake the dagger untill his heart,

And fell deid by her side.

Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa,

Fair Annet within the quiere,

And o the ane thair grew a birk,

The other a bonny briere.

And ay they grew, and ay they threw,

As they wad faine be neare;

And by this ye may ken right weil

They were twa luvers deare.

Andrew Lang

The Day is Done

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Betrothed

I DID not think to love her. As we go

We pluck a hedge-rose blushing in its sheath,

Fresh, and at hand; and not the less we know

That where rich garden blossoms take the breath

With eddying sweets and wear a thousand hues

We shall be fain to linger and to choose.

And who indeed

Would pass the garden by to choose the weed,

The little wayside rose we hold and lose?

Fair; and so loving. With the young surprise

Of children who still newly understand

Their right and wrong out of their mother's eyes,

She watches for my thought. Her trustful hand

Creeps into mine and rests. Ah, little one,

Hadst thou loved less I had not been undone;

My wayside rose.

I love thee, sweet: some hopes have found their close

Ere yet their aim; some joys ceased unbegun.

I had not thought to love her. She is fair;

But I had pictured eyes which, meeting mine,

Should kindle something in me that was there

But waited Her arousing; I divine

A love, that was to be, past hence unborn,

The sun o'erclouded ere it rose at morn.

I love thee, yes:

Let hopes be dead which thou couldst never guess.

Sweet, could I let thy blossom drop unworn?

Augusta Davies Webster

Fear

To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.

Bertrand Russell

Center

When they discover the center of the universe, a lot of people will be disappointed to discover they are not it.

Bernard Bailey