See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train— Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme, These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms! Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot, Pleas’d have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When nurs’d by careless solitude I liv’d And sung of Nature with unceasing joy, Pleas’d have I wander’d through your rough domain; Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst; Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew’d In the grim evening-sky. Thus pass’d the time, Till through the lucid chambers of the south
Her hair was curls of Pleasure and Delight, Which on her brow did cast a glistening light. As lace her bashful eyelids downward hung: A modest countenance o'er her face was flung: Blushes, as coral beads, she strung to wear About her neck, and pendants for each ear: Her gown was by Proportion cut and made, With veins embroidered, with complexion laid, Rich jewels of pure honor she did wear, By noble actions brightened everywhere: Thus dressed, to Fame's great court straightways she went, To dance a brawl with Youth, Love, Mirth, Content.
(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry) Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility:
Whatever is we only know As in our minds we find it so; No staring fact is half so clear As one dim, preconceived idea -- No matter how the fact may glow.
Vainly may Truth her trumpet blow To stir our minds; like heavy dough
Even as the sun with purple-colour’d face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek’d Adonis tried him to the chase;
Hunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac’d suitor ‘gins to woo him.
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace My life through its first years, and measured back The way I travell'd when I first began To love the woods and fields; the passion yet Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal, By nourishment that came unsought, for still, From week to week, from month to month, we liv'd A round of tumult: duly were our games Prolong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd; No chair remain'd before the doors, the bench And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep The Labourer, and the old Man who had sate, A later lingerer, yet the revelry Continued, and the loud uproar: at last,
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm; Besides I can tell where I am use'd well, Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale. And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale; We'd sing and we'd pray, all the live-long day; Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray,
Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing. And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring: And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch.
Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries,
What crowding thoughts around me wake, What marvels in a Christmas-cake! Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells Enclosed within its odorous cells? Is there no small magician bound Encrusted in its snowy round? For magic surely lurks in this, A cake that tells of vanished bliss;
With lovers, ’twas of old the fashion By presents to convey their passion; No matter what the gift they sent, The Lady saw that love was meant. Fair Atalanta, as a favour, Took the boar’s head her Hero gave her; Nor could the bristly thing affront her, ’Twas a fit present from a hunter.
Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss; Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder, Swelling on either side to want his bliss; Between whose hills her head entombed is; Where like a virtuous monument she lies, To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.
As I sit looking out of a window of the building I wish I did not have to write the instruction manual on the uses of a new metal. I look down into the street and see people, each walking with an inner peace, And envy them—they are so far away from me! Not one of them has to worry about getting out this manual on schedule. And, as my way is, I begin to dream, resting my elbows on the desk and leaning out of the window a little, Of dim Guadalajara! City of rose-colored flowers! City I wanted most to see, and most did not see, in Mexico!
A 29-year-old stewardess fell ... to her death tonight when she was swept through an emergency door that sud- denly sprang open ... The body ... was found ... three hours after the accident. —New York Times
the spiritual, Platonic old England … S. T. COLERIDGE, Anima Poetae
‘Your situation’, said Coningsby, looking up the green and silent valley, ‘is absolutely poetic.’ ‘I try sometimes to fancy’, said Mr Millbank, with a rather fierce smile, ‘that I am in the New World.’ BENJAMIN DISRAELI, Coningsby
I’ve always worried about you—the man or woman at the piano bench, night after night receiving only such applause as the singer allows: a warm hand please, for my accompanist.At concerts, as I watch your fingers on the keys, and how swiftly, how excellently you turn sheet music pages, track the singer’s notes, cover the singer’s flaws, I worry about whole lifetimes, most lifetimes lived in the shadows of reflected fame; but then the singer’s voice dies and there are just your last piano notes, not resentful at all,
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