tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79512987529244543902024-02-18T20:00:01.910-08:00Dead Poets and Dark CavesMelissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-79486153104929684712010-06-01T11:48:00.000-07:002010-06-01T12:00:43.899-07:00I am the Captain of my soul.Invictus<br />by William Ernest Henley<br /><br />Out of the night that covers me,<br />Black as the Pit from pole to pole,<br />I thank whatever gods may be<br />For my unconquerable soul.<br /><br />In the fell clutch of circumstance<br />I have not winced nor cried aloud.<br />Under the bludgeonings of chance<br />My head is bloody, but unbowed.<br /><br />Beyond this place of wrath and tears<br />Looms but the Horror of the shade,<br />And yet the menace of the years<br />Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.<br /><br />It matters not how strait the gate,<br />How charged with punishments the scroll.<br />I am the master of my fate:<br />I am the captain of my soul.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-37874470919856787592010-02-25T20:45:00.000-08:002010-02-25T20:57:30.656-08:00Oh to Dickens with you!<a href="http://www.upenn.edu/ogca/images/ivy.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 174px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 250px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.upenn.edu/ogca/images/ivy.jpg" /></a><br /><div>THE IVY GREEN<br />by: Charles Dickens (1812-1870)<br /></div><br /><div>OH, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,<br />That creepeth o'er ruins old!<br />Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,<br />In his cell so lone and cold.<br />The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,<br />To pleasure his dainty whim:<br />And the mouldering dust that years have made<br />Is a merry meal for him.<br />Creeping where no life is seen,<br />A rare old plant is the Ivy green.<br /><br />Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,<br />And a staunch old heart has he.<br />How closely he twineth, how tight he clings<br />To his friend the huge Oak Tree!<br />And slyly he traileth along the ground,<br />And his leaves he gently waves,<br />As he joyously hugs and crawleth round<br />The rich mould of dead men's graves.<br />Creeping where grim death hath been,<br />A rare old plant is the Ivy green.<br /><br />Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,<br />And nations have scattered been;<br />But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,<br />From its hale and hearty green.<br />The brave old plant, in its lonely days,<br />Shall fatten upon the past:<br />For the stateliest building man can raise<br />Is the Ivy's food at last.<br />Creeping on where time has been,<br />A rare old plant is the Ivy green.<br /><br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-45964186678636720002009-11-09T21:30:00.000-08:002009-11-09T21:46:01.607-08:00<a href="http://louveseule.l.o.pic.centerblog.net/a6onk4b8.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://louveseule.l.o.pic.centerblog.net/a6onk4b8.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Harmonie du Soir</div><br /><div></div><div>Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige</div><div>Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;</div><div>Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;</div><div>Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!</div><div> </div><div>Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;</div><div>Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige;</div><div>Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!</div><div>Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.</div><div> </div><div>Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,</div><div>Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!</div><div>Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;</div><div>Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.</div><div> </div><div>Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,</div><div>Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!</div><div>Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...</div><div>Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!<br /></div><div>— Charles Baudelaire</div><div> </div><div>Now in English...</div><div> </div><div>Evening Harmony</div><div> </div><div>The season is at hand when swaying on its stem </div><div>Every flower exhales perfume like a censer; </div><div>Sounds and perfumes turn in the evening air; </div><div>Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!</div><div> </div><div><br />Every flower exhales perfume like a censer; </div><div>The violin quivers like a tormented heart; </div><div>Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo! </div><div>The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar.</div><div> </div><div>The violin quivers like a tormented heart,</div><div>A tender heart, that hates the vast, black void!</div><div>The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar;</div><div>The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...</div><div> </div><div>A tender heart that hates the vast, black void</div><div>Gathers up every shred of the luminous past! </div><div>The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...</div><div>Your memory in me glitters like a monstrance!</div><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-35062654379121176722009-07-31T05:58:00.000-07:002009-07-31T05:58:00.734-07:00Reluctance<a href="http://www.vagabondish.com/wp-content/uploads/autumn-leaves-rome.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 500px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 746px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.vagabondish.com/wp-content/uploads/autumn-leaves-rome.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Reluctance</div><div>By Robert Frost</div><br /><div></div><div>Out through the fields and the woods</div><div>And over the walls I have wended;</div><div>I have climbed the hills of view</div><div>And looked at the world, and descended;</div><div>I have come by the highway home,</div><div>And lo, it is ended.</div><br /><div></div><div>The leaves are all dead on the ground,</div><div>Save those that the oak is keeping</div><div>To ravel them one by one</div><div>And let them go scraping and creeping</div><div>Out over the crusted snow,</div><div>When others are sleeping.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,</div><div>No longer blown hither and thither;</div><div>The last long aster is gone;</div><div>The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;</div><div>The heart is still aching to seek,</div><div>But the feet question 'Whither?'</div><br /><div>Ah, when to the heart of man</div><div>Was it ever less than a treason</div><div>To go with the drift of things,</div><div>To yield with a grace to reason,</div><div>And bow and accept the end</div><div>Of a love or a season?<br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-10992509906256723112009-07-28T13:52:00.000-07:002009-07-28T14:03:26.627-07:00I typed Robert Browning and google gave me Robert Pattinson...WTF?<a href="http://imagecache5.art.com/p/LRG/26/2623/AX5MD00Z/andy-warhol-love-affair.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://imagecache5.art.com/p/LRG/26/2623/AX5MD00Z/andy-warhol-love-affair.jpg" /></a><br /><div>The Lost Mistress</div><br /><div>Robert Browning</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br />All's over, then: does truth sound bitter<br />As one at first believes?<br />Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter<br />About your cottage eaves!<br /><br />And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,<br />I noticed that, to-day;<br />One day more bursts them open fully<br />--You know the red turns gray.<br /><br />To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?<br />May I take your hand in mine?<br />Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest<br />Keep much that I resign:<br /><br />For each glance of the eye so bright and black.<br />Though I keep with heart's endeavour,--<br />Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,<br />Though it stay in my soul for ever!--<br /><br />Yet I will but say what mere friends say,<br />Or only a thought stronger;<br />I will hold your hand but as long as all may,<br />Or so very little longer! </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-62843615796985925622009-07-16T17:49:00.000-07:002009-07-16T18:11:32.494-07:00A Sense of AbsenceWhile this poet is not dead, as all the poets here are, she is talented. From the first line I was captured. Read and I think you'll see what I'm talking about.<br /><br />A twitter friend, a fellow writer and a coffee obsessive buddy. And they said nothing good would come of Twitter.<br /><p> </p><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 346px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 459px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.amiclarke.com/2007/vacancy%20(neon%20sign)%202007/Vacancy-(neon-sign)-2007.jpg" /><br /></p><br /><br />A Sense of Absence<br /><br />by <a href="http://blue--summer.xanga.com/707406873/a-sense-of-absence/?page=1&jump=1493623060&leftcmt=1#1493623060">Blue Summer</a><br /><br /><br /><br />The moment’s full<br />of nearly dead deceptions,<br />and they are slick like glass, sharp<br />as shame in the morning, busy<br />lapping up their own intentions,<br />struggling to sustain<br />what cannot be salvaged.<br /><br />Every word spoken<br />leaves a hole, a vacancy,<br />a thick absence.<br />And you stood—<br />And I stood—<br />but we were both<br />in different places, tangled<br />in that tight wire<br />neither of us could see—<br />but it’s the feeling that counts,<br />isn’t it?<br /><br />In the end, it doesn’t matter,<br />not as I once thought. These openings<br />dissolve too quickly, and feelings<br />are inflamed, shut out, and shut off,<br />half their old size, bent<br />into nothing and beyond it.<br /><br />Something’s slid shut, convincingly<br />uprooting things that were never there,<br />and I’m left<br />in the cold blue moonlight, eyes full<br />of deep faults and blooming ice,<br />stuck in a rift<br />of apprehensive disappointment,<br />heartsick with these dwindling promises<br />and raging indifference.<br /><br />At last,<br />I am made of terror, but the red, wincing fear,<br />clawed and bloody, is as untouchable<br />as a myth, but as abrupt<br />as a broken sentence. We have been<br />stripped out<br />of ourselves and each other,<br />and there’s no untangling<br />the bright monster who killed us both.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-80901715492543166922009-07-05T21:36:00.000-07:002009-07-05T21:53:22.921-07:00The Haunted Place<a href="http://www.prairieghosts.com/Image75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 457px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 627px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.prairieghosts.com/Image75.jpg" /></a> The Haunted Place<br />by Edgar Allan Poe<br /><br /><br /><br />In the greenest of our valleys<br />By good angels tenanted,<br />Once a fair and stately palace-<br />Radiant palace- reared its head.<br />In the monarch<br />Thought's dominion-<br />It stood there!<br />Never seraph spread a pinion<br />Over fabric half so fair!<br /><br /><br /><br />Banners yellow, glorious, golden, <br />On its roof did float and flow, <br />(This- all this- was in the olden <br />Time long ago,) <br />And every gentle air that dallied, <br />In that sweet day, <br />Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, <br />A winged odor went away.<br /><br /><br /> Wanderers in that happy valley, <br />Through two luminous windows, saw <br />Spirits moving musically, <br />To a lute's well-tuned law, <br />Round about a throne where, sitting <br />(Porphyrogene!) <br />In state his glory well-befitting, <br />The ruler of the realm was seen.<br /><br />And all with pearl and ruby glowing <br />Was the fair palace door, <br />Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, <br />And sparkling evermore, <br />A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty <br />Was but to sing, <br />In voices of surpassing beauty, <br />The wit and wisdom of their king.<br /><br />But evil things, in robes of sorrow, <br />Assailed the monarch's high estate. <br />\(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow <br />Shall dawn upon him desolate!) <br />And round about his home the glory <br />That blushed and bloomed, <br />Is but a dim-remembered story <br />Of the old time entombed.<br /><br />And travellers, now, within that valley, <br />Through the red-litten windows see <br />Vast forms, that move fantastically <br />To a discordant melody, <br />While, like a ghastly rapid river, <br />Through the pale door <br />A hideous throng rush out forever <br />And laugh- but smile no more.<br /><br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-29963124334575224202009-06-30T13:48:00.001-07:002009-06-30T14:29:51.246-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQSnnGVnI-O7eyiZB9WpJ4C2UM2CFWcnrdiiagtJ46Zo-hxS1K8YJyA1pz1q5mf2Qx1A07X0jj42tWj4NSWcC057Je6rWtwnky-5pa4J79rEniJWHGhgHDObcnymp7SEbpfyklRtg3R-mC/s1600-h/lorca2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 219px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353233442857948914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQSnnGVnI-O7eyiZB9WpJ4C2UM2CFWcnrdiiagtJ46Zo-hxS1K8YJyA1pz1q5mf2Qx1A07X0jj42tWj4NSWcC057Je6rWtwnky-5pa4J79rEniJWHGhgHDObcnymp7SEbpfyklRtg3R-mC/s320/lorca2.jpg" /></a><br /><div>My Spaniards hang with eachother, painter Dali and Lorca had a unconventional realationship. Like the stick that holds up the young tree, they held eachother up. Federico García Lorca is possibly the most important Spanish poet and dramatist of his time. Now read this with the famous spaniard lisp.*Grin*<br /><br /><br /><br />Arbolé, Arbolé . . .<br />Federico García Lorca<br /><br />Arbolé, arbolé,<br />seco y verdí.<br /><br />La niña del bello rostro<br />está cogiendo aceituna.<br />El viento, galán de torres,<br />la prende por la cintura.<br />Pasaron cuatro jinetes<br />sobre jacas andaluzas,<br />con trajes de azul y verde,<br />con largas capas oscuras.<br />"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."<br />La niña no los escucha.<br />Pasaron tres torerillos<br />delgaditos de cintura,<br />con trajes color naranja<br />y espadas de plata antigua.<br />"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."<br />La niña no los escucha.<br />Cuando la tarde se puso<br />morada, con lux difusa,<br />pasó un joven que llevaba<br />rosas y mirtos de luna.<br />"Vente a Granada, muchacha."<br />Y la niña no lo escucha.<br />La niña del bello rostro<br />sigue cogiendo aceituna,<br />con el brazo gris del viento<br />ceñido por la cintura.<br />Arbolé, arbolé.<br />Seco y verdé.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PcfrayrDaanvUanRf0aT6TWmUkA3Hi93ES6xxqTpFo5U5biokK0k8QI-IhtD1KHdUsc7NA5Lr3GXX5OEN75d8ng5DtGGqLtvuOJUPERopHCsjwMudq2g9REkBFFS7QuBxit4u4XJVj4E/s1600-h/ray_caesar5.jpg"></a></div><div>Y ahora en inglés para los que no leen español, disfruta de.</div><div> </div><div>Translated by William Logan</div><div><br />Tree, tree<br />dry and green.<br /><br />The girl with the pretty face<br />is out picking olives.<br />The wind, playboy of towers,<br />grabs her around the waist.<br />Four riders passed by<br />on Andalusian ponies,<br />with blue and green jackets<br />and big, dark capes.<br />"Come to Cordoba, muchacha."<br />The girl won't listen to them.<br />Three young bullfighters passed,<br />slender in the waist,<br />with jackets the color of oranges<br />and swords of ancient silver.<br />"Come to Sevilla, muchacha."<br />The girl won't listen to them.<br />When the afternoon had turned<br />dark brown, with scattered light,<br />a young man passed by, wearing<br />roses and myrtle of the moon.<br />"Come to Granada, inuchacha."<br />And the girl won't listen to him.<br />The girl with the pretty face<br />keeps on picking olives<br />with the grey arm of the wind<br />wrapped around her waist.<br />Tree, tree<br />dry and green.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare </div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-24740174963699848342009-06-29T14:51:00.000-07:002009-06-29T17:55:09.873-07:00The Moon up in they sky so highTHE MOON<br />by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)<br /><br /><br />I.<br /> <br />And, like a dying lady lean and pale,<br />Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,<br />Out of her chamber, led by the insane<br />And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,<br />The moon arose up in the murky east<br />A white and shapeless mass.<br /> <br />II.<br /> <br />Art thou pale for weariness<br />Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,<br />Wandering companionless<br />Among the stars that have a different birth,<br />And ever changing, like a joyless eye<br />That finds no object worth its constancy?<br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-39983320020047476042009-06-24T17:28:00.000-07:002009-06-24T18:10:24.104-07:00Do as the Sparrow did....<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2201/2450934680_049aa5f46a.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 500px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 333px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2201/2450934680_049aa5f46a.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As The Sparrow</div><br /><div>by Charles Bukowski </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>To give life you must take life,</div><div>and as our grief falls flat and hollow</div><div>upon the billion-blooded sea</div><div>I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed</div><div>with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures</div><div>lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.</div><div>Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow</div><div>did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be</div><div>young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.</div><div>I hated you when it would have taken less courage</div><div>to love.<br /></div><br /><div></div><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-61812962353444703982009-06-17T04:05:00.000-07:002009-06-17T04:05:00.423-07:00I'm sorry but I have found a poetic obession and refuse to let it go!<a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/170/448437903_b02b3cd6d9.jpg?v=0"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 500px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 375px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/170/448437903_b02b3cd6d9.jpg?v=0" /></a><br /><div>L'Amour et le Crâne </div><div>de Charles Baudelaire</div><br /><br /><div></div><div>Vieux cul-de-lampe</div><br /><br /><div></div><div>L'Amour est assis sur le crâne</div><div>De l'Humanité,</div><div>Et sur ce trône le profane,</div><div>Au rire effronté,</div><br /><div>Souffle gaiement des bulles rondes</div><div>Qui montent dans l'air,</div><div>Comme pour rejoindre les mondes</div><div>Au fond de l'éther.</div><br /><br />Le globe lumineux et frêle<br />Prend un grand essor,<br />Crève et crache son âme grêle<br />Comme un songe d'or.<br /><br /><br />J'entends le crâne à chaque bulle<br />Prier et gémir:—<br />«Ce jeu féroce et ridicule,<br />Quand doit-il finir?<br /><p> </p><p>Car ce que ta bouche cruelle</p><p>Eparpille en l'air,</p><p>Monstre assassin, c'est ma cervelle,</p><p>Mon sang et ma chair!»</p><br />Et maintenant dans l'anglais pour mes amis qui ne lisent pas Français!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Cupid and the Skull<br />by Charles Baudelaire and translated by William Aggeler<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />An Old Lamp Base<br /><br />Cupid is seated on the skull<br />Of Humanity;<br />On this throne the impious one<br />With the shameless laugh<br /><br />Is gaily blowing round bubbles<br />That rise in the air<br />As if they would rejoin the globes<br />At the ether's end.<br /><br />The sphere, fragile and luminous,<br />Takes flight rapidly,<br />Bursts and spits out its flimsy soul<br />Like a golden dream.<br /><br />I hear the skull groan and entreat<br />At every bubble:<br />"When is this fierce, ludicrous game<br />To come to an end?<br /><br />Because what your pitiless mouth<br />Scatters in the air,<br />Monstrous murderer — is my brain,<br />My flesh and my blood!"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-85065250277665373802009-06-12T12:45:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:30:26.706-07:00French Friday...well sort ofCharles Baudelaire (1821-1867) was a french poet--some argue one of the greatest french poets of the 19Th century-- who was given the surnom of 'the father of modern criticism,' shocked the Conservatives with his unveiled view of lust and decay. Baudelaire was the first to assimilate modern, artificial, and decadent--was on the side of artificiality, saying that vices are natural and essentially selfish where virtue are artificial because one put forth an conscious effort and restraint in order to be good. To Baudelaire the snobbishly controlled and the dandy were heroes and the ultimate proof of meaningless existence. He was a gentleman who never became vulgar and remained a cool collected smile.<br />His life was not an easy one, death, sadness and an estranged relationship with his mother after her third marriage, he was sent to boarding school and was expelled. His true passion since childhood was to live by his pen but still he enrolled in Law school, around this time he became addicted to Opium and later contracted lethal syphilis. His debts piled higher and higher around him and he left his studies and never returned.<br />From 1852 to 1865 he was occupied in translating Edgar Allan Poe's writings. In Poe, Baudelaire found a kindred spirit (Now you probably know why I like him. Anyone who loves Poe is aces in my book). When his <em>Les Fleurs du Mal</em>(The Flowers of Bad) came out all the people who had a hand in the work- author, printer, and publisher -were prosecuted and found guilty of obscenity and blasphemy. In this controversial book he transfers his guilt, sins and lies on the reader making them feel just as the poet felt. Waving the truth before their eyes and shedding the blinders with words, what powerful words,<em> "If poison, arson, sex, narcotics, knives / have not yet ruined us and stitched their quick, / loud patterns on the canvas of our lives, / it is because our souls are still too sick." </em><br /><em></em><br />With out further ado...the poem!<br /><a href="https://www.myartprints.co.uk/kunst/emile_deroy/portrait_charles_baudelaire_1__hi.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 450px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 579px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="https://www.myartprints.co.uk/kunst/emile_deroy/portrait_charles_baudelaire_1__hi.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>Fleurs du mal--La Fontaine de Sang</div><br /><div>Charles Baudelaire</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Il me semble parfois que mon sang coule à flots,</div><br /><div>Ainsi qu'une fontaine aux rythmiques sanglots.</div><br /><div>Je l'entends bien qui coule avec un long murmure,</div><br /><div>Mais je me tâte en vain pour trouver la blessure.<br /></div><br /><div>À travers la cité, comme dans un champ clos,</div><br /><div>Il s'en va, transformant les pavés en îlots,</div><br /><div>Désaltérant la soif de chaque créature,</div><br /><div>Et partout colorant en rouge la nature. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>J'ai demandé souvent à des vins captieux</div><br /><div>D'endormir pour un jour la terreur qui me mine;</div><br /><div>Le vin rend l'oeil plus clair et l'oreille plus fine!<br /></div><br /><div>J'ai cherché dans l'amour un sommeil oublieux;</div><br /><div>Mais l'amour n'est pour moi qu'un matelas d'aiguilles</div><br /><div>Fait pour donner à boire à ces cruelles filles!</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>and now in english, but I have to say the words loose a bit in translation...</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Flowers of Evil--The Fountain of Blood<br />Charles Baudelaire's words translated by Roy Campbell</div><br /><div><br />My blood in waves seems sometimes to be spouting </div><br /><div>As though in rhythmic sobs a fountain swooned. </div><br /><div>I hear its long, low, rushing sound till, doubting, </div><br /><div>I feel myself all over for the wound.</div><br /><div><br />Across the town, as in the lists of battle, </div><br /><div>It flows, transforming paving stones to isles, </div><br /><div>Slaking the thirst of creatures, men, and cattle,</div><br /><div>And colouring all nature red for miles.<br /></div><br /><div>Sometimes I've sought relief in precious wines </div><br /><div>To lull in me the fear that undermines, </div><br /><div>But found they sharpened every sense the more.</div><br /><div><br />I've also sought forgetfulness in lust, </div><br /><div>But love's a bed of needles, and they thrust </div><br /><div>To give more drink to each rapacious whore.</div><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-72311140334238892382009-06-10T16:07:00.000-07:002009-06-10T16:07:35.299-07:00Roses are red and Voilets are Blue, even flowers die.Yes, they do!<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2385/2279560726_f185184dd9.jpg?v=1203591186"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 500px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 375px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2385/2279560726_f185184dd9.jpg?v=1203591186" /></a><br /><div>A Dead Rose</div><div>by Elizabeth Barrett Browning</div><br /><div></div><div>O Rose! who dares to name thee?</div><div>No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;</div><div>But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---</div><div>Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.</div><br /><div></div><div>The breeze that used to blow thee</div><div>Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away</div><div>An odour up the lane to last all day,---</div><div>If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.</div><br /><div>The sun that used to smite thee,</div><div>And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,</div><div>Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,---</div><div>If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee.</div><br /><div></div><div>The dew that used to wet thee,</div><div>And, white first, grow incarnadined, because</div><div>It lay upon thee where the crimson was,---</div><div>If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee.</div><br /><div></div><div>The fly that lit upon thee,</div><div>To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,</div><div>Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,---</div><div>If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee.</div><br /><div></div><div>The bee that once did suck thee,</div><div>And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,</div><div>And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,---</div><div>If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee.</div><br /><div></div><div>The heart doth recognise thee,</div><div>Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,</div><div>Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,---</div><div>Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.</div><br /><div></div><div>Yes, and the heart doth owe thee</div><div>More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold</div><div>As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---</div><div>Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee! </div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-60447238675661934562009-06-09T17:00:00.001-07:002009-06-09T17:09:51.172-07:00Because sometimes you need to go Egyptian...<a href="http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/places/images/photos/photo_lg_egypt.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 599px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 396px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/places/images/photos/photo_lg_egypt.jpg" /></a><br /><div>1 <a name="Sister Without Peer">Sister without Peer</a></div><br /><div><br />My one, the sister without peer,<br />The handsomest of all!<br />She looks like the rising morning star<br />At the start of a happy year.<br />Shining bright, fair of skin,<br />Lovely the look of her eyes,<br />Sweet the speech of her lips,<br />She has not a word too much.<br />Upright neck, shining breast,<br />Hair true lapis lazuli;<br />Arms surpassing gold,<br />Fingers like lotus buds.<br />Heavy thighs, narrow waist,<br />Her legs parade her beauty;<br />With graceful step she treads the ground,<br />Captures my heart by her movements.<br />She causes all men's necks<br />To turn about to see her;<br />Joy has he whom she embraces,<br />He is like the first of men!<br />When she steps outside she seems<br />Like that the Sun!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="http://www.humanistictexts.org/egyptlov.htm">First Stanza, Beginning of the sayings of the great happiness, from Papyrus Chester Beatty I</a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-34697682874398348582009-06-05T10:59:00.000-07:002009-06-05T12:05:27.028-07:00Everybody needs a little Dr. Seuss<div align="center"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2201/2773169794_6876e46f7c.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 375px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 500px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2201/2773169794_6876e46f7c.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center">Oh, the Places You'll Go! (not in its entirety)</div><div align="center">Dr. Seuss</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> Except when you don' t </div><div align="center">Because, sometimes, you won't.<br />I'm sorry to say so but, sadly, it's true and Hang-ups can happen to you.<br />You can get all hung upin a prickle-ly perch.And your gang will fly on.You'll be left in a Lurch.<br />You'll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump.</div><div align="center">And the chances are, then,that you'll be in a Slump.<br />And when you're in a Slump,you're not in for much fun.Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.<br />You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.</div><div align="center">Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked. </div><div align="center">A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!</div><div align="center">Do you dare to stay out? </div><div align="center">Do you dare to go in?</div><div align="center">How much can you lose? </div><div align="center">How much can you win?<br />And IF you go in, should you turn left or right...or right-and-three-quarters? </div><div align="center">Or, maybe, not quite?</div><div align="center">Or go around back and sneak in from behind?</div><div align="center">Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,</div><div align="center">for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.<br />You can get so confused that you'll start in to race </div><div align="center">down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.</div><div align="center">The Waiting Place...<br />...for people just waiting.</div><div align="center">Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to goor the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a </div><div align="center">Yes or a No or waiting for their hair to grow.</div><div align="center">Everyone is just waiting.<br />Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite or waiting around for </div><div align="center">Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.</div><div align="center">Everyone is just waiting.<br />NO!That's not for you!<br />Somehow you'll escape all that waiting and staying.</div><div align="center">You'll find the bright places</div><div align="center">where Boom Bands are playing.</div><br /><div align="center">__________________________________________</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Sometimes Dr. Seuss just has all the words. From the very first time I learned to read this Doctor was my go to guy. One fish, two fish, blue fish, green fish--pigtails and hot pink converse under the plum tree. Oh, the Places You'll Go! </div><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-44511335711925949482009-06-02T03:41:00.000-07:002009-06-02T04:00:03.455-07:00My hands are shaking from carrying this torch...from carrying this torch for you!<a href="http://img29.picoodle.com/img/img29/9/8/31/f_heartbysnulm_7444bec.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 650px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 699px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://img29.picoodle.com/img/img29/9/8/31/f_heartbysnulm_7444bec.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I carry your heart with me</div><br /><div><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._E._Cummings">ee Cummings</a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I carry your heart with me(I carry it in</div><div>my heart)I am never without it(anywhere</div><div>I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done</div><div>by only me is your doing,my darling)</div><div> </div><div>I fear</div><div>no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)I want</div><div>no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)</div><div>and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant</div><div>and whatever a sun will always sing is you<br /></div><div>Here is the deepest secret nobody knows</div><div>(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud</div><div>and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows</div><div>higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)</div><div>and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart</div><div> </div><div>I carry your heart(I carry it in my heart)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-62779626514529262392009-05-30T10:56:00.000-07:002009-05-30T11:35:19.752-07:00The devil walks in the starlight?Lucifer in Starlight<br />George Meredith (1828–1909)<br /><br />ON a starr’d night Prince Lucifer uprose.<br />Tir’d of his dark dominion swung the fiend<br />Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen’d,<br />Where sinners hugg’d their spectre of repose.<br />Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.<a name="5"> </a><br />And now upon his Western wing he lean’d,<br />Now his huge bulk o’er Africa careen’d,<br />Now the black planet shadow’d Arctic snows.<br />Soaring through wider zones that prick’d his scars<br />With memory of the old revolt from Awe,<br />He reach’d a middle height, and at the stars,<br />Which are the brain of heaven, he look’d, and sank.<br />Around the ancient track march’d, rank on rank,<br />The army of unalterable law.<br /><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">We all know of a little disowned Lucifer, once and angle, but banished from Heaven to the deep pits of Hell. This poems refers to the devil as "in starlight", meaning he must raise to the place where stars are visible--earth. He delights in the vast mistakes of his future inhabitant, minions, whispering in their ears tales of evil. We all feel that tug to do wrong, some stronger than others, that is what George Meredith meant by in the starlight. Humans walk the earth and though Satan can't physically step foot on our ground he works through us and our know vices. This poem paints the picture of the devil as a fiend and plotter, you can almost see him salivating over the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve (the first sinner, therefore their children are also born into sin) as they live their lives. Towards the end it states that while peering through the "black planet" at the inhospitable places in the world, the barren desert and frozen tundra, he is reminded of what he can no longer have, life in Heaven. He knows his place is in hell and any attempt to ascend would be pointless, however as he gazes at his old home Lucifer desires it, so close but just out of reach. As he starts to rises he feel the strength of "unalterable law", a force of good blocking him, sending he back to the fiery depths of the underworld.</div><div align="center">While this poem is erratic, it shows the Devil has only one home...Hell. Forgive the doom topic of the devil, but my High School Lit book almost killed me today, this was the poem it opened to. I think that Monsignor Carroll would be proud of my grasp of this poem, give me a break-- I went to Catholic school.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Have a lovely Saturday!</div><br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-6253437462263492602009-05-26T12:25:00.000-07:002009-05-26T12:32:48.057-07:00Shakespeare Overload<a href="http://web.uvic.ca/hrd/engl500xml/material/sonnet_130.png"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 477px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 387px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://web.uvic.ca/hrd/engl500xml/material/sonnet_130.png" /></a><br /><div>Sonnet 130</div><br /><div><br />My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;<br />Coral is far more red than her lips' red;<br />If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;<br />If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.<br />I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,<br />But no such roses see I in her cheeks;<br />And in some perfumes is there more delight<br />Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.<br />I love to hear her speak, yet well I know<br />That music hath a far more pleasing sound;<br />I grant I never saw a goddess go;<br />My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:<br />And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare<br />As any she belied with false compare.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-42948333576866235662009-05-24T09:19:00.000-07:002009-05-24T09:27:53.342-07:00I think I may be in love with Shakespeare...alot of good that will do me!Venus and Adonis<br /><br /><em>I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my dear;</em><br /><em>Feed where thou wilt, on the mountians or in dale;</em><br /><em>Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,</em><br /><em>Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.</em><br /><br />Yes, that Shakespeare class turned me from a girl who kind of got what he was saying to the girl who reads his words and thinks 'If only he were alive today, I'd so make that man mine!'<br /><br />Happy sunday my friends!<br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-22318040240697306722009-05-21T00:05:00.000-07:002009-05-21T00:15:02.985-07:00Robert Frost...not just the guy who wrote the poem at the beginning of Eclipse(Fire and Ice)<a href="http://images-cdn01.associatedcontent.com/image/A8487/84871/300_84871.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://images-cdn01.associatedcontent.com/image/A8487/84871/300_84871.jpg" /></a><br /><div>The Road Not Taken</div><br /><div>By Robert Frost</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,</div><br /><div>And sorry I could not travel both</div><br /><div>And be one traveler, long I stood</div><br /><div>And looked down one as far as I could</div><br /><div>To where it bent in the undergrowth;</div><br /><div>Then took the other, as just as fair,</div><br /><div>And having perhaps the better claim,</div><br /><div>Because it was grassy and wanted wear;</div><br /><div>Though as for that the passing there</div><br /><div>Had worn them really about the same,</div><br /><div>And both that morning equally lay</div><br /><div>In leaves no step had trodden black.</div><br /><div>Oh, I kept the first for another day!</div><br /><div>Yet knowing how way leads on to way,</div><br /><div>I doubted if I should ever come back.</div><br /><div>I shall be telling this with a sigh</div><br /><div>Somewhere ages and ages hence:</div><br /><div>Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-</div><br /><div>I took the one less traveled by,</div><br /><div>And that has made all the difference. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-21687618853191026612009-05-16T17:35:00.000-07:002009-05-16T17:43:09.893-07:00J.R.R Tolkien<a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3006/2298644132_5749df2177.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 335px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 500px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3006/2298644132_5749df2177.jpg" /></a><br /><div>All that is gold does not glitter,</div><div>Not all those who wander are lost;</div><div>The old that is strong does not wither,</div><div>Deep roots are not reached by the frost.</div><div>From the ashes a fire shall be woken,</div><div>A light from the shadows shall spring;</div><div>Renewed shall be blade that was broken,</div><div>The crownless again shall be king. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-34058429947805790822009-05-14T12:21:00.000-07:002009-05-14T12:36:30.947-07:00Skull in hand and tights in place<a href="http://home.clara.net/stevebrown/html/hamlet/skull_and_book.png"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 295px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 192px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://home.clara.net/stevebrown/html/hamlet/skull_and_book.png" /></a><br /><div>To be, or not to be: that is the question:</div><br /><div>Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer</div><br /><div>The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,</div><br /><div>Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,</div><br /><div>And by opposing end them? </div><br /><div>To die: to sleep;</div><br /><div>No more; and by a sleep to say we end</div><br /><div>The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks</div><br /><div>That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation</div><br /><div>Devoutly to be wish'd. </div><br /><div>To die, to sleep;</div><br /><div>To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;</div><br /><div>For in that sleep of death what dreams may come</div><br /><div>When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,</div><br /><div>Must give us pause: there's the respect</div><br /><div>That makes calamity of so long life;</div><br /><div>For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,</div><br /><div>The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,</div><br /><div>The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,</div><br /><div>The insolence of office and the spurns</div><br /><div>That patient merit of the unworthy takes,</div><br /><div>When he himself might his quietus make</div><br /><div>With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,</div><br /><div>To grunt and sweat under a weary life,</div><br /><div>But that the dread of something after death,</div><br /><div>The undiscover'd country from whose bourn</div><br /><div>No traveller returns, puzzles the will</div><br /><div>And makes us rather bear those ills we have</div><br /><div>Than fly to others that we know not of?</div><br /><div>Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;</div><br /><div>And thus the native hue of resolution</div><br /><div>Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,</div><br /><div>And enterprises of great pith and moment</div><br /><div>With this regard their currents turn awry,</div><br /><div>And lose the name of action. -Soft you now!</div><br /><div>The fair Ophelia! </div><br /><div>Nymph, in thy orisons</div><br /><div>Be all my sins remember'd.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-14325532698593268972009-05-12T14:24:00.000-07:002009-05-12T16:14:32.855-07:00A book of John Donne and some green tea and I'm a happy camper!The Sun Rising<br />by John Donne<br /><br />Busy old fool, unruly Sun,<br />Why dost thou thus,<br />Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?<br />Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?<br />Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide<br />Late school-boys and sour prentices,<br />Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,<br />Call country ants to harvest offices;<br />Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,<br />Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.<br />Thy beams so reverend, and strong<br />Why shouldst thou think?<br /> I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,<br />But that I would not lose her sight so long.<br />If her eyes have not blinded thine,<br />Look, and to-morrow late tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine<br />Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.<br />Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,<br />And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."<br />She's all states, and all princes I;<br />Nothing else is;<br />Princes do but play us ; compared to this,<br />All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.<br />Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus;<br />Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be<br />To warm the world, that's done in warming us.<br />Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;<br />This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.<br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-50926961143881363832009-05-11T14:26:00.000-07:002009-05-11T14:36:03.122-07:00OH! Walt, we share a soul!To A STRANGER<br />by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)<br /><br />Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,<br />You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)<br />I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,<br />All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,<br />You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,<br />I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,<br />You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,<br />I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,<br />I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,<br />I am to see to it that I do not lose you.<br /><br /><br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7951298752924454390.post-76395647688820349322009-05-06T15:39:00.000-07:002009-05-06T15:43:37.512-07:00A Little Lord Byron on Wednesday!AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR<br />by Lord Byron<br /><br />AND thou art dead, as young and fair<br />As aught of mortal birth;<br />And form so soft, and charms so rare,<br />Too soon return'd to Earth!<br />Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,<br />And o'er the spot the crowd may tread<br />In carelessness or mirth,<br />There is an eye which could not brook<br />A moment on that grave to look.<br /><br />I will not ask where thou liest low,<br />Nor gaze upon the spot;<br />There flowers or weeds at will may grow,<br />So I behold them not:<br />It is enough for me to prove<br />That what I lov'd, and long must love,<br />Like common earth can rot;<br />To me there needs no stone to tell,<br />'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.<br /><br />Yet did I love thee to the last<br />As fervently as thou,<br />Who didst not change through all the past,<br />And canst not alter now.<br />The love where Death has set his seal,<br />Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,<br />Nor falsehood disavow:<br />And, what were worse, thou canst not see<br />Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.<br /><br />The better days of life were ours;<br />The worst can be but mine:<br />The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,<br />Shall never more be thine.<br />The silence of that dreamless sleep<br />I envy now too much to weep;<br />Nor need I to repine<br />That all those charms have pass'd away,<br />I might have watch'd through long decay.<br /> <br />The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd<br />Must fall the earliest prey;<br />Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,<br />The leaves must drop away:<br />And yet it were a greater grief<br />To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,<br />Than see it pluck'd to-day;<br />Since earthly eye but ill can bear<br />To trace the change to foul from fair.<br /> <br />I know not if I could have borne<br />To see thy beauties fade;<br />The night that follow'd such a morn<br />Had worn a deeper shade:<br />Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,<br />And thou wert lovely to the last,<br />Extinguish'd, not decay'd;<br />As stars that shoot along the sky<br />Shine brightest as they fall from high.<br /> <br />As once I wept, if I could weep,<br />My tears might well be shed,<br />To think I was not near to keep<br />One vigil o'er thy bed;<br />To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,<br />To fold thee in a faint embrace,<br />Uphold thy drooping head;<br />And show that love, however vain,<br />Nor thou nor I can feel again.<br /> <br />Yet how much less it were to gain,<br />Though thou hast left me free,<br />The loveliest things that still remain,<br />Than thus remember thee!<br />The all of thine that cannot die<br />Through dark and dread Eternity<br />Returns again to me,<br />And more thy buried love endears<br />Than aught except its living years.<br /> <br /><br />"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare<div class="blogger-post-footer">"O Captin, My Captin"</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197366415444682374noreply@blogger.com4