Thither then, content the Sun may seem In dry old winds thus blown about. Whisper doth These ever-aging dreams That mortal Ear could better do without. For matter ‘tis and ever was Collective dust withal. Know thy eternity Roots in stars that shall: Light each ev’ry path away From thine own little life; (And of that growing apathy) Speak softer of its strife. Wither then, May...
THE lawns were dry in Euston Park ; (Here...
it was fun, but im to take a break. of course recordings will be uploaded for me and the ears that perk to it.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? —shakespeare
dropsonde: To love or not to love— that is the question. Whether ‘tis safer in the shelter of solitude, To hold fast to one’s heart, unscathed, Or to warm one’s hands over a fire Despite its imminent sting. To love— to feel, No less, and by a feeling, To say we risk the heartache and a thousand natural shocks That love is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation Devoutly to be felt. To love, to...
Mind not this weary Soul
Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. Virtuous and vicious every man must be. Few in th’ extreme, but all in the degree. The rogue and fool, by fits, fair and wise; And even the best, by fits, what they despise. —alexander pope
Tame does the blood flow when lost in its routine. Slowly doth the heart roll, its drum remains unseen. But noticed is its rhythm In lover’s fingertips. So lovely does the heartbeat, then, When pressed to eager lips. Tribulation fraught, Through fetter’d cadences, Give hint to hardship wrought In dwelléd differences. But ‘tis it not the lows that make these highs so grand? For...
The world is too much with us: late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us...
when thy day is done, done, done
not of Loss, but Gain