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The Mind Of Love
Wishing to relief all sentient beings from downfall,
Motivate to help disadvantages one,
Loving and caring to benefit society,
Is most beautiful of being human.
Wind gives us a perception of freedom
It kisses our soul and our skin as though it were the same thing
It travels through us willingly yet we forget it and it forgets us
Some called it the Summer of Love, & although the clustered,
Motionless leaves that overhung the streets looked the same
As ever, the same as they did every summer, in 1967,
Anybody with three dollars could have a vision.
This Rome, that was the toil of many men,
The consummation of laborious years-
Fulfilment's crown to visions of the dead
And image of the wide desire of kings-
Clark Ashton Smith
O Candle! I am also an afflicted person in the world assembly
Constant complaint is my lot in the manner of the rue
Love gave the warmth of internal pathos to you
Allama Muhammad Iqbal
Sordello: Book The Second
The woods were long austere with snow: at last
Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast
Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes,
Brightened, "as in the slumbrous heart o' the woods
Beyond The Gamut
softly, Niccolo Amati!
What can put such fancies in your head?
There, go dream of your blue-skied Cremona,
I give God thanks that I, a lean old man,
Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains
By austere penance and continuous toil,
Now rest in spirit, and possess “the peace
He's an old man. Used up and bent,
crippled by time and indulgence,
he slowly walks along the narrow street.
But when he goes inside his house to hide
Constantine P. Cavafy
Haply I shall not know, as others know,
The face you have given to the fumbling sun,
That sculptor of chaotic night; and none
May share what loveliness the shadows show
Clark Ashton Smith
Eureka - A Prose Poem (an Essay On The Material And Spiritual Universe)
It is with humility really unassumed, it is with a sentiment even of awe, that I pen the opening sentence of this work: for of all conceivable subjects I approach the reader with the most solemn, the most comprehensive, the most difficult, the most august.
What terms shall I find sufficiently simple in their sublimity -- sufficiently sublime in their simplicity, for the mere enunciation of my theme?
Edgar Allan Poe
The Pleasures Of Imagination - The Second Book - The Argument
ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK.
The separation of the works of imagination from philosophy, the cause of their abuse among the moderns. Prospect of their re-union under the influence of public liberty. Enumeration of accidental pleasures, which increase the effect of objects delightful to the imagination. The pleasures of sense. Particular circumstances of the mind. Discovery of truth. Perception of contrivance and design. Emotion of the passions. All the natural passions partake of a pleasing sensation; with the final cause of this constitution illustrated by an allegorical vision, and exemplified in sorrow, pity, terror, and indignation.
Desultory Thoughts On Criticism - Prose
"Let a man write never so well, there are now-a-days a sort of persons they call critics, that, egad, have no more wit in them than so many hobby-horses: but they'll laugh at you, Sir, and find fault, and censure things, that, egad, I'm sure they are not able to do themselves; a sort of envious persons, that emulate the glories of persons of parts, and think to build their fame by calumniation of persons that, egad, to my knowledge, of all persons in the world, are in nature the persons that do as much despise all that, as, a, In fine, I'll say no more of 'em!" REHEARSAL.
All the world knows the story of the tempest-tossed voyager, who, coming upon a strange coast, and seeing a man hanging in chains, hailed it with joy, as the sign of a civilized country. In like manner we may hail, as a proof of the rapid advancement of civilization and refinement in this country, the increasing number of delinquent authors daily gibbeted for the edification of the public.
English Writers On America - Prose
Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousting herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam.
- MILTON ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.
Sordello: Book The Fifth
Is it the same Sordello in the dusk
As at the dawn? merely a perished husk
Now, that arose a power fit to build
Up Rome again? The proud conception chilled
Ch 01 Manner Of Kings Story 05
I saw at the palace-gate of Oglimish the son of a military officer
who was endued with marvellous intellect, sagacity, perception and
shrewdness; also the signs of future greatness manifested themselves
on his forehead whilst yet a small boy.
Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 27
It once happened that on a journey to the Hejaz a company of young and pious men, whose sentiments harmonized with mine, were my fellow-travellers. They occasionally sung and recited spiritual verses but we had with us also an aâ??bid, who entertained a bad opinion of the behaviour of the dervishes and was ignorant of their sufferings. When we reached the palm-grove of the Beni Hallal, a black boy of the encampment, falling into a state of excitement, broke out in a strain which brought down the birds from the sky. I saw, however, the camel of the aâ??bid, which began to prance, throwing him and running into the desert.
Knowest thou what that matutinal bulbul said to me?
What man art thou to be ignorant of love?
Sordello: Book The Third
And the font took them: let our laurels lie!
Braid moonfern now with mystic trifoly
Because once more Goito gets, once more,
Sordello to itself! A dream is o'er,
As the pregnant womb of night
Thrills with imprisoned light,
Growing deeper into her morn,
The Morning Sun
Far from the ignoble strife of Man's tavern you are
The wine-cup adorning the sky's assemblage you are
The jewel which should be the pearl of the morning's bride's ear you are
Allama Muhammad Iqbal
Ode To A Child
BRIGHT as a morn of spring,
That jubilates along the earth,
With clouds, and winds, and flowers rejoicing,
And all the creatures that on wing
Hymn To Science
Science! thou fair effusive ray
From the great source of mental day,
Free, generous, and refin'd!
Descend with all thy treasures fraught,
A Married Coquette
Sit still, I say, and dispense with heroics!
I hurt your wrists? Well, you have hurt me.
It is time you found out that all men are not stoics,
Nor toys to be used as your mood may be.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Seated to the right of Satan
Come forth the biggest fool
Dashing against the wall of morality
With races to become a limelight
Dámiláre Jeremiah Odéyemí
Amours De Voyage, Canto Ii
Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,
Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide?
Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not,
Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?
Arthur Hugh Clough
I went for a walk over the dunes again this morning
to the sea,
then turned right along
A. R. Ammons
The Confiteor Of The Artist
How penetrating is the end of an autumn day! Ah, yes, penetrating enough to be painful even; for there are certain delicious sensations whose vagueness does not prevent them from being intense; and none more keen than the perception of the Infinite. He has a great delight who drowns his gaze in the immensity of sky and sea. Solitude, silence, the incomparable chastity of the azure a little sail trembling upon the horizon, by its very littleness and isolation imitating my irremediable existence the melodious monotone of the surge all these things thinking through me and I through them (for in the grandeur of the reverie the Ego is swiftly lost); they think, I say, but musically and picturesquely, without quibbles, without syllogisms, without deductions.
These thoughts, as they arise in me or spring forth from external objects, soon become always too intense.
The energy working within pleasure creates an uneasiness, a positive suffering. My nerves are too tense to give other than clamouring and dolorous vibrations.
And now the profundity of the sky dismays me! its limpidity exasperates me. The insensibility of the sea, the immutability of the spectacle, revolt me. Ah, must one eternally suffer, for ever be a fugitive from Beauty?