Anybody want to debate this?

[Crispin]

...I didn't think so.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


William Ernest Henley

 

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[bill from lachine]

Crispin,

H*ll why would I wish to debate you on that one.....if your attitude was any less unflinching than that I'd head to Florida and give you a good kick in the butt.....lol.

Regards + HH

Bill

 

[Buzzlitebeer]

Love the works and I love the last two lines, but I disagree that I am the master of my fate! pre-destined! But you are the Capt of your Soul!!!

 

[Dave44]

I like it. Controlling your imagination.

Hey Crispin. Have you read Dune? lol

 

[releventchair]

Wreck of the hesperus. Fate in some one elses hands. (Respectfully submitted.)

 

[Crispin]

Wreck of the hesperus. Fate in some one elses hands. (Respectfully submitted.)

Gracioulsy accepted.

 

[bill from lachine]

Crispin,

Since we're in a poetic state of mind here's one from Byron for your inspiration.

Regards + HH

Bill


Byron's poem, on Swimming The Hellespont:
If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!

If, when the wintry tempest roared,
He sped to Hero, nothing loath,
And thus of old thy current poured,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat today.

But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo -and -Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest;
For he was drowned, and I've the ague.

 

[bill from lachine]

Crispin,

Another one for the pot....I must be on a roll....it's not my fault honest it's the cabin fever....but our fair friend Keats comes to mind for some reason....another cool dude I might add....

Regards + HH

Bill


Bright Star
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.

 

[GrizLeeBear]

Of course, the obvious...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Dylan Thomas
-------------------------------------
And less obvious:

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No

An Except from John Donne's - A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

We are all so deep this night

 

[releventchair]

Sunset and evening star and one clear call for me !
And may there be no mourning of the bar when i put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,too full for sound or foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep,
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,and after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When i embark,
For through from out our bourne of Time and Place,
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When i have crossed the bar.


Alfred Lord Tennyson. Crossing the bar.

 

[bevo]

Hither and thither seeds wither or sow
of all that is certain,life's ebb and life's flow
sit in the darkness,look not to the light
and in bitter shadow you'll see no wrong,nor right
Bevo 7:56 jan31st 2013

 

[bevo]

p.s. love yer posts

 

[austin]

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time you theif, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

James Henry Leigh Hunt

 

[GrizLeeBear]

Memories

What we get,
They're all we get
To have and to hold,

Even then I knew
Memories would be all
I would, could take.

I tried so hard
To make them vivid
So they would last.

I wonder if they are
As good as we were, or
Were we as good as them?

You are like a favorite old movie
That I can watch time and again
In the theater of my mind.

Such joy were you then
And now again
In memories.

Griz

 

[Crispin]

A Creed

There is a destiny that makes us brothers:
None goes his way alone:
All that we send into the lives of others
Comes back into our own.

I care not what his temples or his creeds,
One thing holds firm and fast
That into his fateful heap of days and deeds
The soul of man Is cast.

Edwin Markham

 

[bill from lachine]

Folks,

Must be my celtic roots here's one from Robert Burns.

Regards + HH

Bill

1795
Type: Song
Tune: For a' that.

Is there for honest Poverty That hings his head, an' a' that; The coward slave-we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, an' a' that. Our toils obscure an' a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The Man's the gowd for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; A Man's a Man for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, an' a' that, His ribband, star, an' a' that: The man o' independent mind He looks an' laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's abon his might, Gude faith, he maunna fa' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities an' a' that; The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, (As come it will for a' that,) That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That Man to Man, the world o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that.​

---

 

[bill from lachine]

Folks,

Another classic for your enjoyment!

Regards + HH

Bill

[SIZE=+3]AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE ![/SIZE]
By
[SIZE=+3]Lord Byron[/SIZE]
[SIZE=+1]December 6, 1811[/SIZE]

---

[SIZE=+2]&/\&/\&[/SIZE]
Away, away, ye notes of woe !
Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence --- for, oh !
I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days ---
But lull the chords, for now, alas !
I must not think, I may not gaze,
On what I am --- on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd and all their charms are fled
And now their softest notes repeat
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead !
Yes, "Thyrza" yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust ! Since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony
Is worse than discord to my heart !

'Tis silent all ! --- but on my ear
The well remember'd echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,
A voice that now might well be still;
Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake;
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consiousness will vainly wake
To listen, though the dream be flown.

Sweet Thyrza ! Waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o'er the deep,
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.
But he who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath,
Will long lament the vanish'd ray
That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

 

[Frankn]

That's hard to debate so I will just through in a few tidbits.
Man does not live by bread alone, even pre-sliced bread. Denis Brogan

Any well established village in New England or the northern Middle West could afford a town drunkard, a town atheist, and a few Democrats. Denis Brogan

But that's all right. The Americans don't give a damn: Don't need to: never did need to. That is there salivation. Stephen Leacock, A Neighbor Looks At America
Frank

 

[bill from lachine]

Frankn,

Not sure if you know or not by Stephen Leacock was a Canuck.

Regards + HH

Bill

 

[bill from lachine]

Folks,

Another one for the pot by Henry David Thoreau....enjoy!

Regards + HH

Bill

Away! away! away! away!
Ye have not kept your secret well,
I will abide that other day,
Those other lands ye tell.

Has time no leisure left for these,
The acts that ye rehearse?
Is not eternity a lease
For better deeds than verse?

‘Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead,
To know them still alive,
But sweeter if we earn their bread,
And in us they survive.

Our life should feed the springs of fame
With a perennial wave,
As ocean feeds the babbling founts
Which find it in their grave.

Ye skies dropp gently round my breast,
And be my corselet blue,
Ye earth receive my lance in rest,
My faithful charger you;

Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,
My arrow-tips ye are;
I see the routed foemen fly,
My bright spears fixed are.

Give me an angel for a foe,
Fix now the place and time,
And straight to meet him I will go
Above the starry chime.

And with our clashing bucklers’ clang
The heavenly spears shall ring,
While bright the northern lights shall hang
Beside our tourneying.

And if she lose her champion true,
Tell Heaven not despair,
For I will be her champion new,
Her fame I will repair.


Henry David Thoreau