Written by
Kahlil Gibran |
One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamor of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley.
I pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and the musical sounds of the birds until I reached a lonely spot where the flowing branches of the trees prevented the sun from the touching the earth.
I stood there, and it was entertaining to my soul - my thirsty soul who had seen naught but the mirage of life instead of its sweetness.
I was engrossed deeply in thought and my spirits were sailing the firmament when a hour, wearing a sprig of grapevine that covered part of her naked body, and a wreath of poppies about her golden hair, suddenly appeared to me.
As she she realized my astonishment, she greeted me saying, "Fear me not; I am the Nymph of the Jungle.
"
"How can beauty like yours be committed to live in this place? Please tell me who your are, and whence you come?" I asked.
She sat gracefully on the green grass and responded, "I am the symbol of nature! I am the ever virgin your forefathers worshipped, and to my honor they erected shrines and temples at Baalbek and Jbeil.
" And I dared say, "But those temples and shrines were laid waste and the bones of my adoring ancestors became a part of the earth; nothing was left to commemorate their goddess save a pitiful few and the forgotten pages in the book of history.
"
She replied, "Some goddesses live in the lives of their worshippers and die in their deaths, while some live an eternal and infinite life.
My life is sustained by the world of beauty which you will see where ever you rest your eyes, and this beauty is nature itself; it is the beginning of the shepherds joy among the hills, and a villagers happiness in the fields, and the pleasure of the awe filled tribes between the mountains and the plains.
This Beauty promotes the wise into the throne the truth.
"
Then I said, "Beauty is a terrible power!" And she retorted, "Human beings fear all things, even yourselves.
You fear heaven, the source of spiritual peace; you fear nature, the haven of rest and tranquility; you fear the God of goodness and accuse him of anger, while he is full of love and mercy.
"
After a deep silence, mingled with sweet dreams, I asked, "Speak to me of that beauty which the people interpret and define, each one according to his own conception; I have seen her honored and worshipped in different ways and manners.
"
She answered, "Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive.
When you meet Beauty, you feel that the hands deep within your inner self are stretched forth to bring her into the domain of your heart.
It is the magnificence combined of sorrow and joy; it is the Unseen which you see, and the Vague which you understand, and the Mute which you hear - it is the Holy of Holies that begins in yourself and ends vastly beyond your earthly imagination.
"
Then the Nymph of the Jungle approached me and laid her scented hands upon my eyes.
And as she withdrew, I found me alone in the valley.
When I returned to the city, whose turbulence no longer vexed me, I repeated her words:
"Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive.
"
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Written by
Delmore Schwartz |
In the morning, when it was raining,
Then the birds were hectic and loudy;
Through all the reign is fall's entertaining;
Their singing was erratic and full of disorder:
They did not remember the summer blue
Or the orange of June.
They did not think at all
Of the great red and bursting ball
Of the kingly sun's terror and tempest, blazing,
Once the slanting rain threw over all
The colorless curtains of the ceaseless spontaneous fall.
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Written by
Phillis Wheatley |
MNEME begin.
Inspire, ye sacred nine,
Your vent'rous Afric in her great design.
Mneme, immortal pow'r, I trace thy spring:
Assist my strains, while I thy glories sing:
The acts of long departed years, by thee
Recover'd, in due order rang'd we see:
Thy pow'r the long-forgotten calls from night,
That sweetly plays before the fancy's sight.
Mneme in our nocturnal visions pours
The ample treasure of her secret stores;
Swift from above the wings her silent flight
Through Phoebe's realms, fair regent of the night;
And, in her pomp of images display'd,
To the high-raptur'd poet gives her aid,
Through the unbounded regions of the mind,
Diffusing light celestial and refin'd.
The heav'nly phantom paints the actions done
By ev'ry tribe beneath the rolling sun.
Mneme, enthron'd within the human breast,
Has vice condemn'd, and ev'ry virtue blest.
How sweet the sound when we her plaudit hear?
Sweeter than music to the ravish'd ear,
Sweeter than Maro's entertaining strains
Resounding through the groves, and hills, and plains.
But how is Mneme dreaded by the race,
Who scorn her warnings and despise her grace?
By her unveil'd each horrid crime appears,
Her awful hand a cup of wormwood bears.
Days, years mispent, O what a hell of woe!
Hers the worst tortures that our souls can know.
Now eighteen years their destin'd course have run,
In fast succession round the central sun.
How did the follies of that period pass
Unnotic'd, but behold them writ in brass!
In Recollection see them fresh return,
And sure 'tis mine to be asham'd, and mourn.
O Virtue, smiling in immortal green,
Do thou exert thy pow'r, and change the scene;
Be thine employ to guide my future days,
And mine to pay the tribute of my praise.
Of Recollection such the pow'r enthron'd
In ev'ry breast, and thus her pow'r is own'd.
The wretch, who dar'd the vengeance of the skies,
At last awakes in horror and surprise,
By her alarm'd, he sees impending fate,
He howls in anguish, and repents too late.
But O! what peace, what joys are hers t' impart
To ev'ry holy, ev'ry upright heart!
Thrice blest the man, who, in her sacred shrine,
Feels himself shelter'd from the wrath divine!
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Written by
Isaac Watts |
Brotherly love.
Lo! what an entertaining sight
Are brethren that agree!
Brethren, whose cheerful hearts unite
In bands of piety!
When streams of love from Christ the spring
Descend to every soul,
And heav'nly peace, with balmy wing,
Shades and bedews the whole;
'Tis like the oil, divinely sweet,
On Aaron's reverend head
The trickling drops perfumed his feet,
And o'er his garments spread.
'Tis pleasant as the morning dews
That fall on Zion's hill,
Where God his mildest glory shows,
And makes his grace distil.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
It dropped so low -- in my Regard --
I heard it hit the Ground --
And go to pieces on the Stones
At bottom of my Mind --
Yet blamed the Fate that flung it -- less
Than I denounced Myself,
For entertaining Plated Wares
Upon my Silver Shelf --
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Written by
Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
‘Twas just a slight flirtation,
And where’s the harm, I pray,
In that amusing pastime
So much in vogue to-day?
Her hand was plighted elsewhere
To one she held most dear,
But why should she sit lonely
When other men are near?
They walked to church together,
They sat upon the shore.
She found him entertaining,
He found her something more.
They rambled in the moonlight;
It made her look so fair,
She let him praise her beauty,
And kiss her flowing hair.
‘Twas just a nice flirtation.
So sad the fellow died.
Was drowned one day while boating,
The week she was a bride.
’
A life went out in darkness,
A mother’s fond heart broke,
A maiden pined in secret –
With grief she never spoke.
While robed in bridal whiteness,
Queen of a festal throng,
She moved, whose slight flirtation
Had wrought this triple wrong.
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