--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

--- QUOTES [0 / 0 - 386 / 386] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

KEYS (10k)


NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   7 Emily Dickinson
   6 Anne Sexton
   5 Jennifer Niven
   5 Edith Nesbit
   4 T S Eliot
   4 Eugene Field
   4 Emma Lazarus
   4 Emily P Freeman
   4 Dean Koontz
   4 Colleen Hoover
   4 Anonymous
   4 Ada Cambridge
   3 V E Schwab
   3 Sherwood Smith
   3 Michael Connelly
   3 Mary Roach
   3 Lisa Kleypas
   3 Karl Ove Knausg rd
   3 Justin Cronin
   3 Harlan Coben
   3 Charlotte Bront
   3 Charles Haddon Spurgeon
   2 Walter E Williams
   2 Tom Robbins
   2 Tom Petty
   2 Thrity Umrigar
   2 Robert Spencer
   2 Rick Riordan
   2 Penny Reid
   2 Paolo Bacigalupi
   2 Norton Juster
   2 Neal Stephenson
   2 Mandy Hale
   2 Laurell K Hamilton
   2 K L Slater
   2 John Green
   2 John Fowles
   2 Jodi Picoult
   2 Jeff Lindsay
   2 James Baldwin
   2 Jack Kerouac
   2 Frederick Lenz
   2 Ella Wheeler Wilcox
   2 Elizabeth Bishop
   2 Edith Matilda Thomas
   2 Dr Seuss
   2 Dorothea Mackellar
   2 Don DeLillo
   2 Conrad Potter Aiken
   2 Christina Baker Kline
   2 Chris Hadfield
   2 Charlie Munger
   2 Charles Spurgeon
   2 Cesare Pavese
   2 Catherine Anderson
   2 Breece D J Pancake
   2 Bijou Hunter
   2 Augusta Davies Webster
   2 Amy Levy
   2 Alfred Edward Housman
   2 Abraham Cowley

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:(Songs of the soul delighted at having reached the high state of perfection, the union with God, by way of spiritual negation.) On a darkened night, Anxious, by love inflamed, -- O happy chance! -- Unnoticed, I took flight, My house at last at peace and quiet. Safe, disguised by the night, By the secret ladder I took flight, -- O happy chance! -- Cloaked by darkness, I scaled the height, My house at last at peace and quiet. On that blessed night, In secret, and seen by none, None in sight, I saw with no other guide or light, But the one burning in my heart bright. This guide, this light, Brighter than the midday sun, Led me to the waiting One I knew so well -- my delight! To a place with none in sight. O night! O guide! O night more loving than the dawn! O night that joined The lover with the Beloved; Transformed, the lover into the Beloved drawn! Upon my flowered breast, For him alone kept fair, There he slept, There I caressed, There the cedars gave us air. I drank the turret's cool air, Spreading playfully his hair. And his hand, so serene, Cut my throat. Drained Of senses, I dropped unaware. Lost to myself and yet remaining, Inclined so only the Beloved I spy. All has ceased, all rests, Even my cares, even I; Lost among the lilies, there I die. [2597.jpg] -- from Real Thirst: Poetry of the Spiritual Journey, by Ivan M. Granger ~ Saint John of the Cross, Dark Night

2:Monadnoc Thousand minstrels woke within me, Our music's in the hills; Gayest pictures rose to win me, Leopard-colored rills. Up!If thou knew'st who calls To twilight parks of beech and pine, High over the river intervals, Above the ploughman's highest line, Over the owner's farthest walls; Up!where the airy citadel O'erlooks the purging landscape's swell. Let not unto the stones the day Her lily and rose, her sea and land display; Read the celestial sign! Lo! the South answers to the North; Bookworm, break this sloth urbane; A greater Spirit bids thee forth, Than the gray dreams which thee detain. Mark how the climbing Oreads Beckon thee to their arcades; Youth, for a moment free as they, Teach thy feet to feel the ground, Ere yet arrive the wintry day When Time thy feet has bound. Accept the bounty of thy birth; Taste the lordship of the earth. I heard and I obeyed, Assured that he who pressed the claim, Well-known, but loving not a name, Was not to be gainsaid. Ere yet the summoning voice was still, I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill. From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed Like ample banner flung abroad Round about, a hundred miles, With invitation to the sea, and to the bordering isles. In his own loom's garment drest, By his own bounty blest, Fast abides this constant giver, Pouring many a cheerful river; To far eyes, an arial isle, Unploughed, which finer spirits pile, Which morn and crimson evening paint For bard, for lover, and for saint; The country's core, Inspirer, prophet evermore, Pillar which God aloft had set So that men might it not forget, It should be their life's ornament, And mix itself with each event; Their calendar and dial, Barometer, and chemic phial, Garden of berries, perch of birds, Pasture of pool-haunting herds, Graced by each change of sum untold, Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold. The Titan minds his sky-affairs, Rich rents and wide alliance shares; Mysteries of color daily laid By the great sun in light and shade, And, sweet varieties of chance, And the mystic seasons' dance, And thief-like step of liberal hours Which thawed the snow-drift into flowers. O wondrous craft of plant and stone By eldest science done and shown! Happy, I said, whose home is here, Fair fortunes to the mountaineer! Boon nature to his poorest shed Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread. Intent I searched the region round, And in low hut my monarch found. He was no eagle and no earl, Alas! my foundling was a churl, With heart of cat, and eyes of bug, Dull victim of his pipe and mug; Woe is me for my hopes' downfall! Lord! is yon squalid peasant all That this proud nursery could breed For God's vicegerency and stead? Time out of mind this forge of ores, Quarry of spars in mountain pores, Old cradle, hunting ground, and bier Of wolf and otter, bear, and deer; Well-built abode of many a race; Tower of observance searching space; Factory of river, and of rain; Link in the alps' globe-girding chain; By million changes skilled to tell What in the Eternal standeth well, And what obedient nature can, Is this colossal talisman Kindly to creature, blood, and kind, And speechless to the master's mind? I thought to find the patriots In whom the stock of freedom roots. To myself I oft recount Tales of many a famous mount. Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells, Roys, and Scanderbegs, and Tells. Here now shall nature crowd her powers, Her music, and her meteors, And, lifting man to the blue deep Where stars their perfect courses keep, Like wise preceptor lure his eye To sound the science of the sky, And carry learning to its height Of untried power and sane delight; The Indian cheer, the frosty skies Breed purer wits, inventive eyes, Eyes that frame cities where none be, And hands that stablish what these see: And, by the moral of his place, Hint summits of heroic grace; Man in these crags a fastness find To fight pollution of the mind; In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong, Adhere like this foundation strong, The insanity of towns to stem With simpleness for stratagem. But if the brave old mould is broke, And end in clowns the mountain-folk, In tavern cheer and tavern joke, Sink, O mountain! in the swamp, Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lap! Perish like leaves the highland breed! No sire survive, no son succeed! Soft! let not the offended muse Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse. Many hamlets sought I then, Many farms of mountain men; Found I not a minstrel seed, But men of bone, and good at need. Rallying round a parish steeple Nestle warm the highland people, Coarse and boisterous, yet mild, Strong as giant, slow as child, Smoking in a squalid room, Where yet the westland breezes come. Close hid in those rough guises lurk Western magicians, here they work; Sweat and season are their arts, Their talismans are ploughs and carts; And well the youngest can command Honey from the frozen land, With sweet hay the swamp adorn, Change the running sand to corn, For wolves and foxes, lowing herds, And for cold mosses, cream and curds; Weave wood to canisters and mats, Drain sweet maple-juice in vats. No bird is safe that cuts the air, From their rifle or their snare; No fish in river or in lake, But their long hands it thence will take; And the country's iron face Like wax their fashioning skill betrays, To fill the hollows, sink the hills, Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills, And fit the bleak and howling place For gardens of a finer race, The world-soul knows his own affair, Fore-looking when his hands prepare For the next ages men of mould, Well embodied, well ensouled, He cools the present's fiery glow, Sets the life pulse strong, but slow. Bitter winds and fasts austere. His quarantines and grottos, where He slowly cures decrepit flesh, And brings it infantile and fresh. These exercises are the toys And games with which he breathes his boys. They bide their time, and well can prove, If need were, their line from Jove, Of the same stuff, and so allayed, As that whereof the sun is made; And of that fibre quick and strong Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song. Now in sordid weeds they sleep, Their secret now in dullness keep. Yet, will you learn our ancient speech, These the masters who can teach, Fourscore or a hundred words All their vocal muse affords, These they turn in other fashion Than the writer or the parson. I can spare the college-bell, And the learned lecture well. Spare the clergy and libraries, Institutes and dictionaries, For the hardy English root Thrives here unvalued underfoot. Rude poets of the tavern hearth, Squandering your unquoted mirth, Which keeps the ground and never soars, While Jake retorts and Reuben roars, Tough and screaming as birch-bark, Goes like bullet to its mark, While the solid curse and jeer Never balk the waiting ear: To student ears keen-relished jokes On truck, and stock, and farming-folks, Nought the mountain yields thereof But savage health and sinews tough. On the summit as I stood, O'er the wide floor of plain and flood, Seemed to me the towering hill Was not altogether still, But a quiet sense conveyed; If I err not, thus it said: Many feet in summer seek Betimes my far-appearing peak; In the dreaded winter-time, None save dappling shadows climb Under clouds my lonely head, Old as the sun, old almost as the shade. And comest thou To see strange forests and new snow, And tread uplifted land? And leavest thou thy lowland race, Here amid clouds to stand, And would'st be my companion, Where I gaze And shall gaze When forests fall, and man is gone, Over tribes and over times As the burning Lyre Nearing me, With its stars of northern fire, In many a thousand years. Ah! welcome, if thou bring My secret in thy brain; To mountain-top may muse's wing With good allowance strain. Gentle pilgrim, if thou know The gamut old of Pan, And how the hills began, The frank blessings of the hill Fall on thee, as fall they will. 'Tis the law of bush and stone Each can only take his own. Let him heed who can and will, Enchantment fixed me here To stand the hurts of time, until In mightier chant I disappear. If thou trowest How the chemic eddies play Pole to pole, and what they say, And that these gray crags Not on crags are hung, But beads are of a rosary On prayer and music strung; And, credulous, through the granite seeming Seest the smile of Reason beaming; Can thy style-discerning eye The hidden-working Builder spy, Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din, With hammer soft as snow-flake's flight; Knowest thou this? O pilgrim, wandering not amiss! Already my rocks lie light, And soon my cone will spin. For the world was built in order, And the atoms march in tune, Rhyme the pipe, and time the warder, Cannot forget the sun, the moon. Orb and atom forth they prance, When they hear from far the rune, None so backward in the troop, When the music and the dance Reach his place and circumstance, But knows the sun-creating sound, And, though a pyramid, will bound. Monadnoc is a mountain strong, Tall and good my kind among, But well I know, no mountain can Measure with a perfect man; For it is on Zodiack's writ, Adamant is soft to wit; And when the greater comes again, With my music in his brain, I shall pass as glides my shadow Daily over hill and meadow. Through all time I hear the approaching feet Along the flinty pathway beat Of him that cometh, and shall come, Of him who shall as lightly bear My daily load of woods and streams, As now the round sky-cleaving boat Which never strains its rocky beams, Whose timbers, as they silent float, Alps and Caucasus uprear, And the long Alleghanies here, And all town-sprinkled lands that be, Sailing through stars with all their history. Every morn I lift my head, Gaze o'er New England underspread South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound, From Katshill east to the sea-bound. Anchored fast for many an age, I await the bard and sage, Who in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed, Shall string Monadnoc like a bead. Comes that cheerful troubadour, This mound shall throb his face before, As when with inward fires and pain It rose a bubble from the plain. When he cometh, I shall shed From this well-spring in my head Fountain drop of spicier worth Than all vintage of the earth. There's fruit upon my barren soil Costlier far than wine or oil; There's a berry blue and gold, Autumn-ripe its juices hold, Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart, Asia's rancor, Athens' art, Slowsure Britain's secular might, And the German's inward sight; I will give my son to eat Best of Pan's immortal meat, Bread to eat and juice to drink, So the thoughts that he shall think Shall not be forms of stars, but stars, Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars. He comes, but not of that race bred Who daily climb my specular head. Oft as morning wreathes my scarf, Fled the last plumule of the dark, Pants up hither the spruce clerk From South-Cove and City-wharf; I take him up my rugged sides, Half-repentant, scant of breath, Bead-eyes my granite chaos show, And my midsummer snow; Open the daunting map beneath, All his county, sea and land, Dwarfed to measure of his hand; His day's ride is a furlong space, His city tops a glimmering haze: I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding; See there the grim gray rounding Of the bullet of the earth Whereon ye sail, Tumbling steep In the uncontinented deep; He looks on that, and he turns pale: 'Tis even so, this treacherous kite, Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere, Thoughtless of its anxious freight, Plunges eyeless on for ever, And he, poor parasite, Cooped in a ship he cannot steer, Who is the captain he knows not, Port or pilot trows not, Risk or ruin he must share. I scowl on him with my cloud, With my north wind chill his blood, I lame him clattering down the rocks, And to live he is in fear. Then, at last, I let him down Once more into his dapper town, To chatter frightened to his clan, And forget me, if he can. As in the old poetic fame The gods are blind and lame, And the simular despite Betrays the more abounding might, So call not waste that barren cone Above the floral zone, Where forests starve: It is pure use; What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind, Of a celestial Ceres, and the Muse? Ages are thy days, Thou grand expressor of the present tense, And type of permanence, Firm ensign of the fatal Being, Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief That will not bide the seeing. Hither we bring Our insect miseries to the rocks, And the whole flight with pestering wing Vanish and end their murmuring, Vanish beside these dedicated blocks, Which, who can tell what mason laid? Spoils of a front none need restore, Replacing frieze and architrave; Yet flowers each stone rosette and metope brave, Still is the haughty pile erect Of the old building Intellect. Complement of human kind, Having us at vantage still, Our sumptuous indigence, O barren mound! thy plenties fill. We fool and prate, Thou art silent and sedate. To million kinds and times one sense The constant mountain doth dispense, Shedding on all its snows and leaves, One joy it joys, one grief it grieves. Thou seest, O watchman tall! Our towns and races grow and fall, And imagest the stable Good For which we all our lifetime grope, In shifting form the formless mind; And though the substance us elude, We in thee the shadow find. Thou in our astronomy An opaker star, Seen, haply, from afar, Above the horizon's hoop. A moment by the railway troop, As o'er some bolder height they speed, By circumspect ambition, By errant Gain, By feasters, and the frivolous, Recallest us, And makest sane. Mute orator! well-skilled to plead, And send conviction without phrase, Thou dost supply The shortness of our days, And promise, on thy Founder's truth, Long morrow to this mortal youth. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Monadnoc

3:The meaning is in the waiting. ~ R S Thomas

4:The waiting is the hardest part. ~ Tom Petty

5:The love is in the waiting... ~ Tiffany Reisz

6:Hope, love and faith are in the waiting. ~ Dean Koontz

7:Hope, love, and faith are in the waiting ~ Dean Koontz

8:I saw Gus’s mom pacing in the waiting room, talking ~ John Green

9:The waiting room smells like an empty refrigerator, ~ Eva Lesko Natiello

10:I gave her the finger and moved along to the waiting area. ~ Graham Parke

11:Judith hated nostalgia. It was just the waiting room for death. ~ Paul Cornell

12:Often, the most important part of a conversation was the waiting. ~ Susan Wiggs

13:Then came the waiting, a test of patience for even the tenured. ~ Philip E Tetlock

14:Death is the waiting-room where we robe ourselves for immortality. ~ Charles Spurgeon

15:But 'tis often the waiting that makes the doing more pleasurable later. ~ Jody Hedlund

16:The big money is not in the buying and selling ... but in the waiting. ~ Charlie Munger

17:He storms down in savage joy, to meet all the waiting blades and hate. ~ Richard K Morgan

18:..."the waiting-room atmosphere in which death was the delayed train... ~ Edward St Aubyn

19:The waiting moment was packed with time, with rustling needle-stick movements. ~ Frank Herbert

20:or living in the waiting room of perpetual disappointment, hoping they would change. ~ Penny Reid

21:What was he waiting for?" "All I could feel," said Caius Pompeius, "was the waiting. ~ Neil Gaiman

22:Everybody is in the waiting room of life. Yoga is not a waiting. It is a doing, today. ~ Frederick Lenz

23:If one were to build the house of happiness, the largest space would be the waiting room. ~ Jules Renard

24:Sleep was not a friend these days. It was just the waiting period between nightmares. ~ Diane Chamberlain

25:Put a smile on your face. Don't sit in the waiting room of life. Go do something, happily. ~ Frederick Lenz

26:but now it’s the waiting on death. it’s not death that’s the problem, it’s the waiting. ~ Charles Bukowski

27:It was the waiting and watching that cost the most. For during that time he had to endure. ~ Orson Scott Card

28:But the super-awesome guy store was currently out of stock, and I heard the waiting list was endless. ~ J L Berg

29:It all began to seem unreal, the chairs and the waiting and the dead girl at home in the closet. ~ Kelly Braffet

30:We sit together and wait. For the time to pass. For the memories to fade. For the waiting to be over ~ Kai Cheng Thom

31:In some respects, though not many, the waiting was worse than the tunnel itself. Imagination was a killer. ~ Tim O Brien

32:Speaking of death, LeBlanc boasted he could kill me in the waiting room. I broke his wrist. He wasn't impressed. ~ Kelley Armstrong

33:I've always been slow but I'm even slower now. I'm more into the waiting, or I guess I'm more patient about the waiting. ~ John Irving

34:Let's swim to the moon Let's climb through the tide Surrender to the waiting worlds That lap against our side. ~ Jim Morrison

35:For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. ~ T S Eliot

36:Elder-care facility" was a euphemism. It was the waiting room in Hell, and its occupants were the damned and forsaken. ~ Duane Swierczynski

37:Science is most definitely not a priesthood where people stand on a mountain and pass truths down to the waiting minions below. ~ Brian Cox

38:Those that study particular sciences, and neglect philosophy, are like Penelope's wooers, that make love to the waiting women. ~ Aristippus

39:If there was one thing he’d learned since God had broken into his life, it was that He was always working in the waiting times. ~ Beth K Vogt

40:The hardest part about holding a winning hand is the waiting. You know you're going to change the game but no one else does. ~ Zachary Koukol

41:this was indeed some crazy world, where the waiting period to get an abortion was longer than the waiting period to get a gun. ~ Jodi Picoult

42:Once I heard a young paratrooper instructor explain, “The jump really isn’t so bad. It’s the waiting to jump that gets a fellow. ~ David J Schwartz

43:The stretching of your faith is immediate pain that results in ultimate gain. It is in the waiting that we become who we are meant to be. ~ Mandy Hale

44:You never let things go unanswered for too long. Emails. Phone calls. Questions. As if you know the waiting is the hardest part for me. ~ David Levithan

45:I decided to play up what I had. I retied my bow tie and put the tuxedo jacket back on. “Let’s do this,” I said to the waiting guardians. ~ Richelle Mead

46:The waiting itself is beneficial to us: it tries faith, exercises patience, trains submission, and endears the blessing when it comes. ~ Charles Spurgeon

47:The waiting is the hardest part, every day you get one more yard. You take it on faith, you take it to the heart, the waiting is hardest part. ~ Tom Petty

48:Brita said, 'I read at home, I read in hotels, I take a book with me on a twenty-minute trip to the dentist. Then I read in the waiting room. ~ Don DeLillo

49:There was no child oncology in Uzbekistan and in Russia you don't have a chance because there are already so many on the waiting lists. ~ Oksana Chusovitina

50:This kiss is worth all the tears, all the heartache, all the pain, all the struggles, all the waiting. She's worth it all. She's worth more. ~ Colleen Hoover

51:The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it’s the small things that count. Everyone’s so busy waiting in the Waiting Place. ~ Jennifer Niven

52:the uber map is a psychological moonshot, because it does not reduce the waiting time for a taxi but simply makes waiting 90% less frustrating ~ Rory Sutherland

53:Elizabeth studied the earl as he approached the waiting coach. "Was his behavior rather... odd?" "He English. Ye're asking me if he's odd? ~ Victoria Roberts

54:Instinct told him that all he could do for the moment was stay cool and play the waiting game. It wouldn’t be easy but he’d manage it if it killed him. ~ Jill Mansell

55:But, come on, even the waiting list for that new Prada bag was only a year. No school can be more exclusive than a limited-edition Prada bag, surely? ~ Sophie Kinsella

56:...the waiting was torture, the worst Ka had ever known. It was this pain, this deadly wait, he now remembered, that had made him afraid to fall in love. ~ Orhan Pamuk

57:when two people have become present to each other, the waiting of one must be able to cross the narrow line between the living or dying of the other. ~ Henri J M Nouwen

58:What's monotonous about being an actor and often makes me want to throw in the towel or drive a car off a bridge is the auditioning - the waiting around. ~ Chris Messina

59:[...]when two people have become present to each other, the waiting of one must be able to cross the narrow line between the living or dying of the other. ~ Henri Nouwen

60:I would have waited outside if I’d known, since the potential for really awkward conversation seems pretty high in the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office. ~ David Wong

61:Crooks could buy guns immediately through illegal means, but honest citizens had to wait and hope that they’d still be alive at the end of the waiting period. ~ Joanne Fluke

62:When I was born ... the doctor came out to the waiting room and said to my father ... I'm very sorry. We did everything we could ... but he pulled through. ~ Rodney Dangerfield

63:The voices started up again, but they couldn’t stop her now. The waiting was over. There was no turning back, and that simple fact made it easier to go forward. The ~ V E Schwab

64:Many people live in the waiting room, not because of God’s unwillingness to promote, but because of their unwillingness to be faithful in their current life situation. ~ T D Jakes

65:She takes my arm like an old friend would. “Welcome to the Waiting Place, the realm of ghosts. I am the Soul Catcher, and I am here to help you cross to the other side. ~ Sabaa Tahir

66:I see nothing. I do not move. It is an empty time, animal time, vigilant, I am submerged, under the earth and under time. I listen. Perhaps the waiting is a form of prayer. ~ H l ne Cixous

67:But, someone, please give me—who is born again but still so much in need of being born anew—give me the details of how to live in the waiting cocoon before the forever begins? ~ Ann Voskamp

68:Louie’s final thought before he passed out was that this was indeed some crazy world, where the waiting period to get an abortion was longer than the waiting period to get a gun. ~ Jodi Picoult

69:My hands are clammy. It’s a terrible kind of anticipation, not knowing what we’re walking into. The last time I felt this way I was in the waiting rooms at Ellis Island. ~ Christina Baker Kline

70:To watch THE WAITING ROOM is to wish it would never end. This is human drama at its most intense and universal. The rare film that can change the way you think and see the world. ~ Mick LaSalle

71:There is no truer saying than "Revenge is a dish best eaten cold." It is so much sweeter for the waiting, and my only regret is that I cannot broadcast my triumph to the world. ~ Minette Walters

72:You're not going to ask about your boyfriend?" she asked. "Don't have one," I told her. "Well, there's a kid who has hardly left the waiting room since you got here," she said. ~ John Green

73:We possess books we read, animating the waiting stillness of their language, but they possess us also, filling us with thoughts and observations, asking us to make them part of ourselves. ~ David L Ulin

74:As Master Payne escorted her to the waiting coach, a small frown crossed her face. "People keep giving me rings," she confided to him, "But I think a small death ray might be more practical. ~ Phil Foglio

75:Debs slapped the magazine away, making a thwack noise that sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed and clinical elegance of the waiting area. “I’m giving him five more minutes,” she snarled. ~ Jeff Lindsay

76:‎The party that leans upon the workers but serves the bourgeoisie, in the period of the greatest sharpening of the class struggle, cannot but sense the smells wafted from the waiting grave. ~ Leon Trotsky

77:He who has waited long enough, will wait forever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain. ~ Samuel Beckett

78:There was a time when we wanted to be told what an electron is. The question was never answered. No familiar conceptions can be woven around the electron; it belongs to the waiting list. ~ Arthur Eddington

79:Gradually the waiting began to feel less like waiting and more like this was simply what life was: the distracting tasks undertaken while the thing you are waiting for continues not to happen. ~ Sally Rooney

80:Rushing romance is like pushing a rose to bloom before it’s time. If you’re patient and let nature take its course, the full beauty will unfold and make all the waiting worthwhile. ~ James Russell Lingerfelt

81:would not sit waiting for some vague tomorrow, nor for something tohappen. One could wait a lifetime, and find nothing at the end of the waiting. I would begin here, I would make something happen. ~ Anonymous

82:I actually signed on to do 'On the Road' before we started on 'Tron,' but we were in flux for a while, just sort of playing the waiting game, trying to get the right budget and the right cast. ~ Garrett Hedlund

83:The loudspeaker on the wall crackles, hisses, and suddenly announces, in astonishingly soothing tones, that a train is going to be delayed. An ocean swell of sighs ripples through the waiting room. ~ Andre Makine

84:As they passed through the waiting room, the statue of Hygeia was sitting on a bench, pouring acid on her face and singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” while her golden snake gnawed at her foot. ~ Rick Riordan

85:All these boys, all these men, they are something to someone. There are people back home, waiting on them and the waiting ain't never going to end now. For the rest of my life I am waiting too. ~ Erin Lindsay McCabe

86:I would not sit waiting for some vague tomorrow, nor for something to happen. One could wait a lifetime, and find nothing at the end of the waiting. I would begin here, I would make something happen. ~ Louis L Amour

87:I suppose he's making a real fashion statement, but this is high school. You're not supposed to be real. You're supposed to be enough like everyone else to get through and out into the waiting world. ~ Elizabeth Scott

88:He was convinced that men lost their nerve in combat when they allowed themselves to think too much. The part movies never got right about war was all the waiting, and all the effort it took not to think. ~ Mark Bowden

89:In the waiting room, ladies in a picturesque group surrounded a table with magazines. They stood, sat, or half reclined in the poses they saw in the pictures and, studying the models, discussed styles. ~ Boris Pasternak

90:Sacred and secret things happen in the waiting. Moments of heaven touch earth, breathe life into babies inside their mamas and bread sitting on my counter. The work is invisible, but the result is not. ~ Emily P Freeman

91:Getting some time away to be active, work out, do yoga is definitely a necessity in life. These activities help me relieve stress and center my mind when I'm playing the waiting game after an audition. ~ Allen Evangelista

92:Crete was heavily fortified, but Nicephorus brushed aside the waiting Arab army by sending in his marines—terrifying Norse warriors whose terrible double-bladed axes could smash through armor and bone alike. ~ Lars Brownworth

93:To unlock the heavy outer door and to walk into the hushed interior, with the morning light spilling from the high windows on to the waiting books, gave her such pleasure that she would have worked for nothing. ~ Sue Townsend

94:It was in the waiting that a person experienced too much of himself. Memories, doubts, regrets, anxieties, the whole range of possibilities the future contained—they all swirled together in the mind like a soup. ~ Justin Cronin

95:It was in the waiting that a person experienced too much of himself. Memories, doubts, regrets, anxieties, the whole range of possibilities the future contained--they all swirled together in the mind like a soup. ~ Justin Cronin

96:Mia didn’t know what she wanted, but she knew what she didn’t want any more. The waiting, the silence, the suspicion. She wanted to rediscover her appetite for life and to stop waking up with her stomach in knots. The ~ Marc Levy

97:Be faithful to plant. Release the growing to God. Open up clenched fists and let the seeds drop into the ground, let them burrow down deep and do their secret work in the dark. Sacred shaping happens in the waiting. ~ Emily P Freeman

98:After a Canadian has been referred to a specialist, the waiting list for gynecological surgery is four to 12 weeks, cataract removal 12 to 18 weeks, tonsillectomy three to 36 weeks and neurosurgery five to 30 weeks. ~ Walter E Williams

99:I hate the waiting room. Because it's called the waiting room, there's no chance of not waiting. It's built, designed, and intended for waiting. Why would they take you right away when they've got this room all set up? ~ Jerry Seinfeld

100:Cooper and Professor Goosewaddle were sitting on a sofa in the waiting room, flipping through magazines as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a smurf to be sitting next to a half-naked gorilla monster. Cooper ~ Robert Bevan

101:After the group vet appointment--during which Lyle scratched the vet, the vet tech, and some poor woman minding her own business in the waiting room--we went back to Sabrina's and re-released the cats to their natural habitat. ~ Sarah Dessen

102:Mr. and Mrs. Hankshaw were summoned from the waiting room where Saturday Evening Post fantasies had clouded their instinctive parental concern the way that Norman Rockwell's sentimental ideas cloud the purity of a blank canvas. ~ Tom Robbins

103:I walked into the café, bypassing the waiting people as I scanned for the hulking figure of my partner. It’s official , I thought with a sigh as I spied him at a table for four and realized who else was with him. God hates me. ~ Diana Rowland

104:His eyes beheld beauty not in reality but in the printed word. Standing in the waiting-room, he realized that in his life he had accepted secondary experience -- the experience of reading someone else's thoughts -- over real life. ~ Ian Rankin

105:When the judge asks me why I put poison in my wife's tea, he will not be satisfied by my saying 'Because electrical impulses from my brain caused my hand to reach for the bottle of arsenic and tip it into the waiting teacup'... ~ Roger Scruton

106:You can get so confused that you'll start in to race 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. The Waiting Place... ~ Dr Seuss

107:But Jess was sliding breathlessly down into the waiting sky, so she couldn't find the words to tell TillyTilly that sisters was something about being held without hands, and the skin-flinch of seeing and simultaneously being seen. ~ Helen Oyeyemi

108:As an actor, it's hard to direct because, suddenly, you're not around. The thing which I hate about directing is the waiting game, but you've really got to wait it out and be resilient and keep it going and keep everybody motivated. ~ Danny Huston

109:Charles did not know it, but in those brief poised seconds above the waiting sea, in that luminous evening silence broken only by the waves' quiet wash, the whole Victorian Age was lost. And I do not mean he had taken the wrong path. ~ John Fowles

110:When the story gets sad and terrible, when there are too many mistakes to count, hang on for the beautiful parts. Wait for them. Have some faith they'll arrive. This is also precisely the point: the hanging on. The waiting, the faith. ~ Deb Caletti

111:The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it's the small things that count. Everyone's so busy waiting in the Waiting Place. If we stopped to remember that there's such a thing as a Purina Tower, we'd all be happier. ~ Jennifer Niven

112:There is a sweet anguish springing up in our bosoms when a child's face brightens under the shadow of the waiting angel. There is an autumnal fitness when age gives up the ghost; and when the saint dies there is a tearful victory. ~ Edwin Hubbel Chapin

113:Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not your hour, the waiting waters will stir; in some shape, though perhaps not the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald will descend. ~ Charlotte Bront

114:I go in to Warner Brothers to test and in the waiting area I saw Allison Janney sitting there, who I did not know but I was a big fan of. I said to myself, "Wait a second. These guys might know what they're doing if they're hiring her." ~ Richard Schiff

115:Are you ready ?" she asked, spinning the chamber. Kell gazed through the gate at the waiting castle. "No." At that, she offered him the sharpest edge of a grin. "Good," she said. "The ones who think they're ready always end up dead. ~ V E Schwab

116:I sing to use the Waiting My bonnet but to tie, And close the door unto my house No more to do have I 'Till his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sung To keep the dark away. ~ Emily Dickinson

117:Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not your hour, the waiting waters will stir; in some shape, though perhaps not the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald will descend. -Charlotte Brontë, Villette ~ Juliet Gael

118:The job and the flat had been sorted for a while, and finally the story of her past was in place. She had rehearsed it all in her head until it had felt real. The waiting had been hellish but she knew it was essential that any loose ends were eradicated. ~ K L Slater

119:I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away. ~ Emily Dickinson

120:they passed through the waiting room, the statue of Hygeia was sitting on a bench, pouring acid on her face and singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” while her golden snake gnawed at her foot. The peaceful scene was almost enough to lift Leo’s spirits. ~ Rick Riordan

121:Jerome Daley reminds us of the beauty, presence, and purpose of God in the waiting period, and that God is just as amazing then as He is at any other time. Readers will grow to trust God even more, and will be greatly rewarded as they are encouraged to faint not. ~ Che Ahn

122:The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it's the small things that count. Everyone's so busy waiting in the Waiting Place. If we stopped to remember that there's such a thing as a Purina Tower and a view like this, we'd all be happier. ~ Jennifer Niven

123:The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it’s the small things that count. Everyone’s so busy waiting in the Waiting Place. If we stopped to remember that there’s such a thing as a Purina Tower and a view like this, we’d all be happier. ~ Jennifer Niven

124:Every single time we refused to cave in to our feelings in the past makes this kiss completely worth the sacrifices. This kiss is worth all the tears, all the heartache, all the pain, all the struggles, all the waiting. She’s worth it all. She’s worth more. ~ Colleen Hoover

125:[…] as if the next thing must quickly come along to occupy her, or the abyss might open. What abyss? The abyss that waits for all of us, when all our actions seem futile, when the ability to fill the day seems stalled, and the waiting takes on an edge of dread. ~ Anita Brookner

126:Don't say that. I cherish every moment i've had with you. Every single one, okay? Even when we fight. Don't wish it away. Maybe we wouldn't be us if things had been different. And i want this...the way it is between us now is worth all of the waiting and longing. ~ Kahlen Aymes

127:The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it’s the small things that count. Everyone’s so busy waiting in the Waiting Place. If we stopped to remember that there’s such a thing as a Purina Tower and a view like this, we’d all be happier.” For ~ Jennifer Niven

128:is not fighting that he fears; it is not death; it is the waiting and uncertainty, and it breaks Jaidee’s heart that Niwat knows nothing of the waiting terrors, and that the waiting terrors are all around them now. So many things can only be fought by waiting. ~ Paolo Bacigalupi

129:I can't take it anymore. The waiting. The wanting. Something inside me snaps. I hate myself. I hate that I have to deal with this. I hate my life. And I hate how I can't count on anyone to be completely there when I need them, exactly the way I need them to be. ~ Susane Colasanti

130:Aristippus said: That those that studied particular sciences, and neglected philosophy, were like Penelope's wooers, that made love to the waiting women. ~ Francis Bacon

131:I believe you,” I repeated, my tongue thick with all the waiting words. “I’ve had that feeling, too. Knowing things you can’t know. From before you can remember.” And there it was again! A sudden movement in the corner of my eye, there and gone in the same instant. ~ Diane Setterfield

132:I Sing To Use The Waiting 850 I sing to use the Waiting My Bonnet but to tie And shut the Door unto my House No more to do have I Till His best step approaching We journey to the Day And tell each other how We sung To Keep the Dark away. ~ Emily Dickinson

133:Horace, we’ve had a complaint that the music was playing too loudly in the Waiting Area,” one board member announced as Mr. Brutish showed them into the board room and directed them to a row of seats lining the front wall. “The soul music?” a male spirit clarified, clearly irritated. ~ L R W Lee

134:I Sing To Use The Waiting 850 I sing to use the Waiting My Bonnet but to tie And shut the Door unto my House No more to do have I Till His best step approaching We journey to the Day And tell each other how We sung To Keep the Dark away. ~ Emily Dickinson

135:Miklos said he's applied to be night clerk at a Ramada Inn near the beach. He said the waiting list was two pages long. 'But I got more experience than most.' 'You're not kidding,' Garcia said. 'Good luck with that job.' 'Thank you,' Miklos said. 'Good luck with your murder. ~ Carl Hiaasen

136:To think, after all this time, after all the searching and all the waiting, after all the regret and the time she'd spent away, she came back to find that happiness was right where she's left it. On a football field in Mullaby, North Carolina. Waiting for her. ~ Sarah Addison Allen

137:Look at those hedge funds - you think they can wait? They don't know how to wait! I have sat for years at a time with $10 to $12 million in treasuries or municipals, just waiting, waiting...As Jesse Livermore said, 'The big money is not in the buying and selling...but in the waiting.' ~ Charlie Munger

138:Shauna stalks into a room as though it offends her. She was a plus-size model, one of the few known by one name. Shauna. Like Cher or Fabio. She stood six one and weighed one hundred ninety pounds. She was, as you might expect, a head-turner, and all heads in the waiting room obliged. Shauna ~ Harlan Coben

139:It is, of course, laudable that patient satisfaction has become a high priority, but sometimes window-dressing efforts like fancy coffee in the waiting room get priority over things that might have an actual effect on health care, such as giving nurses paid time off for continuing education. ~ Danielle Ofri

140:Color is, in brief terms, the type of love. Hence it is especially connected with the blossoming of the earth; and again, with its fruits; also, with the spring and fall of the leaf, and with the morning and evening of the day, in order to show the waiting of love about the birth and death of man. ~ John Ruskin

141:I've discovered that sometimes God wants us to live inside of the questions. Sometimes he wants us to linger in the waiting, hoping, praying. In fact, sometimes it's right in the middle of our darkness in the middle of our crisis, in the middle of our Plan B struggles that God speaks most clearly. ~ Pete Wilson

142:BEAUTIFUL CERTAINTY: I often need to be reminded that God’s timetable is better than mine. The in-between, the meantime, the waiting—it can all be frustrating, but it is in those moments we are refined, redesigned, and realigned with God’s will as He prepares us to be launched into our next chapter. ~ Mandy Hale

143:Part Four: Time and Eternity CXIV I SING to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, 5 We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away. ~ Emily Dickinson

144:You know, you think about who you might meet and when they might come. You always know that someday a door will open and in will come the one you’ve waited for. And then the waiting is done. And the rest of your life can begin. And the minute I looked up and saw you there, I thought, There he is. ~ Catherine Ryan Hyde

145:I stop in front of the bus station, look in on the waiting people, and think about all the places they are going. But I know they can’t run away from it or drink their way out of it or die to get rid of it. It’s always there, you just look at somebody and they give you a look like the Wrath of God. ~ Breece D J Pancake

146:The window of the waiting-room was clear for an instant as the train started to move. Komako's face glowed forth, and as quickly disappeared. It was the bright red it had been in the mirror that snowy morning, and for Shimamura that color again seemed to be the point at which he parted with reality. ~ Yasunari Kawabata

147:Everything, it seemed to Mma Ramotswe, had a waiting list—except the government taxman and the call, when it came, to leave this world. You could not argue with the agents of either of these: you paid, and you went. But I am just on the waiting list…No, there is no waiting list for these things… ~ Alexander McCall Smith

148:My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our friend of to-night. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle

149:As CSU continued to bag and photograph, as the LIRR and Transit detectives and his own crew began to work the waiting room, wandering among the semiconscious potential wits like a squadron of visiting nurses, Billy noticed that one of the commuters sleeping there had what appeared to be blood on his Rangers jersey. ~ Harry Brandt

150:I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU. Sunbursts and marble halls may be all very well, but there is more 'scope for imagination' without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn't matter. We'll just be happy, waiting and working for each other—and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be very sweet now. ~ Lucy Maud Montgomery

151:As soon as the earth’s crust cooled enough, the rains began to fall. Never have there been such rains since that time. They fell continuously, day and night, days passing into months, into years, into centuries. They poured into the waiting ocean basins, or, falling upon the continental masses, drained away to become sea. ~ Rachel Carson

152:Get taken care of quickly, effectively and go about their business. And the government, we are going to pay the bill. That will totally reduce all of the waiting times, all of the problems. And I think it may actually get the V.A. to respond better to things because, you know, there is a little competition you would think. ~ Donald Trump

153:John couldn’t stand the waiting. He wanted to do something, so he spent most of the night driving around, circling the woods, following the routes back into Bristol, just in case. Each time he returned, he sat in my car and asked me to go over what had happened. ‘I’ve told you,’ I said, when he asked for the third time. ~ Gilly Macmillan

154:Zoey was about to protest she wasn’t an escort when the door to the waiting room opened and there stood the man in black pleather. “You?” “You,” he said back with a slow grin. “What? Why?” she asked as if she couldn’t gather any more words. The man cupped her elbow and led her from the police station. “I thought you could ~ Kathleen Brooks

155:The morning weighs on my shoulders with the dreadful weight of hope and I take the blue envelope which Jacques has sent me and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away. Yet, as I turn and begin walking toward the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back on me. ~ James Baldwin

156:The blond man beside him was about the same height and equally stunning, but less intimidating. The good-humored expression on his face set him apart from the other man. He looked as though he was recalling the punch line to a good joke. The men walked through the waiting area and stood near the large windows, away from the crowd. ~ S L Morgan

157:They say it's not the snoring itself but those anxiety-packed moments in between snorts. It's the waiting for the nasal passages of the person lying beside you to strike again. And strike it always does. In the dark, almost against your will, you produce that special glare reserved for people who cannot control their own behaviour. ~ Sloane Crosley

158:The ICU was not the thrill ride I had expected. Turns out, they never called the high school student in from the reception desk to assist the doctors in lifesaving procedures. Instead, the job entailed hours of watching incredibly worried families wander in and out of the waiting room to use the restroom and retrieve cups of coffee. ~ Caitlin Doughty

159:Whatever junk novels were, however they worked, they were close to therapy, and airports were close to therapy. They both belonged to the culture of the waiting room. Piped music, the language of calming suasion. Come this way--yes, the flight attendant will see you now. Airports, junk novels: they were taking your mind off mortal fear. ~ Martin Amis

160:A dry wind moves through the trees off the road beside me, stirring their leaves. I dredge up spit to wet my swollen lips and lick my bloodstained teeth. It’s hot out. The kind of heat that creeps up on you and makes mirages in the road. The kind that shrivels the elderly and carries them into the waiting, open arms of death. ~ Courtney Summers

161:If the Lord Jehovah makes us wait, let us do so with our whole hearts; for blessed are all they that wait for Him. He is worth waiting for. The waiting itself is beneficial to us: it tries faith, exercises patience, trains submission, and endears the blessing when it comes. The Lord’s people have always been a waiting people. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

162:The Waiting Wall,” he said with a flourish. “It’s been waiting the past two thousand years to be rebuilt. Or maybe,” he said with a certain slyness, “because it’s been waiting centuries for you and you and you”—his finger swung from person to person—“to leave your fancy homes in Scarsdale and Paris to come pray at her side!” He ~ Ruchama King Feuerman

163:Xxiii: Crossing Alone The Nighted Ferry Crossing alone the nighted ferry With the one coin for fee, Whom, on the wharf of Lethe waiting, Count you to find? Not me. The brisk fond lackey to fetch and carry, The true, sick-hearted slave, Expect him not in the just city And free land of the grave. ~ Alfred Edward Housman

164:Xxiii: Crossing Alone The Nighted Ferry Crossing alone the nighted ferry With the one coin for fee, Whom, on the wharf of Lethe waiting, Count you to find? Not me. The brisk fond lackey to fetch and carry, The true, sick-hearted slave, Expect him not in the just city And free land of the grave. ~ Alfred Edward Housman

165:The greatest gratification that I get to work with these hands is that when I come out and I go to the waiting room and speak and talk to the families of my patients, I get standing ovations and I get tears and they look at me as superhuman and superhero. No amount of money, no amount of anything can ever compare to that feeling. ~ Alfredo Quinones Hinojosa

166:I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. ~ T S Eliot

167:I've been in Africa, and I've been to hospitals of Africa, and they're not hospitals, they're places where people go to die. And rows and rows and rows of people just dying and the waiting rooms of the hospitals are full of people waiting to get into the beds of the people who died the night before, and they're dying from unnecessary diseases. ~ Richard Branson

168:Millions of people are joined in the knowledge that writing brings insight and calm in the same way that prayer, meditation, or a long walk in the woods does. They have discovered that writing allows the racing mind to move at the pace of pen and paper or the pace of typing on the waiting screen - that journal writing is a spiritual practice. ~ Christina Baldwin

169:... he always carried the feeling that he was struggling toward some kind of resolution and knowledge of purpose. That there was something good in him or about him. It was the waiting that was so hard. The waiting often left a hollow feeling in his soul. And he believed people could see this, that they knew when they looked at him that he was empty. ~ Michael Connelly

170:He could sense in her the same spirit that ran in his veins. They were people with independent minds. They were not clerks at desks. They preferred to act. Accomplish something. They were rushing to reach the end. Such people need to be left alone. They are used to the darkness, the silence, the waiting. They belong to the same family. That of leopards. ~ Mahendra Jakhar

171:That even when what people were waiting for was the worst new of their life or the best, even when the waiting was heavy with implication and consequence, waiting people still transformed into cranky toddlers, impatient and frowning and red-faced infuriated with vending machines that dispensed the wrong thing, and kids who did not use their inside voice. ~ Laurie Frankel

172:The sitting-next-to-me-when-there-are-free-seats part was unaccaptable enough. In this country, we never sit next to each other unless absolutely necessary. In the waiting room, we'll dot ourselves about and always have a chair-sized gap between us. That gap must never be filled: people simply must not encroach on our personal space. That's just how it is. ~ Miranda Hart

173:Martie came out of the office first, smiling prettily, and Dusty rose to greet her, smiling less prettily, and Dr. Ahriman entered the waiting room behind her, smiling paternally, and maybe Dusty smiled a little more prettily when he saw the psychiatrist, because the man virtually radiated competence and compassion and confidence and all sorts of good stuff. ~ Dean Koontz

174:There is always movement in the waiting: walk to the kitchen, reach for his hand, close the eyes in wonder. In the waiting, there may be slowing, but there is never stopping. Not completely. Because living things move. God is always moving toward us and we always have the choice to move toward God. Even in the silence, even as we wait. Maybe especially so. ~ Emily P Freeman

175:He’d been living with and engaged to Donna for years, but never quite married, but the kids thought of him as their dad. Becca had been only six when he and her mother started dating. Edward, whom the vampires had nicknamed “Death,” had taken Becca to dance class and sat in the waiting room with the moms for years now. It made me smile just to think about it. ~ Laurell K Hamilton

176:He wanted her. He knew where to find her. He waited. It amused him to wait, because he knew that the waiting was unbearable to her. He knew that his absence bound her to him in a manner more complete and humiliating than his presence could enforce. He was giving her time to attempt an escape, in order to let her know her own helplessness when he chose to see her again. ~ Ayn Rand

177:I kiss her every way I can possibly kiss her, because I plan on loving her every way I can possibly love her. Every single time we refused to cave in to our feelings in the past makes this kiss completely worth the sacrifices. This kiss is worth all the tears, all the heartache, all the pain, all the struggles, all the waiting. She’s worth it all. She’s worth more. ~ Colleen Hoover

178:I returned to the waiting area. For the first time, I was conscious of being widowed, of lacking the prosecution of a man, it was an entirely atavistic sensation. Here in the lobby of this police station in Greece, I suddenly felt extraneous to the workings of the world, which is to say the world of men, I had grown invisible, standing at the threshold of that door. ~ Katie Kitamura

179:What if time stole my tenderness, what if I am worn through and grace was wasted in the waiting? can I climb out of what you have buried me under? When will it stop feeling like I am breathing though a cloth soaked in salt water? When will home stop being a silent cemetery of every wish I've had to bury? ~ Tyler Knott Gregson

180:The thing is, as an actor, I get bored a little bit. I love to act. And between action and cuts, when you work for somebody great, it's wonderful and I still love it. The moment where you create, that instant is still magic to me. But, all the rest, I get bored with it - all the waiting, and the fact that you have to make appearances, that you have to share your life. ~ Vincent Cassel

181:I liked labels; I liked putting people and things into categories. It helped me calibrate my expectations of people and relationships. If I didn’t label my sisters as bad, I would be an enabler of their behavior, just like my father was. I didn’t plan on spending my life as a doormat, or living in the waiting room of perpetual disappointment, hoping they would change. “So, ~ Penny Reid

182:He was my first love, my first love in the way that first loves are usually second or third or fourth loves. I still think about a stranger in a green jacket across from me in the waiting room at the DMV. About a blue-eyed man with a singed earlobe that I saw at a Baskin-Robbins with his daughter. My first that kind of love. I never got over him. I never get over anyone. ~ Rivka Galchen

183:One foot in front of the other, more aimless than direct, Bradford left the waiting room for the outside world. Called for a taxi and then dialed Munroe again, desperate for her voice, for one ray of light in the darkness, afraid of what he might say if she did answer, afraid of himself and the inner deadening that pointed to a danger far more lethal than any rage he'd felt. ~ Taylor Stevens

184:Day in, day out! Wind and rain, sleet and snow, sun and storm, we did the same. We heard something on the grapevine, went there, came back, sat in his bedroom, heard something else, went by bus, bike, on foot, sat in someone’s bedroom. In the summer we went swimming. That was it. What was it all about? We were friends, there was no more than that. And the waiting, that was life. ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd

185:You don’t like my restaurant, Miss Connor?” “I couldn’t say since the waiting list to get in is six months long.” One side of his mouth curved up. “This is true.” His finger lingered, and I tried to swallow the nervous lump in my throat. “I think you can call me by my first name now, seeing as how you’re touching my boob. That puts us a little past formality, don’t you think? ~ Jenny Lyn

186:Perfect name, the waiting room, waiting, waiting we were waiting, wait with me, Doc, wait and hope was the motto of Edmond Dantès, the Count of Monte Cristo, and did you know that the Spanish word for waiting and hoping is the same, so why couldn't we call this the hoping room, or would that be too depressing, why introduce our desires into the mix, who wants to be reminded of his longing? ~ Rabih Alameddine

187:I was meant to land wherever he settled, like the ocean washing seashells onto the shore. Jack was the shell, in constant motion and movement, being tossed around from place to place by the ebb and flow of something more powerful than he. And I was the sand, gripping and holding on to him, comforting his tumble with each push and pull of the tide, yet always constant. When I walked into the waiting ~ J Sterling

188:Jesus bled too. He knows what it's like to have blood leave the body in great rivers, in unstoppable streams. He knows the reality of being ostracized. He knows what it is to have no way out of his circumstances. He knows what it is to be broken, in his heart and in his limbs. His body pulverized. His spirit abandoned. He knows what it is to wait for God to come through - and to die in the waiting. ~ Ann Swindell

189:How we would like to argue with September, and tell her that in the waiting lies the pleasure! That we here in the world of sensible folk know how to wait without twisted-up bellies and tapping feet and wishing for the sun to hurry up and rise and set. That a clever person is never bored, and a bored person is never clever. But though I am sly, I am a trickster, I am even cruel—I cannot lie. ~ Catherynne M Valente

190:I saw myself, sharply, as a wanderer, an adventurer, rocking through the world, unanchored. [...] The wind of my life was blowing me away. [...] I take the blue envelope...and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away. Yet as I turn and begin walking toward the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back on me. ~ James Baldwin

191:All attempts at law, all religion, all ethical norms might be nothing more than attempts by the weak to restrain the strong. Then, within the law, arise the new strong, who subvert the law for their own ends of power and family interest, leaving the old strong outside their circle to pursue the waiting possibilities which they call crime. The weak, the cowardly, the decent ones, live between these groups. ~ George Zebrowski

192:The waiting can drive us mad if we let it. It can become a merciless dictator, shoving us into shapes we aren't made for, shapes of worry and doubt and short tempers. But the waiting can also grow us, shape us from the inside out for sacred work. This is a kind of work that happens only in the secret place of abiding in the presence of Christ even in the midst of broken dreams and tired circumstance. ~ Emily P Freeman

193:It was a feeling which stayed with him after he got back home to his terrace house on the Kristianstad road. When he had finished his dinner and played with his children for a while, he went out with the dog. Martinsson lived in the neighbourhood, so he decided to stop by and tell he and Noren had seen. The dog was a Labrador bitch and Martinsson had asked recently if he could join the waiting list for puppies. ~ Henning Mankell

194:They were all waiting for a man. Men were going to scoop them up in a net and take them home and put them into an even smaller tank. Not all of them were waiting to find a man, because some of them had already found one, but it didn’t stop the waiting. A few were waiting for a man to make up his mind and fewer still, the lucky ones, were waiting for a man who’d already made up his mind to make enough money. Barbara ~ Nick Hornby

195:Rita was not in the waiting room when I stepped off the elevator, so I sat down and thumbed through a copy of GOLF magazine. There were several articles on improving my short game that would have been much more interesting if only I played golf. The large golden clock on the wall said it was exactly two thirty-six when the elevator doors slid open and Rita stepped out. “Oh, Dexter, you’re here already,” she said. I ~ Jeff Lindsay

196:It is in the adoring worship of God, the waiting on Him and for Him, the deep silence of soul that yields itself for God to reveal Himself, that the capacity for knowing and trusting God will be developed. It is as we take His word from the Blessed Book, and bring it to Himself, asking him to speak it to us with His living loving voice, that the power will come fully to believe and receive the word as God’s own word to us. ~ Anonymous

197:The day I brought my suicide dream he got quite conversant. The dream was thus. I had gone to Holland to avail myself of their suicide hospitality. It was a sort of garage, the light from the fluorescent tubes ghastly bright. We were told to sit for a given time. The waiting was perhaps to allow the sufferers to make peace with themselves or maybe write a last letter to kith and kin. Not once did we acknowledge one another. ~ Edna O Brien

198:My hands are clammy. It’s a terrible kind of anticipation, not knowing what we’re walking into. The last time I felt this way I was in the waiting rooms at Ellis Island. We were tired, and Mam wasn’t well, and we didn’t know where we were going or what kind of life we would have. But now I can see all I took for granted: I had a family. I believed that whatever happened, we’d be together. A policeman blows a whistle ~ Christina Baker Kline

199:And there's my poor endeavoring human desk at which I sit so often during the day, facing south, the papers and pencils and the coffee cup with sprigs of alpine fir and a weird orchid of the heights wiltable in one day– My Beechnut gum, my tobacco pouch, dusts, pitiful pulp magazines I have to read, view south to all those snowy majesties– The waiting is long. On Starvation Ridge little sticks Are trying to grow. ~ Jack Kerouac

200:The Bergen County Medical Examiner’s Office looked like a small elementary school. It was one level, red brick, right angles, and as unassuming a building as one could construct, but then again, what did you want in a morgue? The waiting room chairs were molded plastic and about as comfortable as a pinched nerve. Myron had been here once before, not long after Jessica’s father had been murdered. The memory was not a pleasant one. ~ Harlan Coben

201:The children - I call them children when they're under 18 - are hungry for that love. The drugs are just a sleep that you can't even wake up from, because you might remember what you did when you were there. There's no place for them - there should be a rehabilitation center on every corner, along with McDonald's and the banks. This is serious business. The waiting lists are incredible. I mean, it's terrible. It's really terrible. ~ Toni Morrison

202:If the next action is not yours, you must nevertheless clarify whose it is (this is a primary use of the Waiting For action list). In a group-planning situation, it isn’t necessary for everyone to know what the next step is on every part of the project. Often all that’s required is to allocate responsibility for parts of the project to the appropriate persons and leave it up to them to identify next actions on their particular pieces. ~ David Allen

203:He’d never been afraid of the dark—even after the Shadows came and tried to kill him in the night—but that was because the dark itself used to be empty. Now it was not. He could feel it, whatever it was, hovering in the air around him, waiting until the sun went down and the world got quiet. Quiet enough to think. Thoughts, those were the waiting things, and once they started up, he couldn’t seem to silence them. Saints, how he tried. ~ V E Schwab

204:I wish I could tell you about the South Pacific. The way it actually was. The endless ocean. The infinite specks of coral we called islands. Coconut palms nodding gracefully toward the ocean. Reefs upon which waves broke into spray, and inner lagoons, lovely beyond description. I wish I could tell you about the sweating jungle, the full moon rising behind the volcanoes, and the waiting. The waiting. The timeless, repetitive waiting. ~ James A Michener

205:Some of the wives had already put their names on the waiting list for Pan Am’s first commercial flight to the Moon, but now that wasn’t going to happen. There would be no “orbital newspapers, updated every hour” per Arthur C. Clarke’s dream; no Lunar Hilton, which Barron Hilton had proposed; no Lunar Disney; and no chain of A&W Root Beer stands that Pete Conrad and Jim Lovell had planned, half jokingly, to open on the Moon after we colonized. ~ Lily Koppel

206:Do you have to use the ladies’ room or something?” Livia asked. “No. No, I don’t. I just can’t wait. I’m having all sorts of problems with the waiting.” Livia knew her sister’s secret would bubble out of her soon. Cole put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “You wanted to wait, remember? Tell her if you can’t stand it anymore.” At that, Kyle exploded. She waved her sparkling left hand in front of her. “Oh my God! I’m engaged! I’m marrying Cole! ~ Debra Anastasia

207:Beware of the waiting room." He closed the door at once, as if he had rehearsed that moment. I opened it quickly, and leaned out to call after him, "The what?" He turned, but only to give a sharp wave, the Trafalgar Square crowd swallowed him up. I couldn't get the smile on his face out of my mind, it secreted an omission. Something he'd saved up, a mysterious last word. Waiting room. Waiting room. Waiting room. It went round in my head all that evening. ~ John Fowles

208:In loving him, I saw men encouraging each other to lay down their arms. In loving him, I saw small-town laborers creating excavations that other men spend their lives trying to fill. In loving him, I saw moving films of stone buildings; I saw a hand in prison dragging snow in from the sill. In loving him, I saw great houses being erected that would soon slide into the waiting and stirring seas. I saw him freeing me from the silences of the interior life. ~ Olivia Laing

209:You don't get rich, you don't often have much fun. Sometimes you get beaten up or shot at or tossed into the jail house. Once in a long while you get dead. Every other month you decide to give it up and find some sensible occupation while you can still walk without shaking your head. Then the door buzzer rings and you open the inner door to the waiting room and there stands a new face with a new problem, a new load of grief, and a small piece of money. ~ Raymond Chandler

210:There's no such thing as security in this life sweetheart, and the sooner you accept that fact, the better off you'll be. The person who strives for security will never be free. The person who believes she's found security will never reach paradise. What she mistakes for security is purgatory. You know what purgatory is, Gwendolyn? It's the waiting room, it's the lobby. Not only does she have the wrong libretto, she's stuck in the lobby where she can't see the show. ~ Tom Robbins

211:Take it to your Maker - show Him the secrets of the spirit He gave - ask Him how you are to bear the pains He appointed - kneel in His presence, and pray with faith for light in darkness, for strength in piteous weakness, for patience in extreme need. Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not your hour, the waiting waters will stir; in some shape, though not perhaps the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald will descend. ~ Charlotte Bront

212:One Chief Astronaut used to make a point of phoning the front desk at the clinic where applicants are sent for medical testing, to find out which ones treated the staff well-and which ones stood out in a bad way. The nurses and clinic staff have seen a whole lot of astronauts over the years, and they know what the wrong stuff looks like. A person with a superiority complex might unwittingly, right there in the waiting room, quash his or her chances of ever going to space. ~ Chris Hadfield

213:One Chief Astronaut used to make a point of phoning the front desk at the clinic where applicants are sent for medical testing, to find out which ones treated the staff well—and which ones stood out in a bad way. The nurses and clinic staff have seen a whole lot of astronauts over the years, and they know what the wrong stuff looks like. A person with a superiority complex might unwittingly, right there in the waiting room, quash his or her chances of ever going to space. ~ Chris Hadfield

214:Our preacher Veronica said recently that this is life's nature: that lives and hearts get broken -- those of people we love, those of people we'll never meet. She said that the world sometimes feels like the waiting room of the emergency ward and that and that we who are more or less OK for now need to take the tenderest possible care of the more wounded people in the waiting room, until the healer comes. You sit with people, she said, you bring them juice and graham crackers. ~ Anne Lamott

215:The Waiting Life Since it befell, with work and strife I had not time to live my life I turned away from it until Work should be done and strife be still. My hands and head for use are free, Nor does my own life worry me, But docile as a spaniel waits Until this present stress abates. Tranquil it breathes, and waits, I know, With all its joy contained. But oh I hope when I have time to play My life will not have run away! ~ Dorothea Mackellar

216:The Waiting Life Since it befell, with work and strife I had not time to live my life I turned away from it until Work should be done and strife be still. My hands and head for use are free, Nor does my own life worry me, But docile as a spaniel waits Until this present stress abates. Tranquil it breathes, and waits, I know, With all its joy contained. But oh I hope when I have time to play My life will not have run away! ~ Dorothea Mackellar

217:What I have always found most comforting about these forms is the trace of hope I get as I'm filling them out. How they break your life down into such tidy realms, making each seem tractable, because discrete, in a way they never are beyond the white noise of the waiting room. You get that fleeting sense that you're on the verge of being understood, truly and fully, and for the first time, if you could just get it all down in black and white before the receptionist calls your name. ~ Adam Haslett

218:It is astounding to me, and achingly sad, that with eighty thousand people on the waiting list for donated hearts and livers and kidneys, with sixteen a day dying there on that list, that more than half of the people in the position H’s family was in will say no, will choose to burn those organs or let them rot. We abide the surgeon’s scalpel to save our own lives, our loved ones’ lives, but not to save a stranger’s life. H has no heart, but heartless is the last thing you’d call her. ~ Mary Roach

219:It is astounding to me, and achingly sad, that with eighty thousand people on the waiting list for donated hearts and livers and kidneys, with sixteen a day dying there on that list, that more then half of the people in the position H's family was in will say no, will choose to burn those organs or let them rot. We abide the surgeon's scalpel to save our own lives, out loved ones' lives, but not to save a stranger's life. H has no heart, but heartless is the last thing you'd call her. ~ Mary Roach

220:It’s the waiting that kills you. The waiting for purpose and clarity. For a watched pot to boil. For the results of a blood test. For proof you’ve left the past behind once and for all. Like everyone else my age, I’ve lost the ability—if I ever really had it—to inhabit my own skin for more than thirty seconds at a time. I’ve heard of stillness. I’ve even seen patches of it here on Cheung Chau. Yet I check my phone every ten minutes for updates about scattered friends and grievous exes. ~ Jason Y Ng

221:Despite the power of the office, the waiting room was done up in Early American Dentist. The carpet was threadbare. The furniture managed to be neither fashionable nor functional. There were a dozen different issues of Sports Illustrated on the table and nothing else. The walls seemed to plead for a paint job. They were stained and barren, except for the photographs of past U.S. attorneys, a remarkable lesson in what not to wear and how not to pose when taking a picture for posterity. No ~ Harlan Coben

222:The frantic summer fishermen who pay a price and glut the decks with fish in the afternoon wonder vaguely what to do with them, sacks and baskets and mountains of porgies and blows and blackfish, sea robins, and even slender dogfish, all to be torn up greedily, to die, and to be thrown back for the waiting gulls. The gulls swarm and wait, knowing the summer fisherman will sicken of their plenty. Who wants to clean and scale a sack of fish? It's harder to give away fish than it is to catch them. ~ John Steinbeck

223:The waiting on God for His presence and power in daily life will be the only true preparation for waiting for Christ in humility and true holiness. The waiting for Christ coming from heaven to take us to heaven will give the waiting on God its true tone of hopefulness and joy. The Father, who, in His own time, will reveal His Son from heaven, is the God who, as we wait on Him, prepares us for the revelation of His Son. The present life and the coming glory are inseparably connected in God and in us. ~ Andrew Murray

224:Waiting is a huge part of being a refugee. You're waiting at borders to get across. You're waiting for transportation. The waiting that people do in Turkey to get aboard one of these boats is incredible. And then when they finally do get aboard, it's the last place they want to be. It's harrowing. That is the horrible irony of a refugee's life. You wait and wait for the next step, and when you get to the next step, it's awful. You don't want to be doing it. But you have to. You have to keep moving forward. ~ Alan Gratz

225:You can get so confused that you'll start in to race down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles cross weirdish wild space, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place. The Waiting Place... ...for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or the waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting. ~ Dr Seuss

226:All his life he believed he was slumming toward something good. That there was meaning. In the youth shelter, the foster homes, the Army and Vietnam, and now the department, he always carried the feeling that he was struggling toward some kind of resolution and knowledge of purpose. That there was something good in him or about him. It was the waiting that was so hard. The waiting often left a hollow feeling in his soul. And he believed people could see this, that they knew when they looked at him that he was empty. ~ Michael Connelly

227:As much as I hated flying, I hated the anticipation of flying more. And all the waiting around was making me squirrelly. One and a half hours already shot. Couldn’t we just drive there at six hundred miles per hour? We can send a man to the moon, but no one has figured out how to build one long runway across the country? Gas up the plane and just drive that sucker. So it would take a little longer. So what? At least we’d know what we were up against. Currently, we were involuntary captives. Tarmac delays sucked. ~ Jessica Topper

228:It is not fighting that he fears; it is not death; it is the waiting and uncertainty, and it breaks Jaidee's heart that Niwat knows nothing of the waiting terrors, and that the waiting terrors are all around them now. So many things can only be fought by waiting... It breaks Jaidee's heart that Niwat knows no fear, and that Surat trains him so. It breaks his heart that he cannot make himself intervene, and he curses himself for it. Why must he destroy childhood illusions of invincibility? Why him? He resents this role. ~ Paolo Bacigalupi

229:Keep close to me," whispered Fanfreluchc. "Close!— or else you'll get stolen." As we descended, the glow of the countless gas-lamps, the pressure of the waiting crowds, the huge letters on the glaring posters, the noise and the confusion, and the glitter of the cross-lights, so dazed and terrified me that I was in danger of forgetting her injunction, and being trampled to death in the street. However, by some miracle I escaped destruction, and followed my patroness through what appeared to me the most hideous dark passages I had ever beheld. ~ Ouida

230:Darius? Are you sure you’re all right?” Back turned to Nicole, he closed his eyes. Of course he wasn’t all right. The woman he loved was bound and determined to leave him in six days, and he had no feasible plan to stop her. His hands balled into fists. How had he thought working alongside her would make the waiting more bearable? It was killing him. One minute he wanted to storm across the workshop, confront her with what he knew, and demand answers. The next he wanted to pull her into his arms and make her promise never to leave him. ~ Karen Witemeyer

231:Is he going to be alright?’ Ivy presses a fist to her lips. ‘All will be revealed in good time,’ Dr Khan replies without looking at her. ‘Head injuries can be tricky things; no two are the same.’ ‘He doesn’t seem to know me, Doctor,’ Ivy says. ‘Some memory loss can be expected under the circumstances,’ Dr Khan mutters, studying a printout. He looks up sharply with raised eyebrows. ‘Give it time, Mrs—’ ‘Bradbury,’ the nurse supplies. We are asked to move outside to the waiting area in the main ward. Ivy falls silent and sits with her head bowed, ~ K L Slater

232:Thistle,” I said to the waiting air. The goblin girl materialized before me. “What do you want now, Goblin Queen?” she sneered. “Where is Der Erlkönig?” I asked. “In the chapel. As is his wont these days.” “Lead me to him.” Thistle raised an eyebrow, or she would have, had she had eyebrows at all. “You are braver than I reckoned, mortal, to interrupt His Majesty during his devotions.” I shrugged. “I believe in God’s unending forgiveness.” “It’s not your God’s forgiveness you’d be needing. ~ S Jae Jones

233:She felt the glide of his hair as he lowered his head to study the zipper on her skirt. Her imagination supplied other places his hair could touch, and she drew in her breath. He carefully pulled down the zipper, then pulled it back up. After several up and down forays, Kathy grew impatient: "Hello? Have I lost you to a zipper?" Darn. She must sound like every greedy woman who'd ever lain with him. His soft chuckle reassured her. " 'Tis a long night, lass, and the waiting willna hurt ye. These metal teeth are wondrous things. ~ Nina Bangs

234:Does everyone grow the way you do?" puffed Milo when he had caught up. "Almost everyone," replied Alec, and then he stopped a moment and thought. "Now and then, though, someone does begin to grow differently. Instead of down, his feet grow up towards the sky. But we do our best to discourage awkward things like that." "What happens to them?" insisted Milo. "Oddly enough, they often grow ten times the size of everyone else," said Alec thoughtfully, "and I've heard that they walk among the stars." And with that he skipped off once again toward the waiting woods. ~ Norton Juster

235:I walk along the avenue thinking how shit always sinks, and how all these towns dump their shit for the river to push it down to the delta. Then I think about that girl sitting in the alley, sitting in her own slough, and I shake my head. I have not gotten that low. I stop in front of the bus station, look in on the waiting people, and think about all the places they are going. But I know they can't run away from it or drink their way out or die to get rid of it. It's always there, you just look at somebody and they give you a look like the Wrath of God. ~ Breece D J Pancake

236:for everyone the nature of the waiting had changed, because it was known that the wind would not cease— could not cease—until Iphigeneia came. The wind itself had a different voice now, it was sighing or groaning or screaming for Iphigeneia to come. She occupied the thoughts and dreams of a thousand men, few of whom had actually seen her. Her face and body were imagined with intensity as the men lay through the nights of the growing moon; they saw her white throat, bared for the knife; and they felt the rigid blade, and the stabbing urge, in their own restless loins. ~ Barry Unsworth

237:Does everyone grow the way you do?" puffed Milo when he had caught up. "Almost everyone," replied Alec, and then he stopped a moment and thought. "Now and then, though, someone does begin to grow differently. Instead of down, his feet grow up towards the sky. But we do our best to discourage awkward things like that." "What happens to them?" insisted Milo. "Oddly enough, they often grow ten times the size of everyone else," said Alec thoughtfully, "and I've heard that they walk among the stars." And with that he skipped off once again toward the waiting woods. ~ Norton Juster

238:Malmo, with its 280,000 residents, is Sweden's third-largest city. To see a physician, a patient must go to one of two local clinics before they can see a specialist. The clinics have security guards to keep patients from getting unruly as they wait hours to see a doctor. The guards also prevent new patients from entering the clinic when the waiting room is considered full. Uppsala, a city with 200,000 people, has only one specialist in mammography. Sweden's National Cancer Foundation reports that in a few years most Swedish women will not have access to mammography. ~ Walter E Williams

239:She should’ve felt glad, but she didn’t. She wished her mother had at least thought about it. A fleeting thought when she’d left the doctor and envisioned her own mother’s face. During a hushed phone call with the man she loved. When she’d called a clinic to make her appointment and hung up in tears, when she’d sat in the waiting room, holding her own hand. She could’ve been seconds away from doing it—it didn’t matter. She hated the thought of her mother not wanting her but it would’ve been better to look at her mother’s face in the mirror and know that they were alike. — ~ Brit Bennett

240:It is undignified to inject yourself with hormones designed to slow or enhance ovarian production. It is undignified to have your ovaries monitored by transvaginal ultrasound; to be sedated so that your eggs can be aspirated into a needle; to have your husband emerge sheepishly from a locked room with the “sample” that will be combined with your eggs under supervision of an embryologist. The grainy photo they hand you on transfer day, of your eight-celled embryo (which does not look remotely like a baby), is undignified, and so is all the waiting and despairing that follows. ~ Belle Boggs

241:The rest of the night was dreadful, and when the meal came, though they knew they ought to eat, many found that they had very poor appetites. And endless hours seemed to pass before the darkness thinned and birds began chirping here and there and the world got colder and wetter than it had been all night and Caspian said, “Now for it, friends.” They got up, all with swords drawn, and formed themselves into a solid mass with Lucy in the middle and Reepicheep on her shoulder. It was nicer than the waiting about and everyone felt fonder of everyone else than at ordinary times. ~ C S Lewis

242:contained a designer virus engineered to access NCTC's computer network. The virus would install a backdoor into the system for the waiting cyber-ops team, while covering its own tracks with the latest generation rootkit software. Once the team had access to the system, they would download a more sophisticated and robust kernel-mode rootkit to conceal their direct access to the operating system. Since kernel-mode rootkits operated at the same security level as the operating system itself, they were difficult to detect and nearly impossible to remove without rebooting the entire system. ~ Steven Konkoly

243:I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning. The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry, The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony Of death and birth. ~ T S Eliot

244:As we stepped forth side by side into the darkness, toward the waiting car, I thought of what a strange world it was, where life was lived pressed so tightly cheek to cheek with death: with so little space between, that they might well be one and the same thing. But in the end, when you stop to think about it, we are, after all, no more than mere particles of dust, drifting alone together through eternity, and so it is pleasant to think that we have—in this way or that, for better or for worse—reached out and touched one another. That, in the end, is what chemistry is all about, isn't it? ~ Alan Bradley

245:Death is a strange thing. People live their whole lives as if it does not exist, and yet it's often one of the great motivations for living. Some of us, in time, become so conscious of it that we live harder, more obstinately, with more fury. Some need its constant presence to even be aware of its antithesis. Others become so preoccupied with it that they go into the waiting room long before it has announced its arrival. We fear it, yet most of us fear more than anything that it may take someone other than ourselves. For the greatest fear of death is always that it will pass us by. And leave us there alone. ~ Fredrik Backman

246:The woman in the film drinks in a bar. She's in hair curlers, a chiffon headscarf tied over them like a tarp over a log pile. The hollows of the curlers, spaces for hope: something good might happen. There was no sign of Sandro. I watched the film to keep myself awake while I waited. A man bought the woman a beer. She took dainty sips in her hair curlers, in preparation for no specific occasion. Curler time seemed almost religious, a waiting that was more important than what the waiting was for. Curler time was about living the now with a belief that a future, an occasion for set hair, existed. ~ Rachel Kushner

247:How much longer should I wait? The answer came to me. Wait as long as you need to. The waiting is as important as doing; it's the time you spent training and the rest in between; it's painting the subject and the space in between; it's the reading and the thinking about what you've read; it's the written words that , what is said, what is left unsaid, the space between the thoughts on the page, that makes the story, and it's the space between the notes, the intervals between fast and slow, that makes the music. It's the love of being together, the spacing, the tension of being apart, that brings you back together. ~ Lynne Cox

248:In loving him, I saw a cigarette between the fingers of a hand, smoke blowing backwards into the room and sputtering planes diving low through the clouds. In loving him, I saw men encouraging each other to lay down their arms. In loving him, I saw small-town laborers creating excavations that other men spend their lives trying to fill. In loving him, I saw moving films of stone buildings; I saw a hand in prison dragging snow in from the sill. In loving him, I saw great houses being erected that would soon slide into the waiting and stirring seas. I saw him freeing me from the silences of the interior life. ~ David Wojnarowicz

249:The waiting room, like most waiting rooms, was deserted and unremarkable. The benches were miserably uncomfortable, the ashtrays swollen with waterlogged cigarette butts, the air stale. On the walls were travel posters and most-wanted lists. The only other people there were an old man wearing a camel-color sweater and a mother with her four-year-old son. The old man sat glued in position, poring through a literary magazine. He turned the pages as slowly as if he were peeling away adhesive tape. Fifteen minutes from one page to the next. The mother and child looked like a couple whose marriage was on the rocks. ~ Haruki Murakami

250:Nobody moved. Everybody sat in the dark cellar, suspended in the suddenly frozen task of this October game; the wind blew outside, banging the house, the smell of pumpkins and apples filled the room with smell of the objects in their fingers while one boy cried, “I'll go upstairs and look!” and he ran upstairs hopefully and out around the house, four times around the house, calling, “Marion, Marion, Marion!” over and over and at last coming slowly down the stairs into the waiting breathing cellar and saying to the darkness, “I can't find her.” Then... some idiot turned on the lights. ("The October Game") ~ Ray Bradbury

251:Jack decided to do something about this, so he went outside, and said to all the waiting TV cameras, “I have an announcement to make. I hereby declare that I will no longer pursue the U.S. Senate seat for Illinois. I hope Mr. Jackson is happy with being the U.S. Senator. I will take no questions now.” The noise level was astounding to him after that. Reporters were shouting questions at him as he walked back in to his house. He walked to a cabinet, opened the drawer, and picked up what he was looking for. Jack looked over the silver handgun in his hand, made sure the gun was loaded, and then he put it to his head, and fired. ~ Cliff Ball

252:The worl is ful of things waiting to happen. Thats the meat and boan of it right there. You myt think you can jus go here and there doing nothing. Happening nothing. You cant tho you bleeding cant. You put your self on any road and some thing wil show its self to you. Wanting to happen. Waiting to happen. You myt say, 'I dont want to know.' But 1ce its showt its self to you you wil know wont you. You cant not know no mor. There it is and working in you. You myt try to put a farness be twean you and it only you cant becaws youre carrying it inside you. The waiting to happen aint out there where it ben no more its inside you. ~ Russell Hoban

253:That’s the hardest thing about being a parent,” she explains. “Living through heartache, bearing your struggles, learning the hard lessons the hard way, and enduring years of climbing a wall only to fall back down and have to start all over again . . .” She holds my eyes, and her voice is weighted with sadness. “The tears, the waiting, the zero sense of who the hell you are, and then one day . . .” Her voice grows lighter and she looks happy. “You wake up, and finally you’re exactly the person you’ve always wanted to be. Strong, decisive, resolute, kind, brave . . . But then you also look in the mirror and you’re fifty-eight.” An ~ Penelope Douglas

254:This beautiful, slender German Shepherd with erect ears and a cold glare stood at attention, awaiting the order. I watched the canine's handler.  The man's lips moved ever-so-slightly, and the dog was off.  EMS was going wild.  They'd apparently never seen the K9 unit in action, either.  I glanced over to the waiting room, and I swear, every last person stood with their noses pressed against the windows. When I looked back outside, the police dog was dangling from the woman's forearm.  Even then, she continued to move around and yell.  She refused to drop her handbag and swatted at the dog's head. I'm pretty sure we were all rooting for the dog. The ~ Kerry Hamm

255:Lying bed, I listened to them, and I wonder now where in truth the real power rested that night: whether in the hands of men like Grimston, men like Edwards. Whether it slept with the King at Oxford in an ordinary bed, dormant, like a taint in the blood. Whether it rested on the waiting benches of the Commons, or whether it went home with their plain occupants, like a shilling in each of their pockets. I think the truth is that, rather than resting in any one of several places, all real power had gone loose by that night through the realm; and the land might have belonged to any man. Any man with the will to say, 'This is what we shall do. ~ Beth Underdown

256:The waiting was never easy. Once the shooting started a feeling of clarity always took over. You’d die or you wouldn’t, you’d kill or be killed—it was one or the other and nothing in between. You knew where you stood, and for those violent, heart-pumping minutes, Dodd felt himself lifted on a wave of adrenaline that eradicated virtually everything about him that was even vaguely personal. It could be said that in the chaos of combat, the man known as Satch Dodd ceased to exist, even to himself; and when the dust cleared, and he found himself still standing, he experienced a rush of raw existence, as if he’d been shot from a cannon back into the world. ~ Justin Cronin

257:on August 16, 1996, when an eight-year-old female gorilla named Binti Jua helped a three-year-old boy who had fallen eighteen feet into the primate exhibit at Chicago’s Brookfield Zoo. Reacting immediately, Binti scooped up the boy and carried him to safety. She sat down on a log in a stream, cradling the boy in her lap, giving him a few gentle back pats before taking him to the waiting zoo staff. This simple act of sympathy, captured on video and shown around the world, touched many hearts, and Binti was hailed as a heroine. It was the first time in U.S. history that an ape figured in the speeches of leading politicians, who held her up as a model of compassion. ~ Frans de Waal

258:I am your soul and all your souls. When I am gone you are dead. Past humanity is not only implicit in each new man born but is contained in him,[...] All humanity from its beginning to its end is already present but the beam has not yet played beyond you! [...] You are not the top of your people's line any more than your mother was when she had you inside her. When I leave you I take with me all that has made you what you are-I take all your significance and importance and all accumulation of human instinct and appetite and wisdom and dignity. You will be left with nothing behind you and nothing to give the waiting ones. Woe to you when they fund you out! Good Bye! ~ Flann O Brien

259:I can't reconcile the way that the world is jolted by events that are wonderful and terrible, the gorgeous and the tragic. Except that I am beginning to believe that these opposites do not cancel each other out. I see a middle aged woman in the waiting room of the cancer clinic, her arms wrapped around the frail frame of her son. She squeezes him tightly, oblivious to the way he looks down at her sheepishly. He laughs after a minute, a hostage to her impervious love. Joy persists somehow and I soak it in. The horror of cancer has made everything seem like it is painted in bright colors. I think the same thoughts again and again. Life is so beautiful. Life is so hard. ~ Kate Bowler

260:I’d felt this before, when my granddad was in the hospital before he died. We all camped out in the waiting room, eating our meals together, most of us sleeping in the chairs every night. Family from far-flung places would arrive at odd hours and we’d all stand and stretch, hug, get reacquainted, and pass the babies around. A faint, pale stream of beauty and joy flowed through the heavy sludge of fear and grief. It was kind of like those puddles of oil you see in parking lots that look ugly until the sun hits them and you see rainbows pulling together in the middle of the mess. And wasn’t that just how life usually felt—a confusing swirl of ugly and rainbow? ~ Laura Anderson Kurk

261:Later, I learned that people thought I was being courageous. Not so. There were selfish reasons for my behavior. I shoved everyone away and kept more or less to myself, silent, stone-faced, although continuing nonetheless to help the other men, as we received one child after another from the divers and wrapped them in blankets and dispatched them in stretchers up the steep slope to the road and the waiting ambulances, as if by doing that I could somehow prolong this part of the nightmare and postpone waking up to what I knew would be the inescapable and endless reality of it. No one spoke. Somehow, at the bottom, I did not want this awful work to end. That's not courage. ~ Russell Banks

262:Waiting is one of the things that humans beings cannot do well, though it is one of the essential things we must do successfully if we are to know happiness. We are impatient for the future and try to craft it with our own powers, but the future will come as it comes and will not be hurried. If we are good at waiting, we discover that what we wanted of the future, in our impatience, is no longer what we want, that waiting has brought wisdom. I have become good at waiting, as I wait to see what action or sacrifice is wanted of me, wait to discover where I must go next, and wait for the day when the fortuneteller's promise will be fulfilled. Hope, love, and faith are in the waiting. ~ Dean Koontz

263:HUNTING-SONG OF THE SEEONEE PACK As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled Once, twice, and again! And a doe leaped up—and a doe leaped up From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup. This I, scouting alone, beheld, Once, twice, and again! As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled Once, twice, and again! And a wolf stole back—and a wolf stole back To carry the word to the waiting Pack; And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track Once, twice, and again! As the dawn was breaking the Wolf pack yelled Once, twice, and again! Feet in the jungle that leave no mark! Eyes that can see in the dark—the dark! Tongue—give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark! Once, twice, and again! ~ Rudyard Kipling

264:Meanwhile, the Mosteks spent a frantic hour trying to comprehend the dire nature of Rece’s situation. Then Dr. Sammut entered the waiting room and gave the worried parents a thumbs-up. Inside a plastic vial was the unbelievable item that had nearly taken Rece’s life: a popcorn kernel that had been lodged in his left lung. Rece’s condition was the result of a perfect storm. Months earlier, he had inhaled a kernel of popcorn, which became lodged in his right lung. This led to infections and breathing problems, including pneumonia. But his excessive coughing earlier that day had thrust the kernel from the right lung and propelled it into his left lung, where it unluckily blocked his airway. ~ Anonymous

265:All his life he believed he was slumming toward something good. That there was meaning. In the youth shelter, the foster homes, the Army and Vietnam, and now the department, he always carried the feeling that he was struggling toward some kind of resolution and knowledge of purpose. That there was something good in him or about him. It was the waiting that was so hard. The waiting often left a hollow feeling in his soul. And he believed people could see this, that they knew when they looked at him that he was empty. He had learned to fill that hollowness with isolation and work. Sometimes drink and the sound of the jazz saxophone. But never people. He never let anyone in all the way. ~ Michael Connelly

266:The warm night claimed her. In a moment it was part of her. She walked on the grass, and her shoes were instantly soaked. She flung up her arms to the sky. Power ran to her fingertips. Excitement was communicated from the waiting trees, and the orchard, and the paddock; the intensity of their secret life caught at her and made her run. It was nothing like the excitement of ordinary looking forward, of birthday presents, of Christmas stockings, but the pull of a magnet - her grandfather had shown her once how it worked, little needles springing to the jaws - and now night and the sky above were a vast magnet, and the things that waited below were needles, caught up in the great demand. ("The Pool") ~ Daphne du Maurier

267:How small and neat and comically serious the other men looked, with their grey-flecked crew cuts and their button-down collars and their brisk little hurrying feet! There were endless desperate swarms of them, hurrying through the station and the streets, and an hour from now they would all be still. The waiting mid-town office buildings would swallow them up and contain them, so that to stand in one tower looking out across the canyon to another would be to inspect a great silent insectarium displaying hundreds of tiny pink men in white shirts, forever shifting papers and frowning into telephones, acting out their passionate little dumb show under the supreme indifference of the rolling spring clouds. ~ Richard Yates

268:After three hours, I come back to the waiting room. It is a cosmetic surgery office, so a little like a hotel lobby, underheated and expensively decorated, with candy in little dishes, emerald-green plush chairs, and upscale fashion magazines artfully displayed against the wall. A young woman comes in, frantic to get a pimple "zapped" before she sees her family over the holidays. An older woman comes in with her daughter for a follow-up visit to a face-lift. She is wearing a scarf and dark glasses. The nurse examines her bruises right out in the waiting room. And you are in the operating room having your body and your gender legally altered. I feel like laughing, but I know it makes me sound like a lunatic. ~ Joan Nestle

269:Thanks,” Jordan said. “Did you say Dad was here, too?” Kyle threw her a you-are-so-busted look. “Why, yes, he is. He’s out in the waiting room, grilling Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic.” Jordan’s mouth formed a silent O. She was busted. “You’ve met Nick?” “Yep, we’ve met, all right. He was kind enough to inform me that I have absolutely no say in whether you two date.” “Well, you don’t.” “You know, you all could at least pretend that my opinion makes a difference.” Kyle shot her a sideways glance. “You like this guy, don’t you?” Jordan couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Yeah, I like this guy. He rescued me from a crazed man with a gun, he makes me laugh, and he calls his mother Ma. I’d say he’s a keeper. ~ Julie James

270:stepping lithe and incredulous from the study; of Karras, emerging bewildered from the kitchen while the nightmarish poundings and croakings continued. Merrin went calmly up the staircase, a slender hand like alabaster sliding upward on the banister. Karras came up beside Chris, and together they watched from below as Merrin entered Regan’s bedroom and closed the door behind him. For a time there was silence. Then abruptly the demon laughed hideously and Merrin swiftly exited the room, closed the door, then moved quickly down the hall while behind him the bedroom door opened again and Sharon poked her head out, staring after him with an odd expression on her face. Merrin descended the staircase rapidly and put out his hand to the waiting Karras. ~ William Peter Blatty

271:Now the sun is wide awake, baring its teeth, making the sweat run down people's back. Before it will make its way across the sky and into the waiting arms of the Arabian Sea, so much will have happened: migrations into the city, births, marriages, dowry deaths, illicit love affairs, pay raises, first kisses, bankruptcy filings, traffic accidents, business deals, money changing hands, plant shutdowns, gallery openings, poetry readings, political discussions, evictions. Every event in human history will repeat itself today. Everything that ever happened will happen again today. All if life lived in a day. A day, a day. A silver urn of promise and hope. Another chance. At reinvention, at resurrection, at reincarnation. A day. The least and most of all of our lives. ~ Thrity Umrigar

272:The German citizen is a soldier, and the policeman is his officer. The policeman directs him where in the street to walk, and how fast to walk. At the end of each bridge stands a policeman to tell the German how to cross it. Were there no policeman there, he would probably sit down and wait till the river had passed by. At the railway station the policeman locks him up in the waiting-room, where he can do no harm to himself. When the proper time arrives, he fetches him out and hands him over to the guard of the train, who is only a policeman in another uniform. The guard tells him where to sit in the train, and when to get out, and sees that he does get out. In Germany you take no responsibility upon yourself whatever. Everything is done for you, and done well. ~ Jerome K Jerome

273:I currently offer a course for clients in the home and for company owners in their offices. These are all private, one-on-one lessons, but I have yet to run out of clients. There is currently a three-month waiting list, and I receive enquiries daily from people who have been introduced by a former client or who have heard about the course from someone else. I travel from one end of Japan to the other and sometimes overseas. Tickets for one of my public talks for housewives and mothers sold out overnight. There was a waiting list not only for cancellations, but also just to get on the waiting list. Yet my repeater rate is zero. From a business perspective, this would appear to be a fatal flaw. But what if no repeaters were actually the secret to the popularity of my approach? ~ Marie Kond

274:The children were watched through a one-way mirror, and the film that shows their behavior during the waiting time always has the audience roaring in laughter. About half the children managed the feat of waiting for 15 minutes, mainly by keeping their attention away from the tempting reward. Ten or fifteen years later, a large gap had opened between those who had resisted temptation and those who had not. The resisters had higher measures of executive control in cognitive tasks, and especially the ability to reallocate their attention effectively. As young adults, they were less likely to take drugs. A significant difference in intellectual aptitude emerged: the children who had shown more self-control as four-year-olds had substantially higher scores on tests of intelligence. ~ Daniel Kahneman

275:Hacker with Bullhorn: "Save your money! Accept one of our free tanks! It is invulnerable, and can drive across rocks and swamps at ninety miles an hour while getting a hundred miles to the gallon!" Prospective Station Wagon Buyer: "I know what you say is true...but...er...I don't know how to maintain a tank!" Bullhorn: "You don't know how to maintain a station wagon either!" Buyer: "But this dealership has mechanics on staff. If something goes wrong with my station wagon, I can take a day off work, bring it here, and pay them to work on it while I sit in the waiting room for hours, listening to elevator music." Bullhorn: "But if you accept one of our free tanks, we will send volunteers to your house to fix it for free while you sleep!" Buyer: "Stay away from my house, you freak! ~ Neal Stephenson

276:Rambert also spent a certain amount of time at the railroad station. No one was allowed on the platforms. But the waiting-rooms, which could be entered from outside, remained open and, being cool and dark, were often patronized by beggars on very hot days. Rambert spent much time studying the timetables, reading the prohibitions against spitting, and the passengers' regulations. After that he sat down in a corner. An old cast-iron stove, which had been stone-cold for months, rose like a sort of landmark in the middle of the room, surrounded by figure-of-eight patterns on the floor, the traceries of long-past sprinklings. Posters on the walls gaily invited tourists to a carefree holiday at Cannes or Bandol. And in his corner Rambert savored that bitter sense of freedom which comes of total deprivation. ~ Albert Camus

277:H appears no different from the corpses already here. But H is different. She has made three sick people well. She has brought them extra time on Earth. To be able as a dead person to make a gift of this magnitude is phenomenal. Most people don't manage this sort of thing while they're alive. Cadavers like H are the dead's heroes. It is astounding to me and achingly sad that with 80,000 people on the waiting list for donated hearts and livers and kidneys, with sixteen a day dying there on that list, that more than half the people in the position H's family was in will say no, will choose to burn those organs or let them rot. We abide the surgeon's scalpel to save our own lives, our loved one's lives, but not to save a stranger's life. H has no heart but heartless is the last thing you'd call her. ~ Mary Roach

278:John,” she said, “please make sure Christopher is all right. That he doesn’t see his father. That he knows Mama is okay. Please.” “Mel and Jack can—” “No, John. Please. Take care of Chris. I’ll be all right, but I don’t want him scared and I don’t want him to see his father. Please?” “Anything you want,” he said. “Paige...” “No, no more apologies,” she said. “Take care of Chris.” Preacher assisted Mel in sliding Paige from the exam table to the gurney, and the bright red puddle of blood left behind as she was moved caused his own blood to roar in his ears. As he pushed the gurney out of Doc’s office, Rick ran to help him lift it down the porch stairs to the waiting Hummer. His vision blurred as his eyes clouded with unshed tears. “Everything will be all right, Paige,” he said. “I’ll take care of Chris.” * ~ Robyn Carr

279:out the back to the waiting car when he checked on her. He knew it would make him and Anne look bad, leaving the baby home alone, but he thought it could work. Had he felt there was any actual risk to Cora at all, he never would have done it. Not for any amount of money. It’s been brutally hard these last few days, not seeing his daughter. Not being able to hold her, to kiss the top of her head, to smell her skin. Not being able to call and check on her and make sure she’s all right. Not knowing what the hell is going on. Marco tells himself again that Cora is fine. He just has to hang on. It will all be over soon. They’ll have Cora back and the money. He especially regrets how hard this is on Anne, but he tells himself that she’ll be so happy to have Cora back that maybe it will give her some perspective. ~ Shari Lapena

280:Even though he had admitted to her that he used to watch me shower through a hole in the bathroom wall back when I was thirteen. She blamed us both for what we had "done" to her. But it sounds like she got over being mad at him pretty quick. She later told me that she had to go back and have sex with him one more time, just to make sure that there was nothing left between the two of them and to get some closure. That almost made me want to vomit. The only interaction between us after that was her showing up at the courthouse when I had to sit in front of a grand jury of twelve strangers and tell them what had happened. She came into the waiting room where I was sitting and started screaming that I was a whore and that I'd fucked her husband. She had to be escorted out of the court by two officers. That's what I got from her. ~ Ashly Lorenzana

281:The hotel which had had the bad luck to draw Aunt Agatha's custom was the Splendide, and by the time I got there there wasn't a member of the staff who didn't seem to be feeling it deeply. I sympathized with them. I've had experience of Aunt Agatha at hotels before. Of course, the real rough work was all over when I arrived, but I could tell by the way everyone grovelled before her that she had started by having her first room changed because it hadn't a southern exposure and her next because it had a creaking wardrobe and that she had said her say on the subject of the cooking, the waiting, the chambermaiding and everything else, with perfect freedom and candour. She had got the whole gang nicely under control by now. The manager, a whiskered cove who looked like a bandit, simply tied himself into knots whenever she looked at him. ~ P G Wodehouse

282:Christmas Eve 1914 Silent, to-night, o'er Judah's hills Bend low the angel throng, No heavenly music fills the air Exultantly with song; Yet, close above the sin-scarred earth, Broods still the Love Divine, And through the darkness, as of old, The stars of pity shine. Silent, to-night, is Bethlehem: Along the hushèd ways No eager feet of worshippers, No melodies of praise; Yet, in the quietness that fills The waiting hearts of men, The ancient miracle of hope Is wrought, to-night, again. O holy Christ! to whom, of old, The wondering shepherds came, The light they sought with flaming joy We seek in contrite shame; And though men strive, we dare to hope That Thou again art born, For, through the night of our despair, Behold! Thy star of morn! ~ Eugene Field

283:Christmas Eve 1914 Silent, to-night, o'er Judah's hills Bend low the angel throng, No heavenly music fills the air Exultantly with song; Yet, close above the sin-scarred earth, Broods still the Love Divine, And through the darkness, as of old, The stars of pity shine. Silent, to-night, is Bethlehem: Along the hushèd ways No eager feet of worshippers, No melodies of praise; Yet, in the quietness that fills The waiting hearts of men, The ancient miracle of hope Is wrought, to-night, again. O holy Christ! to whom, of old, The wondering shepherds came, The light they sought with flaming joy We seek in contrite shame; And though men strive, we dare to hope That Thou again art born, For, through the night of our despair, Behold! Thy star of morn! ~ Eugene Field

284:held on to Edward’s hand, gave him some of the best eye contact I’d given anyone in a while, and Dr. Fields tried to stitch me up ahead of my body’s healing. Even with the ardeur days from being fed I was healing too fast for normal medical help. Fuck. Edward talked low to me. He whispered about the case, tried to get me to think about work. It worked for a while, and then the painkiller was all gone and I was still being stitched up. I couldn’t think about work. He talked about his family, about what Donna was doing with her metaphysical shop, about Peter in school and in martial arts. He was working on his second black belt. Becca and her musical theater, and the fact that he was still taking her to dance class twice a week, that amused me enough for me to say, “I want to see you sitting with all the suburban moms in the waiting area. ~ Laurell K Hamilton

285:Swing High And Swing Low Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow It's off for a sailor thy father would go; And it's here in the harbor, in sight of the sea, He hath left his wee babe with my song and with me: "Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow!" Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow It's oh for the waiting as weary days go! And it's oh for the heartache that smiteth me when I sing my song over and over again: "Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow!" "Swing high and swing low " The sea singeth so, And it waileth anon in its ebb and its flow; And a sleeper sleeps on to that song of the sea Nor recketh he ever of mine or of me! "Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow 'T was off for a sailor thy father would go!" ~ Eugene Field

286:Swing High And Swing Low Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow It's off for a sailor thy father would go; And it's here in the harbor, in sight of the sea, He hath left his wee babe with my song and with me: "Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow!" Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow It's oh for the waiting as weary days go! And it's oh for the heartache that smiteth me when I sing my song over and over again: "Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow!" "Swing high and swing low " The sea singeth so, And it waileth anon in its ebb and its flow; And a sleeper sleeps on to that song of the sea Nor recketh he ever of mine or of me! "Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow 'T was off for a sailor thy father would go!" ~ Eugene Field

287:The only thing that can break the unbreakable is the unthinkable. I knew the moment I saw them alone in the waiting room that my worst fears were confirmed. They were all dead. I turned around and walked out. I didn't want to be there. I had to go outside. I couldn't breathe. When I reached the grass across from the parking lot, I fell to my knees. I didn't cry. Instead, I became physically ill. Over and over, my stomach repelling the truth that I refused to believe. When there was nothing left in me, I fell backward onto the grass and stared up at the sky, the stars staring back at me. Millions of stars staring back at the whole world. A world where parents die and brothers die and nothing stops to respect that fact. The whole universe just goes and goes as if nothing has happened, even when one person's entire life is forced to a complete halt. ~ Colleen Hoover

288:The caterpillars are coming. They’re coming. As they passed a blunt rolled with marijuana shake around the bonfire, filled plastic cups with beer from a keg in the back of John Anderson’s Bronco, snuck cigarettes at the red doors that led to the make-out woods behind school. As they waited on line at the cafeteria for pizza and Tater Tots, warmed up during choral practice, and changed for gym in the locker room. Until Maddie felt something titanic rushing toward the island, gathering steam like a nor’easter barreling toward shore, and the waiting filled with a tingling urgency she knew they all felt. She felt it. Car engines revved harder, highs soared higher, buzzes and crushes burned brighter. “Look.” She lifted her palm as the insect inched across. The two lines of blue and red dots on its back glimmered like spots of blood rising after a pinprick. “They’re here. ~ Julia Fierro

289:It is never lost on me that the women in the waiting room have had to walk past these protesters, too. Even if they were escorted to the door by a cheerful young pro-choice activist with bright pink hair who carries a protective rainbow umbrella, they’ve heard the vitriol—different from the insults hurled at me, but no less offensive. “Think twice!” “Don’t murder your baby!” The antis shout these things, as if these women had not minds of their own. As if their decision fails to merit respect. As if they were not, as most of them are, adults exercising a legal right to make a private health-care decision for themselves. (Imagine, if you will, these verbal assaults being hurled at any other person for having made any other consequential health-care choice: the decision to pursue a potentially fatal course of chemotherapy, for example. “Don’t risk your life! Suicide!”) ~ Willie Parker

290:Christ Jesus Eve. The girl's shattered like glass, and it'll take a blood miracle to put her together again. And you're standing here talking about fucking games?" She met fire with ice. "Obviously your heartstrings are playing a tune." "It might be because I have them," he shot back. "Because I'm not so caught up trying to win some shagging game that I consider a young woman a logical choice. She's still alive, Lieutenant. She's not on your side of the board yet." "Why don't you go back to the waiting area. You can all join hands. Maybe hold a prayer meeting. You go ahead and do that while the one who put her in the OR is chuckling up his sleeve. I've got better things to do." She strode away, steeling both her heart and belly against the hurt. It wasn't just the body she thought that could shatter. And it wasn't only fists and pipes and bats that could shatter it. ~ J D Robb

291:To make possible the subjection of eternal, spiritual organized intelligences to perishable, material structures, certain natural laws would naturally be brought into operation. From the point of view of the eternal spirit, it might mean the breaking of a law directed towards eternal life; yet to secure the desired contact with matter, the spirit was compelled to violate the law. Thus, in this earth life, a man who desires to acquire a first hand acquaintance with magnetism and electricity, may subject himself to all kinds of electric shocks, that, perhaps, will affect his body injuriously; yet, for the sake of securing the experience, he may be willing to do it. Adam, the first man, so used natural laws that his eternal, spiritual body became clothed upon with an earthly body, subject to death. Then in begetting children, he was able to produce earthly bodies for the waiting spirits. According ~ John A Widtsoe

292:IN some ways, the relentless electronic interconnectivity of our lives serves to highlight therapy’s singular virtues. We are more appreciative of the strange, private dialogue that is the heart of therapy. There are precious few times and spaces left in our society in which people quietly speak to one another in a sustained, intimate conversation. The therapist’s office is one of the last safe places. Secrets, reflections, fears or confusion never leave the room. And it is also a refuge. My patients often arrive early just to sit in the waiting room — an unusual interlude of quiet. Then there’s the session itself. In some ways therapy is, more than ever, the ultimate luxury: To be the focus of a thoughtful person who is listening, caring and helping to make sense of life’s chaos is something that the Internet can never provide. Anna Fels is a psychiatrist and faculty member at Weill Cornell Medical College. ~ Anonymous

293:Every engineer, doctor, and farmer on this ship has relatives on the waiting list, too, and those relatives won’t be drug addicts. Mom’s right: no one would pick her from a waiting list. No one would’ve picked me, either. Usefulness or death can’t be her only options. If being picked from the waiting list isn’t feasible, then the one choice left is to smuggle her in. The back of my mind keeps whispering about the risk, about She’d only be a drain, but I shut it up. There’s a difference between leaving Mom and leaving Mom to die. “I’m glad you agree,” Iris says. “I know it’s not easy.” That’s what I hate. She’s right. It’s not. I still don’t want to break the rules, even if it’s to help Mom. But people on TV never abandon their family; they risk their own lives. That’s what you’re supposed to do. On TV, people just never feel this twisted about it. “Four this afternoon,” I say. “Let’s talk. ~ Corinne Duyvis

294:In Ukraine’s cities—Kharkiv, Kiev, Stalino, Dnipropetrovsk—hundreds of thousands of people waited each day for a simple loaf of bread. In Kharkiv, the republic’s capital, Jones saw a new sort of misery. People appeared at two o’clock in the morning to queue in front of shops that did not open until seven. On an average day forty thousand people would wait for bread. Those in line were so desperate to keep their places that they would cling to the belts of those immediately in front of them. Some were so weak from hunger that they could not stand without the ballast of strangers. The waiting lasted all day, and sometimes for two. Pregnant women and maimed war veterans had lost their right to buy out of turn, and had to wait in line with the rest if they wanted to eat. Somewhere in line a woman would wail, and the moaning would echo up and down the line, so that the whole group of thousands sounded like a single animal with an elemental fear. ~ Timothy Snyder

295:Before I left, I held my candle up, scanning that barren desk. Why would Shevraeth work there when he had what was rumored to be a fabulous suite of rooms in the Royal Wing--including at least one study? Because he could be alone, of course. Except for a certain snotty countess bounding in and starting quarrels. Sighing to myself, I retreated to my rooms to think out my strategy. I didn’t notice the waiting letter until I sank down on my pillows. I grabbed it, saw the familiar handwriting, and tore into the envelope eagerly. It was a long response to my letter, talking freely about all manner of things. Several times I laughed out loud. Other times I felt the impulse to go hunting books again, for he made easy reference to historical events and people he assumed I was familiar with. It was a relief that, though he knew I was ignorant, he did not think I was stupid. Despite my tiredness, I sat up most of the night happily penning my reply. ~ Sherwood Smith

296:Child marriage The Qur’an takes child marriage for granted in its directives about divorce. Discussing the waiting period required in order to determine if the woman is pregnant, it says: “If you are in doubt concerning those of your wives who have ceased menstruating, know that their waiting period shall be three months. The same shall apply to those who have not yet menstruated” (Qur’an 65:4, emphasis added). In other words, Allah is here envisioning a scenario in which a prepubescent woman is not only married, but is being divorced by her husband. One reason why such a verse might have been “revealed” to Muhammad is that he himself had a child bride: The Prophet “married ‘Aisha when she was a girl of six years of age, and he consummated that marriage when she was nine years old.”10 Child marriages were common in seventh-century Arabia—and here again the Qur’an has taken a practice that should have been abandoned long ago and given it the sanction of divine revelation. ~ Robert Spencer

297:I remained with Lark in the hospital room until Aaron arrived out of breath from running. “My muse,” he said, taking her hand. Leaving them alone to prepare for the surgery, I walked into the waiting room. Cooper patted the chair next to him and I joined him. “She’ll be okay,” he said, sounding convincing. I didn’t feel like talking, so I texted Dylan, Harlow, Mom, and Dad to let them know what was happening. Cooper spoke quietly on the phone with Farah who was on her way with Tawny. First, Dick and Maryann arrived then Raven not long afterwards with Bailey. “We were shopping when you called,” Bailey announced as Raven hurried to Lark’s room. Joining her brother, Bailey tapped her foot and stared at the door. “How long will it take?” “Patience,” Cooper muttered then returned to talking with Farah. Bailey changed seats, so she was next to me. “Don’t be scared. Pixies are powerful creatures.” Smiling softly, I took Bailey’s hand and waited. ~ Bijou Hunter

298:The world is like a waiting room in a railway station; it is not your house. You are not going to remain in the waiting room forever. Nothing in the waiting room belongs to you – the furniture, the paintings on the wall .... You use them – you see the painting, you sit on the chair, you rest on the bed – but nothing belongs to you. You are just here for a few ...minutes, or for a few hours at the most, then you will be gone. Yes, what you have brought in with you, into the waiting room, you will take away with you; that’s yours. What have you brought into the world? And the world certainly is a waiting room. The waiting may not be in seconds, minutes, hours, days, it may be in years; but what does it matter whether you wait seven hours, or seventy years? You may forget, in seventy years, that you are just in a waiting room. You may star t thinking perhaps you are the owner, perhaps this is the house you have built. You may start putting your nameplate on the waiting room. ~ Osho

299:The Waiting Head If I really am walking with ordinary habit past the same rest home on the same local street and see another waiting head at that upper front window, just as she would always sit, watching for anyone from her wooden seat, then anything can be true. I only know how each night she wrote in her leather books that no one came. Surely I remember the hooks of her fingers curled on mine, though even now will not admit the times I did avoid this street, where she lived on and on like a bleached fig and forgot us anyhow; visiting the pulp of her kiss, bending to repeat each favor, trying to comb out her mossy wig and forcing love to last. Now she is always dead and the leather books are mine. Today I see the head move, like some pitted angel, in that high window. What is the waiting head doing? It looks the same. Will it lean forward as I turn to go? I think I hear it call to me below but no one came no one came ~ Anne Sexton

300:The Waiting Head If I really am walking with ordinary habit past the same rest home on the same local street and see another waiting head at that upper front window, just as she would always sit, watching for anyone from her wooden seat, then anything can be true. I only know how each night she wrote in her leather books that no one came. Surely I remember the hooks of her fingers curled on mine, though even now will not admit the times I did avoid this street, where she lived on and on like a bleached fig and forgot us anyhow; visiting the pulp of her kiss, bending to repeat each favor, trying to comb out her mossy wig and forcing love to last. Now she is always dead and the leather books are mine. Today I see the head move, like some pitted angel, in that high window. What is the waiting head doing? It looks the same. Will it lean forward as I turn to go? I think I hear it call to me below but no one came no one came ~ Anne Sexton

301:C’mon,” said Harry, and he led Hermione and Mrs. Cattermole to the door. When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon there were cries of shock from the people waiting outside. Harry looked around; the dementors were falling back on both sides of them, melding into the darkness, scattering before the silver creatures. “It’s been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families,” Harry told the waiting Muggle-borns, who were dazzled by the light of the Patronuses and still cowering slightly. “Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That’s the--er--new official position. Now, if you’ll just follow the Patronuses, you’ll be able to leave from the Atrium.” They managed to get up the stone steps without being intercepted, but as they approached the lifts Harry started to have misgivings. If they emerged into the Atrium with a silver stag, an otter soaring alongside it, and twenty or so people, half of them accused Muggle-borns, he could not help feeling that they would attract unwanted attention. ~ J K Rowling

302:Marrying young—very young The Koran takes child marriage for granted in its directives about divorce. Discussing the waiting period required in order to determine if a woman is pregnant, it says, “If you are in doubt concerning those of your wives who have ceased menstruating, know that their waiting period shall be three months. The same shall apply to those who have not yet menstruated” (65:4, emphasis added). Allah thus gives instructions for a situation in which a pre-pubescent woman is not only married, but is being divorced by her husband. Such a verse might have made its way into the Koran because of the notorious fact that Muhammad himself had a child bride. According to Sahih Bukhari, the hadith collection that Muslims consider most reliable, “The Prophet married her when she was six years old and he consummated his marriage when she was nine years old, and then she remained with him for nine years (i.e., till his death).” Another tradition recalls that at the age of nine, she was playing on a swing with some of her friends when Muhammad came for her.20 ~ Robert Spencer

303:Discredited Three million women without mates In lonely homes on earth! And Cupid sighs at heaven's gates, Where many a spirit ego waits Its call again to birth. Three million women, meant to be The mothers of the race! But when war reaps on land and sea Its harvests for Eternity, Poor Hymen hides his face. I think Earth has discredited Itself in God's good sight: He does not care to have souls bred, Where peace, and love, and joy are fled, Until we set things right. He meant earth for a Garden Spot Where spirits could return, And build new heavens as they ought; And now behold! what men have wrought By deeds that blight and burn. So, vain the waiting egos quest For pathways back to birth: And vain the longing and unrest In many a cheated mother breast. God does not like the earth! It must be cleansed and purified Of selfishness and strife, Of grasping greed and lust and pride, Before He lets His Angels guide 220 The egos back to life. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

304:Discredited Three million women without mates In lonely homes on earth! And Cupid sighs at heaven's gates, Where many a spirit ego waits Its call again to birth. Three million women, meant to be The mothers of the race! But when war reaps on land and sea Its harvests for Eternity, Poor Hymen hides his face. I think Earth has discredited Itself in God's good sight: He does not care to have souls bred, Where peace, and love, and joy are fled, Until we set things right. He meant earth for a Garden Spot Where spirits could return, And build new heavens as they ought; And now behold! what men have wrought By deeds that blight and burn. So, vain the waiting egos quest For pathways back to birth: And vain the longing and unrest In many a cheated mother breast. God does not like the earth! It must be cleansed and purified Of selfishness and strife, Of grasping greed and lust and pride, Before He lets His Angels guide 220 The egos back to life. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

305:These struggles with the natural character, the strong native bent of the heart, may seem futile and fruitless, but in the end they do good. They tend, however slightly, to give the actions, the conduct, that turn which Reason approves, and which Feeling, perhaps too often opposes: they certainly make a difference in the general tenor of a life, and enable it to be better regulated, more equable, quieter on the surface; and it is on the surface only the common gaze will fall. As to what lies below, leave that with God. Man, your equal, weak as you, and not fit to be your judge, may be shut out thence: take it to your Maker--show Him the secrets of the spirit He gave--ask Him how you are to bear the pains He has appointed--kneel in His presence, and pray with faith for light in darkness, for strength in piteous weakness, for patience in extreme need. Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not at your hour, the waiting hours will stir; in some shape, though perhaps not the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald will descend. ~ Charlotte Bront

306:North Infinity Street The alarm clocks tick in a thousand furnished rooms, tick and are wound for a thousand separate dooms; all down both sides of North Infinity Street you hear that contrapuntal pawnshop beat. Hall bedrooms, attic rooms, where the gas-ring sings, rooms in the basement where the loud doorbell rings; carpeted or bare, by the rail at the head of the stair, the curtains drawn, a mirror, a bed, and a chair, in midnight darkness, when the last footfall creaks, in northeast rain, when the broken window leaks, at dawn, to the sound of dishes, the kitchen steam, at dusk, when the muted radio croons a dream, there, amid combs and the waiting shoes and socks, and the bathrobes hung in closets, tick the clocks: on the chest of drawers, on the table beside the bed, facing the pillow, facing the recumbent head: yes, from here to forever, from here to never, one long sidereal curve of ticking fever, all down both sides of North Infinity Street you hear that contrapuntal pawnshop beat. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken

307:I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre, The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness, And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away-- Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about; Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing-- I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. ~ T S Eliot

308:North Infinity Street The alarm clocks tick in a thousand furnished rooms, tick and are wound for a thousand separate dooms; all down both sides of North Infinity Street you hear that contrapuntal pawnshop beat. Hall bedrooms, attic rooms, where the gas-ring sings, rooms in the basement where the loud doorbell rings; carpeted or bare, by the rail at the head of the stair, the curtains drawn, a mirror, a bed, and a chair, in midnight darkness, when the last footfall creaks, in northeast rain, when the broken window leaks, at dawn, to the sound of dishes, the kitchen steam, at dusk, when the muted radio croons a dream, there, amid combs and the waiting shoes and socks, and the bathrobes hung in closets, tick the clocks: on the chest of drawers, on the table beside the bed, facing the pillow, facing the recumbent head: yes, from here to forever, from here to never, one long sidereal curve of ticking fever, all down both sides of North Infinity Street you hear that contrapuntal pawnshop beat. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken

309:Mrs. Nightwing glances at the box in my hands. She clears her throat."I understand you've decided against Mr. Middleton."... It's best to be sure, through and through," she says, keeping her eyes steadfastly on the girls running and playing on the lawn. "Else you could find yourself one day coming home to an empty house, save for a note: I've gone out. You could wait all night for him to return. Nights turn into weeks, to years. It's horrible, the waiting. You can scarcely bear it. And perhaps years later on holiday in Brighton, you see him, walking along the boardwalk as if out of some dream. No longer lost. Your heartbeat quickens. You must call out to him. Someone else calls first. A pretty young woman with a child. He stops and bends to lift the child into his arms. His child. He gives a furtive kiss to his young wife. He hands her a box of candy, which you know to be Chollier's chocolates. He and his family stroll on. Something in you falls away. You will never be as you were. What is left to you is the chance to become something new and unsure. But at least the waiting is over. ~ Libba Bray

310:When you travel you become invisible if you want. I do want. I like to be the observer. What makes these people who they are Could I feel at home here No one expects you to have the stack of papers back by Tuesday or to check messages or to fertilize the geraniums or to sit full of dread in the waiting room at the protologist’s office. When travelling you have the delectable possibility of not understanding a word of what is said to you. Language becomes simply a musical background for watching bicycles zoom along a canal calling for nothing from you. Even better if you speak the language you catch nuances and make more contact with people. Travel releases spontaneity. You become a godlike creature full of choice free to visit the stately pleasure domes make love in the morning sketch a bell tower read a history of Byzantium stare for one hour at the face of Leonardo da Vinci’s Madonna dei fusi. You open as in childhood and – for a time – receive this world. There’s the visceral aspect too – the huntress who is free. Free to go Free to return home bringing memories to lay on the hearth. ~ Frances Mayes

311:Gretna Green Last night when I kissed you, My soul caught alight; And oh! how I missed you The rest of the night Till Love in derision Smote sleep with his wings, And gave me in vision Impossible things. A night that was clouded, Long windows asleep; Dark avenues crowded With secrets to keep. A terrace, a lover, A foot on the stair; The waiting was over, The lady was there. What a flight, what a night! The hoofs splashed and pounded. Dark fainted in light And the first bird-notes sounded. You slept on my shoulder, Shy night hid your face; But dawn, bolder, colder, Beheld our embrace. Your lips of vermilion, Your ravishing shape, The flogging postillion, The village agape, The rattle and thunder Of postchaise a-speed . . . My woman, my wonder, My ultimate need! We two matched for mating Came, handclasped, at last, Where the blacksmith was waiting 131 To fetter us fast . . . At the touch of the fetter The dream snapped and fell And I woke to your letter That bade me farewell. ~ Edith Nesbit

312:Gretna Green Last night when I kissed you, My soul caught alight; And oh! how I missed you The rest of the night Till Love in derision Smote sleep with his wings, And gave me in vision Impossible things. A night that was clouded, Long windows asleep; Dark avenues crowded With secrets to keep. A terrace, a lover, A foot on the stair; The waiting was over, The lady was there. What a flight, what a night! The hoofs splashed and pounded. Dark fainted in light And the first bird-notes sounded. You slept on my shoulder, Shy night hid your face; But dawn, bolder, colder, Beheld our embrace. Your lips of vermilion, Your ravishing shape, The flogging postillion, The village agape, The rattle and thunder Of postchaise a-speed . . . My woman, my wonder, My ultimate need! We two matched for mating Came, handclasped, at last, Where the blacksmith was waiting 131 To fetter us fast . . . At the touch of the fetter The dream snapped and fell And I woke to your letter That bade me farewell. ~ Edith Nesbit

313:What are you doing?” I tried to pull away, but his hand slipped from my hair to cup the nape of my neck. When he whispered, his warm breath brushed over my lips. “Just let me kiss you, Calla. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to. No one has to know.” My lips parted as I drew a sudden, startled breath and in that instant his mouth was on mine, soft as velvet. I closed my eyes against the rush of a hundred wings that suddenly beat in my chest and soared through my body. His scent was all around me. Leather, sandalwood, bonfires in autumn. He pulled back, but only for the sake of moving his lips to trail over my neck. My blood was on fire and I was shaking. Is this really happening? I couldn’t stop thinking about Shay in the clearing. About asking him to kiss me. The electric touch of his lips on mine. But this is where I belong. I tried to push the memories back. Ren stroked my knee, his fingers wandering up my thigh, sliding beneath the hem of my dress. I grabbed his wrist. “Wait.” He didn’t free his arm from my grasp but continued kissing my collar bone. “Let’s skip the waiting part,” he murmured into my skin. ~ Andrea Cremer

314:The name has always occupied a space between the concrete and the abstract, the individual and the social, but when it begins to be shaped and charged with meaning in places removed from the physical world, in that way entertaining the world of fiction, albeit unseen by the majority, at the same time as this fictional world is expanding and taking up an ever greater part of our lives - the TV screens are now not only in our own rooms, but also on the walls of our trains and under the luggage bins of our planes, in the waiting rooms of our doctors' offices and the halls of our banks, even in the supermarkets, quite apart from our carrying them around in the form of laptop computers and cell phones, in such a way that we inhabit two realities, one abstract and image-based, in which all kinds of people and places present themselves before us with nothing in common but being somewhere other than where we are, and one concrete, physical, which is the one we move around in and are more palpably a part of - when we arrive at a point where everything is either fiction or seen as fiction, the job of the novelist can no longer be to write more fiction. ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd

315:They all looked up sharply as the door to the back opened. Blue and Maura stepped into the waiting room as a nurse began to shuffle behind the counter. All attention immediately shifted to Blue. She had two visible stiches in her right eyebrow, pinning together the cleaned-up edges of a gouge that continued down her cheek. Faint scratches on either side of the deepest wound told the story of fingers clawing into her skin. Her right eye was squinted mostly shut, but at least it was still there. Adam could tell that she was hurting. He knew he cared about her because his stomach was tingling uncomfortably just looking at her wound, the suggestion of violence scratching through him like fingers on a chalkboard. Noah had done that. Adam curled his own hand into a fist, remembering what it had felt like for it to move on its own accord. Gansey was right: Any of them could have died tonight. It was time to stop playing around. For a strange second, none of them spoke. Finally, Ronan said, “Jesus God, Sargent. Do you have stitches on your face? Bad. Ass. Put it here, you asshole.” With some relief, Blue lifted her fist and bumped it against his. ~ Maggie Stiefvater

316:As we strolled into the hospital, I couldn’t help thinking about Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe” because I was having a difficult time staying calm. I had been kidnapped and beaten senseless by an agent of Lucifer, and yet the white coats the doctors wore scared me just as badly. The men who had taken me from my mother wore those same damned lab coats. Every time I saw one, it awakened a dormant fear inside me—fear that I’d be dragged away from someone I loved again, fear that I’d be placed into the waiting hands of another horrible person. It would never truly go away. Michael’s shoulder bumped mine, which shook me out of my thoughts. I glanced at him. “What?” “You’re frowning.” “Am I supposed to be smiling right now?” He faced forward, looking at our reflection in the elevator doors. “No, but you look like you’re about to bolt at any second.” I watched the digital numbers change one by one as we rose up to the right floor, fiddling with the rosary in the pocket of my leather jacket. Somehow, the beads had a calming effect on me. “I’m fine.” “Hard ass.” A tiny smirk touched my lips. “Stop thinking about my butt. You’re an archangel.” He grinned, but didn’t reply. ~ Kyoko M

317:Tis true I haven’t seen much of anyone these mornings, but I’ve been locked up studying for a special project. But I’m nearly done, and so I find myself free.” Then Trishe had her opportunity to come forward and request that I join them, which I professed myself honored to do, and the awkward moment passed. I urged my mount in on the other side of Trishe’s and, in the friendliest voice I could assume, told her how they would all know about my secret project very soon. I didn’t actually look at little red-haired Lady Arasa Elbanek or her skinny, long-nosed brother, but I could sense them both listening avidly. This meant, I thought happily as I dropped back to ride next to Nee, that my confidential conversation with Trishe would be all over Athanarel before the bells for green-change rang. So I congratulated myself on a fine, subtle social save--until we reached Trishe’s picnic site. In the chaos of dismounting and tendering the horses to the waiting servants, I happened to catch Shevraeth’s gaze. Those gray eyes, always so accursedly observant, were now narrowed with humor, but his mouth was mock-solemn as he said, “I have the honor to introduce to you Lady Elenet Kheraev of Grumareth. ~ Sherwood Smith

318:It’s an heirloom, isn’t it?” ... “I got it from my father.” The tutor ran his hand along the sheathed blade. “This is a remarkable weapon—a knight’s sword—tarnished with time and travel. You don’t use it as often as the others. The bastard and short sword are tools to you, but this—ah—this is something else—something revered. It lays concealed in a paltry sheath, covered in clothes not its own. It doesn’t belong there. This sword belongs to another time and place. It is part of a grand and glorious world where knights were different, loftier—virtuous. It rests in this false scabbard because the proper one has been lost, or perhaps, it waits for a quest yet to be finished. It longs for that single moment when it can shine forth in all its brilliance. When dream and destiny meet on a clear field, then and only then will it find its purpose. When it faces that honorable cause—that one worthy and desperate challenge for which it was forged and on which so much depends—it will find peace in the crucible of struggle. For good or ill, it will ring true or break. But the wandering, the waiting, the hiding will at last be over. This sword waits for the day when it can save the kingdom and win the lady. ~ Michael J Sullivan

319:September 6 “Wait on the LORD: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the LORD.” Psalm 27:14 WAIT! Wait! Let your waiting be on the Lord! He is worth waiting for. He never disappoints the waiting soul. While waiting keep up your spirits. Expect a great deliverance, and be ready to praise God for it. The promise which should cheer you is in the middle of the verse: “He shall strengthen thine heart.” This goes at once to the place where you need help. If the heart be sound, all the rest of the system will work well. The heart wants calming and cheering; and both of these will come if it be strengthened. A forceful heart rests and rejoices, and throbs force into the whole man. No one else can get at that secret urn of life, the heart, so as to pour strength into it. He alone who made it can make it strong. God is full of strength, and, therefore, he can impart it to those who need it. Oh, be brave; for the Lord will impart his strength to you, and you shall be calm in tempest, and glad in sorrow. He who penned these lines can write as David did: “Wait, I say, on the Lord.” I do, indeed, say it. I know by long and deep experience that it is good for me to wait upon the Lord. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

320:The old man was packing his bags as fast as he could. Other people had done this for him for decades, so he was out of practice. As the “dragonhead,” or boss of the 14-K Triad, he had thousands of enforcers, dealers, and politicians who followed his orders, but none of them could help him tonight. Word had been sent to all of the triad leadership in Hong Kong that they would have to cooperate with the new “regime” or face the consequences. The other dragonheads laughed at the ultimatum. There were always people trying to play games with the Triads. Any future leader of the country knew that he could not succeed without dealing with them. Chiang Kai Shek co-opted them; Mao Zedong suppressed them. The old man didn’t worry until he heard about the disappearance of the head of the Wo Shing Wo Triad. Two nights ago, the Wo Shing Wo “dragonhead” and his entire family simply disappeared. The next night, the head of another Triad, the San Yee On, fled the territory as fast as he could. Now he would do the same. He finished stuffing his bag and headed down to the waiting cars. He was in such a hurry that his mistress and his wife might have to be put in the same car. They would hate it, but he didn’t care. This was no time to worry about proprieties. ~ Barry Sierer

321:Fitter To See Him, I May Be 968 Fitter to see Him, I may be For the long Hindrance—Grace—to Me— With Summers, and with Winters, grow, Some passing Year—A trait bestow To make Me fairest of the Earth— The Waiting—then—will seem so worth I shall impute with half a pain The blame that I was chosen—then— Time to anticipate His Gaze— It's first—Delight—and then—Surprise— The turning o'er and o'er my face For Evidence it be the Grace— He left behind One Day—So less He seek Conviction, That—be This— I only must not grow so new That He'll mistake—and ask for me Of me—when first unto the Door I go—to Elsewhere go no more— I only must not change so fair He'll sigh—"The Other—She—is Where?" The Love, tho', will array me right I shall be perfect—in His sight— If He perceive the other Truth— Upon an Excellenter Youth— How sweet I shall not lack in Vain— But gain—thro' loss—Through Grief—obtain— The Beauty that reward Him best— The Beauty of Demand—at Rest— 291 ~ Emily Dickinson

322:Fitter To See Him, I May Be 968 Fitter to see Him, I may be For the long Hindrance—Grace—to Me— With Summers, and with Winters, grow, Some passing Year—A trait bestow To make Me fairest of the Earth— The Waiting—then—will seem so worth I shall impute with half a pain The blame that I was chosen—then— Time to anticipate His Gaze— It's first—Delight—and then—Surprise— The turning o'er and o'er my face For Evidence it be the Grace— He left behind One Day—So less He seek Conviction, That—be This— I only must not grow so new That He'll mistake—and ask for me Of me—when first unto the Door I go—to Elsewhere go no more— I only must not change so fair He'll sigh—"The Other—She—is Where?" The Love, tho', will array me right I shall be perfect—in His sight— If He perceive the other Truth— Upon an Excellenter Youth— How sweet I shall not lack in Vain— But gain—thro' loss—Through Grief—obtain— The Beauty that reward Him best— The Beauty of Demand—at Rest— 291 ~ Emily Dickinson

323:End Of Fantasy This body won't start again. Touching his eye sockets one feels a heap of earth is more alive, that the earth, even at dawn, does not keep itself so quiet. But a corpse is the remains of too many awakenings. We only have this power: to start each day of life—before the earth, under a silent sky—waiting for an awakening. One is amazed by so much drudgery at dawn; through awakening within awakening a job is done. But we live only to shudder at the labor ahead and to awaken the earth one time. It happens at times. Then it quiets down along with us. If touching that face the hand would not shake— if the live hand would feel alive touching it— if it's true that that cold is only the cold of the earth, frozen at dawn, perhaps it'd be an awakening, and things that keep quiet under the dawn, would speak up again. But my hand trembles, and of all things resembles a hand that doesn't move. At other times waking up at dawn was a dry pain, a tear of light, even a deliverance. The stingy word of the earth was cheerful, for a brief moment, and to die was to go back there again. Now, the waiting body is what remains of too many awakenings and doesn't return to the earth. They don't even say it, the hardened lips. ~ Cesare Pavese

324:End Of Fantasy This body won't start again. Touching his eye sockets one feels a heap of earth is more alive, that the earth, even at dawn, does not keep itself so quiet. But a corpse is the remains of too many awakenings. We only have this power: to start each day of life—before the earth, under a silent sky—waiting for an awakening. One is amazed by so much drudgery at dawn; through awakening within awakening a job is done. But we live only to shudder at the labor ahead and to awaken the earth one time. It happens at times. Then it quiets down along with us. If touching that face the hand would not shake— if the live hand would feel alive touching it— if it's true that that cold is only the cold of the earth, frozen at dawn, perhaps it'd be an awakening, and things that keep quiet under the dawn, would speak up again. But my hand trembles, and of all things resembles a hand that doesn't move. At other times waking up at dawn was a dry pain, a tear of light, even a deliverance. The stingy word of the earth was cheerful, for a brief moment, and to die was to go back there again. Now, the waiting body is what remains of too many awakenings and doesn't return to the earth. They don't even say it, the hardened lips. ~ Cesare Pavese

325:Come here, Amanda." His voice was a low scrape of sound. "Oh, I can't," she said unsteadily. "I-I think you should go now." Jack leaned forward and caught her wrist gently in his fingers. "I won't hurt you," he whispered. "I won't do anything that you don't like. But before I leave you this evening, I'm going to hold you in my arms." Confusion and desire swirled inside her, making her feel unanchored, helpless. She let him pull her forward until her short limbs rested stiffly against his much longer ones. He ran a large palm down her back, and she could feel a trail of sensation in its wake. His skin was hot, as if a fire burned right beneath the smooth golden surface. Her breath shortened, and she closed her eyes, shivering, luxuriating in the feeling of being warm all the way down to her bones. For the first time in her life, she let her head fall into the waiting crook of a man's arm, and stared up at his shadowed face. As he felt the trembling of her limbs, he made a crooning sound and cuddled her closer. "Don't be afraid, mhuirnin. I won't hurt you." "What did you call me?" she asked in bewilderment. He smiled down at her. "A small endearment. Did I neglect to mention that I'm half Irish?" That explained his accent, the neat cultured tones tempered with a sort of musical softness that must be Celtic in origin. ~ Lisa Kleypas

326:August 21st DON’T BE MISERABLE IN ADVANCE “It’s ruinous for the soul to be anxious about the future and miserable in advance of misery, engulfed by anxiety that the things it desires might remain its own until the very end. For such a soul will never be at rest—by longing for things to come it will lose the ability to enjoy present things.” —SENECA, MORAL LETTERS, 98.5b–6a The way we nervously worry about some looming bad news is strange if you think about it. By definition, the waiting means it hasn’t happened yet, so that feeling bad in advance is totally voluntary. But that’s what we do: chewing our nails, feeling sick to our stomachs, rudely brushing aside the people around us. Why? Because something bad might occur soon. The pragmatist, the person of action, is too busy to waste time on such silliness. The pragmatist can’t worry about every possible outcome in advance. Think about it. Best case scenario—if the news turns out to be better than expected, all this time was wasted with needless fear. Worst case scenario—we were miserable for extra time, by choice. And what better use could you make of that time? A day that could be your last—you want to spend it in worry? In what other area could you make some progress while others might be sitting on the edges of their seat, passively awaiting some fate? Let the news come when it does. Be too busy working to care. ~ Ryan Holiday

327:Let me sleep," he said, and shut the door; it clicked in her face and she felt animal terror - this was what she feared most in life: the clicking shut of a man's door in her face. Instantly, she raised her hand to knock, discovered the rock... she banged on the door with the rock, but not loudly, just enough to let him know how desperate she was to get back in, but not enough to bother him if he didn't want to answer. He didn't. No sound, no movement of the door. Nothing but the void. "Tony?" she gasped, pressing her ear to the door. Silence. "Okay," she said numbly; clutching her rock she walked unsteadily across the porch toward her own living quarters. The rock vanished. Her hand felt nothing. "Damn," she said, not knowing how to react. Where had it gone? Into air. But then it must have been an illusion, she realized. He put me in a hypnotic state and made me believe. I should have known it wasn't really true. A million stars burst into wheels of light, blistering, cold light, that drenched her. It came from behind and she felt the great weight of it crash into her. "Tony," she said, and fell into the waiting void. She thought nothing; she felt nothing. She saw only, saw the void as it absorbed her, waiting below and beneath her as she plummeted down the many miles. On her hands and knees she died. Alone on the porch. Still clutching for what did not exist. ~ Philip K Dick

328:She slides between these walls one foot, two feet, a hand and two this is the space in which she lives breathes, empties all that she is   she knows, where the eye seeks to spy through circles drilled into the walls the hidden, they watch, scratching idly starving for love, the thing she lost   the ones she forgot were left behind they hide now like ghosts in the leaves rustling they leap upon the breeze echoes of the past haunting mirrors   the scribe knows, he laughs sometimes knowing all the things he does it only makes him fail, too self-absorbed to comprehend what she really is   the ghosts they circle inside these walls pushing their fingers through the paper seeking to caress the curls of her hair twisting, she knows they linger   inside, watching where the beetle runs trailing all his miniscule unlived lives between the pages of a book unseen she lived it, breathed it, all that ripples   thus she dances here alone, casting rainbow dust upon the bleakest grey the steel that rusts in crusts of red rosebud offerings to the elements   laughter so raw covers an ache so deep like a monster it yearns to spring inside, where the waiting ends inside, where the spiral grows   there’s a twist in the passage that eels a malevolent darkness screams opening the chasm that yawns awake stealing tomorrow for its own sake   it twists, but nothing can touch her, lost as she is in the echoes of her past ~ Vickie Johnstone

329:How long will it take to get to Venice?" she asked. "It shouldn't be too much longer," Daniel almost whispered into her ear. "You sound like a pilot who's been in a holding pattern for an hour, telling his passengers 'just another ten minutes' for the fifth time," Luce teased. When Daniel didn't respond, she looked up at him. He was frowning in confusion. The metaphor was lost on him. "You've never been on a plane," she said. "Why should you when you can do this?" She gestured at his gorgeous beating wings. "All the waiting and taxiing would probably drive you crazy." "I'd like to go on a plane with you. Maybe we'll take a trip to the Bahamas. People fly there, right?" "Yes." Luce swallowed. "Let's." She couldn't help thinking how many impossible things had to happen in precisely the right way for the two of them to be able to travel like a normal couple. It was too hard to think about the future right now, when so much was at stake. The future was as blurry and distant as the ground below-and Luce hoped it would be as beautiful. "How long will it really take?" "Four, maybe five hours at this speed." "But won't you need to rest? Refuel?" Luce shrugged, still embarrassingly unsure of how Daniel's body worked. "Won't your arms get tired?" He chuckled. "What?" "I just flew in from Heaven, and boy, are my arms tired." Daniel squeezed her waist, teasing. "The idea of my arms ever tiring of holding you is absurd. ~ Lauren Kate

330:The thin woman in the green sari stood on the slippery rocks and gazed at the dark waters around her. The warm wind loosened strands of her scanty hair, pulling them out of her bun. Behind her, the sounds of the city were muted, shushed into silence by the steady lapping of the water around her bare feet. Other than the crabs that she heard and felt scuttling around the rocks, she was all alone here—alone with the murmuring sea and the distant moon, stretched thin as a smile in the nighttime sky. Even her hands were empty, now that she had unclenched them and released her helium-filled cargo, watching until the last of the balloons had been swallowed up by the darkness of the Bombay night. Her hands were empty now, as empty as her heart, which itself was a coconut shell with its meat scooped out. Balancing gingerly on the rocks, feeling the rising water tonguing her feet, the woman raised her face to the inky sky for an answer. Behind her was the lost city and a life that at this very moment felt fictitious and unreal. Ahead of her was the barely visible seam where the sea met the sky. She could scramble over these rocks, climb over the cement wall, and reenter the world; partake again of the mad, throbbing, erratic pulse of the city. Or she could walk into the waiting sea, let it seduce her, overwhelm her with its intimate whisperings. She looked to the sky again, searching for an answer. But the only thing she could hear was the habitual beating of her own dutiful heart… ~ Thrity Umrigar

331:Mexican Loneliness" And I am an unhappy stranger grooking in the streets of Mexico- My friends have died on me, my lovers disappeared, my whores banned, my bed rocked and heaved by earthquake - and no holy weed to get high by candlelight and dream - only fumes of buses, dust storms, and maids peeking at me thru a hole in the door secretly drilled to watch masturbators fuck pillows - I am the Gargoyle of Our Lady dreaming in space gray mist dreams -- My face is pointed towards Napoleon ------ I have no form ------ My address book is full of RIP's I have no value in the void, at home without honor, - My only friend is an old fag without a typewriter Who, if he's my friend, I'll be buggered. I have some mayonnaise left, a whole unwanted bottle of oil, peasants washing my sky light, a nut clearing his throat in the bathroom next to mine a hundred times a day sharing my common ceiling - If I get drunk I get thirsty - if I walk my foot breaks down - if I smile my mask's a farce - if I cry I'm just a child - - if I remember I'm a liar - if I write the writing's done - - if I die the dying's over - - if I live the dying's just begun - - if I wait the waiting's longer - if I go the going's gone if I sleep the bliss is heavy the bliss is heavy on my lids - if I go to cheap movies the bedbugs get me - Expensive movies I can't afford - if I do nothing nothing does ~ Jack Kerouac

332:The painting did not exist until I made it,' Karabekian went on. 'Now that it does exist, nothing would make me happier than to have it reproduced again and again, and vastly improved upon, by all the five-year-olds in town. I would love for your children to find pleasantly and playfully what it took me many angry years to find. 'I now give you my world of honor,' he went on, 'that the picture your city owns shows everything about life which truly matters, with nothing left out. It is a picture of the awareness of every animal. It is the immaterial core of every animal - the 'I am' to which all messages are sent. It is all that is alive in any of us - in a mouse, in a deer, in a cocktail waitress. It is unwavering and pure, no matter what preposterous adventure may befall us. A sacred picture of Saint Anthony alone is one vertical, unwavering band of light. If a cockroach were near him, or a cocktail waitress, the picture would show two such bands of light. Our awareness is all that is alive and maybe sacred in any of us. Everything else about us is dead machinery. 'I have just heard from this cocktail waitress here, this vertical band of light, a story about her husband and an idiot who was about to be executed at Sheperdstown. Very well - let a five-year-old strip away the idiocy, the bars, the waiting electric chair, the uniform of the guard, the gun of the guard, the bones and meat of the guard. What is that perfect picture which any five-year-old can paint? Two unwavering bands of light. ~ Kurt Vonnegut

333:Yes, we were good at using the grapevine. But what we were best at, what we were really the kings of, that was buses and sitting around in bedrooms. No one could beat us at that. None of this led anywhere. Well, we probably weren’t very good at doing things that led somewhere. We didn’t have particularly good conversations, no one could say we did, the few topics we had developed so slowly we ourselves assumed they had nowhere to go; not one of us was a brilliant guitarist, although that is what we would have loved to be, more than anything else, and as far as girls were concerned, it was rare we came across one who wouldn’t object if we pulled up her jumper so that we could lower our heads and kiss her nipples. These were great moments. They were luminous shafts of grace in our world of yellowing grass, grey muddy ditches and dusty country roads. Yes, that was how it was for me. I assumed it was the same for him. What was this all about? Why did we live like this? Were we waiting for something? In which case, how did we manage to be so patient? For nothing ever happened! Nothing happened! It was always the same. Day in, day out! Wind and rain, sleet and snow, sun and storm, we did the same. We heard something on the grapevine, went there, came back, sat in his bedroom, heard something else, went by bus, bike, on foot, sat in someone’s bedroom. In the summer we went swimming. That was it. What was it all about? We were friends, there was no more than that. And the waiting, that was life. ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd

334:The watcher’s eyes are likely to swivel forward in a sequence of stately turns as the screen’s pixel glows: each quarter-ounce mass of eyeball tugged by six flat muscles, in a glissando slide within the slippery fat lining the orbital cavity. The eye blinks, the widened pupils are in position, and the incoming electromagnetic waves roar in. Ripping through the thin layer of the cornea, they decelerate slightly, with their outermost edges forming a nearly flat plane as they travel inward, carrying the as-yet-undetected signal from the screen deep into the waiting human. The waves continue through the liquid of the aqueous humor and on to the gaping hole of the pupil. The human may have squinted to avoid the glare, but human reflexes work at the rate of slow thousandths of a second and are no match for these racing intruders. The pupil is crossed without obstruction. The stiff lens just below focuses the incoming waves even more, sending them into the inland sea of the jellylike vitreous humor deeper down in the eye. A very few of the incoming electric waves explode against the organic molecules in their way, but most simply whirl through those soft biological barriers and continue straight down, piercing the innermost wrapping of the eyeball, till they reach the end-point of their journey: the fragile, stalklike projection from the living brain known as the retina. And deep inside there, in the dark, barely slowed from their original 670 million mph, the waves splatter into the ancient, moist blood vessels and cell membranes, and something unexpected happens. An electric current switches on. ~ David Bodanis

335:Sinfonia Eroica (To Sylvia.) My Love, my Love, it was a day in June, A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon; And all the eager people thronging came To that great hall, drawn by the magic name Of one, a high magician, who can raise The spirits of the past and future days, And draw the dreams from out the secret breast, Giving them life and shape. I, with the rest, Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound; And as my aimless glances wandered round, Far off, across the hush'd, expectant throng, I saw your face that fac'd mine. Clear and strong Rush'd forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream; Across the clust'ring heads mine eyes did seem By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet. Then you, the melody, the summer heat, Mingled in all my blood and made it wine. Straight I forgot the world's great woe and mine; My spirit's murky lead grew molten fire; Despair itself was rapture. Ever higher, Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain; Then sudden fell; then all was still again, And I sank back, quivering as one in pain. Brief was the pause; then, 'mid a hush profound, Slow on the waiting air swell'd forth a sound So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath; A measur'd, mystic melody of death. Then back you lean'd your head, and I could note The upward outline of your perfect throat; And ever, as the music smote the air, Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair. And in that wondrous moment seem'd to fade 67 My life's great woe, and grow an empty shade Which had not been, nor was not. And I knew Not which was sound, and which, O Love, was you. ~ Amy Levy

336:Sinfonia Eroica (To Sylvia.) My Love, my Love, it was a day in June, A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon; And all the eager people thronging came To that great hall, drawn by the magic name Of one, a high magician, who can raise The spirits of the past and future days, And draw the dreams from out the secret breast, Giving them life and shape. I, with the rest, Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound; And as my aimless glances wandered round, Far off, across the hush'd, expectant throng, I saw your face that fac'd mine. Clear and strong Rush'd forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream; Across the clust'ring heads mine eyes did seem By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet. Then you, the melody, the summer heat, Mingled in all my blood and made it wine. Straight I forgot the world's great woe and mine; My spirit's murky lead grew molten fire; Despair itself was rapture. Ever higher, Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain; Then sudden fell; then all was still again, And I sank back, quivering as one in pain. Brief was the pause; then, 'mid a hush profound, Slow on the waiting air swell'd forth a sound So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath; A measur'd, mystic melody of death. Then back you lean'd your head, and I could note The upward outline of your perfect throat; And ever, as the music smote the air, Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair. And in that wondrous moment seem'd to fade 67 My life's great woe, and grow an empty shade Which had not been, nor was not. And I knew Not which was sound, and which, O Love, was you. ~ Amy Levy

337:Advent Hymn Another mile—a year Pass'd by for ever! And the warnings swell From upper heaven to darkest depths of hell,— O we are drawing near! All through the waiting lands Dim signs and tokens, if unheeded, throng; We feel them thickening as we pass along, Holding out fearful hands. Light! which in love sent down That tender gleam on Eden's darken'd bowers, When sin had breathed the blight upon the flowers Whereof death made his crown:— Light! which did deign to stamp The tables on that Arab mountain-crest;— Light! which, in shrouded glory, once did rest On Israelitish camp:— O day! whose dawn was spread, Golden and clear, on Judaea's terraced hills,— O shining noon! whose waxèd beauty thrills Earth and her quick and dead:— Come to our hearts, we pray! Through open doors let gracious gleams come in; Fill us with light and life, and let the sin And darkness pass away. Lord, waken us who sleep, Strengthen the feeble knees and weak hands now; Teach us, with prayer and work, to measure how The stealthy minutes creep. Let not our lamp be dim When in the night we hear the footsteps fall Upon our threshold,—let death find us all Watching in peace for him. 40 Let us lie down to rest In surest hope of endless life in store, With happy reverent hands, that strive no more, Folded across our breast. And when the angels come, And the sharp echo of the herald's cry Pierces the dark and stillness where we lie Cold in our sleep, and dumb,— May we arise, O King! In bridal garments, beautiful and white; And do Thou, coming in Thy godly might, Our crown of glory bring. ~ Ada Cambridge

338:Advent Hymn Another mile—a year Pass'd by for ever! And the warnings swell From upper heaven to darkest depths of hell,— O we are drawing near! All through the waiting lands Dim signs and tokens, if unheeded, throng; We feel them thickening as we pass along, Holding out fearful hands. Light! which in love sent down That tender gleam on Eden's darken'd bowers, When sin had breathed the blight upon the flowers Whereof death made his crown:— Light! which did deign to stamp The tables on that Arab mountain-crest;— Light! which, in shrouded glory, once did rest On Israelitish camp:— O day! whose dawn was spread, Golden and clear, on Judaea's terraced hills,— O shining noon! whose waxèd beauty thrills Earth and her quick and dead:— Come to our hearts, we pray! Through open doors let gracious gleams come in; Fill us with light and life, and let the sin And darkness pass away. Lord, waken us who sleep, Strengthen the feeble knees and weak hands now; Teach us, with prayer and work, to measure how The stealthy minutes creep. Let not our lamp be dim When in the night we hear the footsteps fall Upon our threshold,—let death find us all Watching in peace for him. 40 Let us lie down to rest In surest hope of endless life in store, With happy reverent hands, that strive no more, Folded across our breast. And when the angels come, And the sharp echo of the herald's cry Pierces the dark and stillness where we lie Cold in our sleep, and dumb,— May we arise, O King! In bridal garments, beautiful and white; And do Thou, coming in Thy godly might, Our crown of glory bring. ~ Ada Cambridge

339:She traced the dragon’s body on his biceps where it transitioned into rope. “I just thought it would be more difficult. After all this time, the heartache, the waiting, the despairing and giving up, the pure pissed-offness of dealing with near misses…" She blew out a breath. “And there it is. With you, easy as breathing. ‘I’m in love with you.’ You said it and meant it. It changes the universe, but the way throwing a stone in a pond does. All those ripples. It's…amazing.” She frowned and cocked her head. “There should at least be dramatic music.” "I can retract it if you want. Brood for a while, play commitment paranoia games, alienate you so we break up, sort of, and then I chase you down before you make some monumental decision, like moving back to New York, or signing up for a three year stint in the merchant marines. Then we can have a big makeup scene.“ She pursed her lips. "Complete with dramatic music.” "Absolutely. If I could afford it, I’d hire John Williams to come up with the score.“ "You’d do all that for me?” "Hell, no.” He snorted, puffing a short, playful breath against her. “I’d tie you up and keep you in my basement until you contracted Stockholm syndrome and couldn’t breathe without me.“ She tipped her head back, sobering. "Sometimes, it feels like I can’t. Crazy, right?” He put his mouth on hers and took her air in the best kind of way, all while giving it back to her. at her, boyishly appealing, but then sobered. "We’re normal, extraordinary people,” he said. “It took us a while, but we always knew what it would look like when it happened. The simplicity of it is what makes it extraordinary. A tadpole gets legs and walks on land, and evolution begins. All in a simple blink, the whole world changes. ~ Joey W Hill

340:For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach In his tenth July some instinct taught him to arm the waiting wave, a giant where its mouth hung open. He rode on the lip that buoyed him there and buckled him under. The beach was strung with children paddling their ages in, under the glare od noon chipping its light out. He stood up, anonymous and straight among them, between their sand pails and nursery crafts. The breakers cartwheeled in and over to puddle their toes and test their perfect skin. He was my brother, my small Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped down upon a towel to grind the sand under us and watched the Atlantic sea move fire, like night sparklers; and lost our weight in the festival season. He dreamed, he said, to be a man designed like a balanced wave… how someday he would wait, giant and straight. Johnny, your dream moves summers inside my mind. He was tall and twenty that July, but there was no balance to help; only the shells came straight and even. This was the first beach of assault; the odor of death hung in the air like rotting potatoes, the junkyard of landing craft waited open and rusting. The bodies were strung out as if they were still reaching for each other, where they lay to blacken, to burst through their perfect skin. And Johnny Pole was one of them. He gave in like a small wave, a sudden hole in his belly and the years all gone where the Pacific noon chipped its light out. Like a bean bag, outflung, head loose 82 and anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move fire for its battle season? Does he lie there forever, where his rifle waits, giant and straight?…I think you die again and live again, Johnny, each summer that moves inside my mind. ~ Anne Sexton

341:For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach In his tenth July some instinct taught him to arm the waiting wave, a giant where its mouth hung open. He rode on the lip that buoyed him there and buckled him under. The beach was strung with children paddling their ages in, under the glare od noon chipping its light out. He stood up, anonymous and straight among them, between their sand pails and nursery crafts. The breakers cartwheeled in and over to puddle their toes and test their perfect skin. He was my brother, my small Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped down upon a towel to grind the sand under us and watched the Atlantic sea move fire, like night sparklers; and lost our weight in the festival season. He dreamed, he said, to be a man designed like a balanced wave… how someday he would wait, giant and straight. Johnny, your dream moves summers inside my mind. He was tall and twenty that July, but there was no balance to help; only the shells came straight and even. This was the first beach of assault; the odor of death hung in the air like rotting potatoes, the junkyard of landing craft waited open and rusting. The bodies were strung out as if they were still reaching for each other, where they lay to blacken, to burst through their perfect skin. And Johnny Pole was one of them. He gave in like a small wave, a sudden hole in his belly and the years all gone where the Pacific noon chipped its light out. Like a bean bag, outflung, head loose 82 and anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move fire for its battle season? Does he lie there forever, where his rifle waits, giant and straight?…I think you die again and live again, Johnny, each summer that moves inside my mind. ~ Anne Sexton

342:I saw a group of women standing by a station wagon. There were seven of them, pushing cartons and shopping bags over the open tailgate into the rear of the car. Celery stalks and boxes of Gleem stuck out of the bags. I took the camera from my lap, raised it to my eye, leaned out the window a bit, and trained it on the ladies as if I were shooting. One of them saw me and immediately nudged her companion but without taking her eyes off the camera. They waved. One by one the others reacted. They all smiled and waved. They seemed supremely happy. Maybe they sensed that they were waving at themselves, waving in the hope that someday if evidence is demanded of their passage through time, demanded by their own doubts, a moment might be recalled when they stood in a dazzling plaza in the sun and were registered on the transparent plastic ribbon; and thirty years away, on that day when proof is needed, it could be hoped that their film is being projected on a screen somewhere, and there they stand, verified, in chemical reincarnation, waving at their own old age, smiling their reassurance to the decades, a race of eternal pilgrims in a marketplace in the dusty sunlight, seven arms extended in a fabulous salute to the forgetfulness of being. What better proof (if proof is ever needed) that they have truly been alive? Their happiness, I think, was made of this, the anticipation of incontestable evidence, and had nothing to do with the present moment, which would pass with all the others into whatever is the opposite of eternity. I pretended to keep shooting, gathering their wasted light, letting their smiles enter the lens and wander the camera-body seeking the magic spool, the gelatin which captures the image, the film which threads through the waiting gate. Sullivan came out of the supermarket and I lowered the camera. I could not help feeling that what I was discovering here was power of a sort. ~ Don DeLillo

343:By our seventh anniversary, we had five kids and weren’t done yet. Raven was blessed with easy pregnancies and could run around until the moment of delivery. Oh, and did those deliveries become legend. When River was born, the whole crew was laughing their asses off in the waiting room because of Raven’s profanity-laced rants. Our twins came two years later. During their deliveries, a drinking game started with the crew and club guys. Every time Raven screamed a cuss word, Tucker told the guys at the bar and they’d take a shot of whiskey. Half of the guys were wasted by the time Savannah was born. As Avery joined her sister, the other half of the bar was just as drunk off their asses. The obstetrician nearly begged Raven to use pain meds. She refused of course. No one was telling her what to do. For Maverick’s birth, the hospital moved Raven to a room at the end of the hall and kept the other laboring mothers as far away as possible. Another change the third time around was how Raven refused to allow the club guys free fun based on her laboring pains. To play the drinking game, they had to donate a hundred dollars into the kids’ college fund. We figured at least one of our kids would want to do the education thing. The guys donated the money and got ready for Raven to let loose. In her laboring room, she even allowed a mic connected to overhead speakers at the bar. Despite knowing they were all listening, my woman didn’t disappoint. One particular favorite was motherfucking crustacean cunt. When Maverick’s head crowded, she also sounded a little bit like a graboid from Tremors. Hell, I think she did that on purpose because we’d watched the movie the night before. Raven was a born entertainer. That night, we added a few thousand dollars to the kids’ college fund, the guys had a blast getting wasted to Raven’s profanity, and I welcomed my second son. Unlike his angelic brother, Maverick peed on me an hour after birth. I knew that boy was going to be a handful. ~ Bijou Hunter

344:Morning, October 4 "At evening time it shall be light." Zechariah 14:7 Oftentimes we look forward with forebodings to the time of old age, forgetful that at eventide it shall be light. To many saints, old age is the choicest season in their lives. A balmier air fans the mariner's cheek as he nears the shore of immortality, fewer waves ruffle his sea, quiet reigns, deep, still and solemn. From the altar of age the flashes of the fire of youth are gone, but the more real flame of earnest feeling remains. The pilgrims have reached the land Beulah, that happy country, whose days are as the days of heaven upon earth. Angels visit it, celestial gales blow over it, flowers of paradise grow in it, and the air is filled with seraphic music. Some dwell here for years, and others come to it but a few hours before their departure, but it is an Eden on earth. We may well long for the time when we shall recline in its shady groves and be satisfied with hope until the time of fruition comes. The setting sun seems larger than when aloft in the sky, and a splendour of glory tinges all the clouds which surround his going down. Pain breaks not the calm of the sweet twilight of age, for strength made perfect in weakness bears up with patience under it all. Ripe fruits of choice experience are gathered as the rare repast of life's evening, and the soul prepares itself for rest. The Lord's people shall also enjoy light in the hour of death. Unbelief laments; the shadows fall, the night is coming, existence is ending. Ah no, crieth faith, the night is far spent, the true day is at hand. Light is come, the light of immortality, the light of a Father's countenance. Gather up thy feet in the bed, see the waiting bands of spirits! Angels waft thee away. Farewell, beloved one, thou art gone, thou wavest thine hand. Ah, now it is light. The pearly gates are open, the golden streets shine in the jasper light. We cover our eyes, but thou beholdest the unseen; adieu, brother, thou hast light at even-tide, such as we have not yet. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

345:I have brought you a Black Robe,” he said tersely, and nodded toward the waiting priest. “He will pray your God words over us, yes?” With that, Hunter grasped her firmly by the arm and drew her toward the central fire, never breaking stride despite Loretta’s attempts to slow him down. “I won’t marry you!” she cried frantically. He threw her a look charged with martial arrogance. “You will be my wife, little one. My way or yours, in the end, it will be so.” Hunter drew to a stop before the priest. Loretta focused on the poor man, who was trembling so badly that he was about to drop his Bible. At the moment she was too preoccupied with her own plight to concern herself with his. “Father,” she cried in the most reasonable, calm tone she could muster, “would you please explain to this heathen that a marriage cannot take place without a woman’s consent?” The priest’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He slid horrified eyes to Hunter, and his face blanched. “M-my good young woman, perhaps it would be best to proceed. This man seems uncommonly determined, and I, for one, do not relish the thought of angering him.” Hunter turned to regard her, one dark eyebrow tipped upward in a measuring look. Eyes narrowed in defiance, Loretta jutted her chin and leaned toward him. “What have you done to this poor man? He’s terrified! Have you no shame?” Hunter could have reminded her that there had been a time when she had been equally terrified, but he chose to stay on course. Marriage was his goal, not a contest of tongues. He cast a compelling glare at the Black Robe. “Pray your words, old man.” The priest licked his lips and glanced fearfully at the crowd of savages around them. Perhaps it was the stark contrast of black robes against pallid flesh, but Loretta thought he was losing color at an alarming rate. Indeed, he looked as if he might faint. “Say the God words, old man!” Hunter snarled again. “Don’t you dare bully him,” Loretta hissed. “He’s a man of God, Hunter! You don’t roar at a man of God. ~ Catherine Anderson

346:On the eighth day of Hunter’s absence, along toward dusk, Loretta heard a distant yodeling sound and glanced up from Maiden’s cooking fire to see men riding in. It wasn’t difficult to spot Hunter, several horse lengths ahead of the others, leading what looked like a mule carrying a priest. Loretta rose on her tiptoe, frowning. Surely she couldn’t be seeing what she thought she was seeing. What priest in his right mind would visit a Comanche village? Glancing around at Maiden’s neighbors, Loretta saw her bewilderment mirrored on every face. Then she looked at Warrior, who had been reclining nearby, guarding her. He had leaped to his feet upon hearing the men ride in. He slid a wary glance toward her and cocked an eyebrow. “My brother brings a Black Robe?” It was a priest. Loretta craned her neck to see. Hunter rode directly to the central fire, which had already been lit in preparation for nightfall, and dragged the priest off the mule. After barking a command at the poor man, he spun on his heel and came directly toward Maiden’s lodge, his stride purposeful, his jaw clenched in determination. Loretta drew a deep breath. Suddenly, incredulously, she knew why Hunter had brought a priest into the village. His footsteps slowed as he drew close, the muscles in his thighs bunching and drawing the leather of his pants taut. Loretta stiffened at the challenge his eyes issued. Lifting her chin, she waited for him to reach her, riveting her gaze on his broad shoulders, resisting the urge to run. Those long, powerful legs of his would easily outdistance her. “I have brought you a Black Robe,” he said tersely, and nodded toward the waiting priest. “He will pray your God words over us, yes?” With that, Hunter grasped her firmly by the arm and drew her toward the central fire, never breaking stride despite Loretta’s attempts to slow him down. “I won’t marry you!” she cried frantically. He threw her a look charged with martial arrogance. “You will be my wife, little one. My way or yours, in the end, it will be so. ~ Catherine Anderson

347:He walked straight out of college into the waiting arms of the Navy. They gave him an intelligence test. The first question on the math part had to do with boats on a river: Port Smith is 100 miles upstream of Port Jones. The river flows at 5 miles per hour. The boat goes through water at 10 miles per hour. How long does it take to go from Port Smith to Port Jones? How long to come back? Lawrence immediately saw that it was a trick question. You would have to be some kind of idiot to make the facile assumption that the current would add or subtract 5 miles per hour to or from the speed of the boat. Clearly, 5 miles per hour was nothing more than the average speed. The current would be faster in the middle of the river and slower at the banks. More complicated variations could be expected at bends in the river. Basically it was a question of hydrodynamics, which could be tackled using certain well-known systems of differential equations. Lawrence dove into the problem, rapidly (or so he thought) covering both sides of ten sheets of paper with calculations. Along the way, he realized that one of his assumptions, in combination with the simplified Navier Stokes equations, had led him into an exploration of a particularly interesting family of partial differential equations. Before he knew it, he had proved a new theorem. If that didn't prove his intelligence, what would? Then the time bell rang and the papers were collected. Lawrence managed to hang onto his scratch paper. He took it back to his dorm, typed it up, and mailed it to one of the more approachable math professors at Princeton, who promptly arranged for it to be published in a Parisian mathematics journal. Lawrence received two free, freshly printed copies of the journal a few months later, in San Diego, California, during mail call on board a large ship called the U.S.S. Nevada. The ship had a band, and the Navy had given Lawrence the job of playing the glockenspiel in it, because their testing procedures had proven that he was not intelligent enough to do anything else. ~ Neal Stephenson

348:(Golden Globe acceptance speech in the style of Jane Austen's letters): "Four A.M. Having just returned from an evening at the Golden Spheres, which despite the inconveniences of heat, noise and overcrowding, was not without its pleasures. Thankfully, there were no dogs and no children. The gowns were middling. There was a good deal of shouting and behavior verging on the profligate, however, people were very free with their compliments and I made several new acquaintances. Miss Lindsay Doran, of Mirage, wherever that might be, who is largely responsible for my presence here, an enchanting companion about whom too much good cannot be said. Mr. Ang Lee, of foreign extraction, who most unexpectedly apppeared to understand me better than I undersand myself. Mr. James Schamus, a copiously erudite gentleman, and Miss Kate Winslet, beautiful in both countenance and spirit. Mr. Pat Doyle, a composer and a Scot, who displayed the kind of wild behavior one has lernt to expect from that race. Mr. Mark Canton, an energetic person with a ready smile who, as I understand it, owes me a vast deal of money. Miss Lisa Henson -- a lovely girl, and Mr. Gareth Wigan -- a lovely boy. I attempted to converse with Mr. Sydney Pollack, but his charms and wisdom are so generally pleasing that it proved impossible to get within ten feet of him. The room was full of interesting activitiy until eleven P.M. when it emptied rather suddenly. The lateness of the hour is due therefore not to the dance, but to the waiting, in a long line for horseless vehicles of unconscionable size. The modern world has clearly done nothing for transport. P.S. Managed to avoid the hoyden Emily Tomkins who has purloined my creation and added things of her own. Nefarious creature." "With gratitude and apologies to Miss Austen, thank you. ~ Emma Thompson

349:Thefts Of The Morning Bund us the Morning, mother of the stars And of the winds that usher in the day! Ere her light fingers slide the eastern bars, A netted snare before her footsteps lay; Ere the pale roses of the mist be strown, Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! With her have passed all things we held most dear, Most subtly guarded from her amorous stealth; We nothing gathered, toiling year by year, But she hath claimed it for increase of wealth; Our gems make bright her crown, incrust her throne: Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! Where are they gone, who round our myrtles played, Or bent the vines' rich fruitage to our hands, Or breathed deep song from out the laurels' shade? She drew them to her; who can slack the bands? What lure she used, what toils, was never known: Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! Enough that for her sake Orion died, Slain by the silver Archer of the skyThat Ilion's prince amid her splendors wide Lies chained by age, nor wins his prayer to die; Enough! but hark! our captive loves make moan: Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! We have beheld them whom we lost of old, Among her choiring Hours, in sorrow bowed. A moment gleam their faces, faint and cold, Through some high oriel window wreathed with cloud, Or on the wind before her they are blown: Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! They do her service at the noiseless looms That weave the misty vesture of the hills; Their tears are drink to thirsting grass and blooms, Their breath the darkling wood-bird wakes and thrills; 33 Us too they seek, but far adrift are thrown: Bund us the Morning, and restore our own! Yea, cry her Thief! from where the light doth break To where it merges in the western deep! If aught of ours she, startled, should forsake, Such waifs the waiting Night for us will keep. But stay not; still pursue her, falsely flown: Bund us the Morning, and restore our own! ~ Edith Matilda Thomas

350:Thefts Of The Morning Bund us the Morning, mother of the stars And of the winds that usher in the day! Ere her light fingers slide the eastern bars, A netted snare before her footsteps lay; Ere the pale roses of the mist be strown, Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! With her have passed all things we held most dear, Most subtly guarded from her amorous stealth; We nothing gathered, toiling year by year, But she hath claimed it for increase of wealth; Our gems make bright her crown, incrust her throne: Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! Where are they gone, who round our myrtles played, Or bent the vines' rich fruitage to our hands, Or breathed deep song from out the laurels' shade? She drew them to her; who can slack the bands? What lure she used, what toils, was never known: Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! Enough that for her sake Orion died, Slain by the silver Archer of the skyThat Ilion's prince amid her splendors wide Lies chained by age, nor wins his prayer to die; Enough! but hark! our captive loves make moan: Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! We have beheld them whom we lost of old, Among her choiring Hours, in sorrow bowed. A moment gleam their faces, faint and cold, Through some high oriel window wreathed with cloud, Or on the wind before her they are blown: Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! They do her service at the noiseless looms That weave the misty vesture of the hills; Their tears are drink to thirsting grass and blooms, Their breath the darkling wood-bird wakes and thrills; 33 Us too they seek, but far adrift are thrown: Bund us the Morning, and restore our own! Yea, cry her Thief! from where the light doth break To where it merges in the western deep! If aught of ours she, startled, should forsake, Such waifs the waiting Night for us will keep. But stay not; still pursue her, falsely flown: Bund us the Morning, and restore our own! ~ Edith Matilda Thomas

351:It's the whistling," Laila said to Tariq, "the damn whistling, I hate more than anything" Tariq nodded knowingly. It wasn't so much the whistling itself, Laila thought later, but the seconds between the start of it and impact. The brief and interminable time of feeling suspended. The not knowing. The waiting. Like a defendant about to hear the verdict. Often it happened at dinner, when she and Babi were at the table. When it started, their heads snapped up. They listened to the whistling, forks in mid-air, unchewed food in their mouths. Laila saw the reflection of their half-lit faces in the pitch-black window, their shadows unmoving on the wall. The whistling. Then the blast, blissfully elsewhere, followed by an expulsion of breath and the knowledge that they had been spared for now while somewhere else, amid cries and choking clouds of smoke, there was a scrambling, a barehanded frenzy of digging, of pulling from the debris, what remained of a sister, a brother, a grandchild. But the flip side of being spared was the agony of wondering who hadn't. After every rocket blast, Laila raced to the street, stammering a prayer, certain that, this time, surely this time, it was Tariq they would find buried beneath the rubble and smoke. At night, Laila lay in bed and watched the sudden white flashes reflected in her window. She listened to the rattling of automatic gunfire and counted the rockets whining overhead as the house shook and flakes of plaster rained down on her from the ceiling. Some nights, when the light of rocket fire was so bright a person could read a book by it, sleep never came. And, if it did, Laila's dreams were suffused with fire and detached limbs and the moaning of the wounded. Morning brought no relief. The muezzin's call for namaz rang out, and the Mujahideen set down their guns, faced west, and prayed. Then the rugs were folded, the guns loaded, and the mountains fired on Kabul, and Kabul fired back at the mountains, as Laila and the rest of the city watched as helpless as old Santiago watching the sharks take bites out of his prize fish. ~ Khaled Hosseini

352:Ione II. 'TWAS in the radiant summer weather, When God looked, smiling, from the sky; And we went wand'ring much together By wood and lane, Ione and I, Attracted by the subtle tie Of common thoughts and common tastes, Of eyes whose vision saw the same, And freely granted beauty's claim Where others found but worthless wastes. We paused to hear the far bells ringing Across the distance, sweet and clear. We listened to the wild bird's singing The song he meant for his mate's ear, And deemed our chance to do so dear. We loved to watch the warrior Sun, With flaming shield and flaunting crest, Go striding down the gory West, When Day's long fight was fought and won. And life became a different story; Where'er I looked, I saw new light. Earth's self assumed a greater glory, Mine eyes were cleared to fuller sight. Then first I saw the need and might Of that fair band, the singing throng, Who, gifted with the skill divine, Take up the threads of life, spun fine, And weave them into soulful song. They sung for me, whose passion pressing My soul, found vent in song nor line. They bore the burden of expressing All that I felt, with art's design, And every word of theirs was mine. I read them to Ione, ofttimes, By hill and shore, beneath fair skies, And she looked deeply in mine eyes, And knew my love spoke through their rhymes. Her life was like the stream that floweth, And mine was like the waiting sea; Her love was like the flower that bloweth, And mine was like the searching bee — I found her sweetness all for me. God plied him in the mint of time, And coined for us a golden day, And rolled it ringing down life's way With love's sweet music in its chime. And God unclasped the Book of Ages, And laid it open to our sight; Upon the dimness of its pages, So long consigned to rayless night, He shed the glory of his light. We read them well, we read them long, And ever thrilling did we see That love ruled all humanity, — The master passion, pure and strong. ~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

353:Alexander’s intense eyes were only on Tatiana, who smiled and said, Carolyn, can’t you see? He is pushing you out of the way. I see. Tell him to stop. Let him, Carolyn, Tatiana whispered. Let him. Show him how to catch that baby. Tania, no! What are you afraid of? Just look at him. Let him catch his baby. Thank you, Tatiana. And Alexander went on one knee between her legs, as Carolyn was anxiously bent by his side, her hands next to his. The order of the universe, Alexander felt, was restored. The belly tightened, Tatiana clenched up, one soft slippery push, and the purple baby glided out, swam out face down, front down into the waiting, grasping, open hands of his father. It’s a boy, Tania, Alexander breathed out without turning his son over. Hold him, just like that, don’t move, Carolyn was saying as she cleaned out his mouth and Alexander finally heard his first sound all night. “Wah . . . Wah . . . Wah . . . Wah . . .” Like a little wailing warble. And with his first breath he became pink not purple. Alexander let the boy be placed front down on Tatiana’s stomach, keeping his hand over him and over her, and after Carolyn tied up the cord, he picked up his warm sticky infant, holding him in his palms, and brought him close to Tatiana’s face, whispering, Tania, our boy. Look how small he is. He pressed his wet forehead into her wet cheek. Look at him flailing, squirming, wailing. Buddy, what? Been cooped up too long? He held the boy in his fanned-out palms. Oh God, how can he be so blessedly tiny? He is smaller than my hands. Yes, my love, said Tatiana, one hand on her husband, one hand on her child. But then you do have very big hands. Standing up, Alexander walked over to the open French doors so he could take a better look at the baby in the moonbeam light. Charles Gordon Pasha, he whispered. Pasha. The baby stopped squirming, moving, crying; he relaxed all his limbs and lay sticky and small and completely still in Alexander’s open palms, blinking, clearing his eyes, blinking, clearing his eyes, trying to focus on his father’s face so close. Tania, whispered Alexander, pressing his damp son to his bare chest, to his heart. Look, Tania, look, what a small, little, lovely, tiny baby. ~ Paullina Simons

354:The air grew colder and thinner as they rode through the mountain passes.  The sun was high and bright, but Martise wrapped her shawl tightly around her and pressed against Silhara’s back.  Gnat kept a steady pace, breathing harder in the thin air.  Unlike him, the mountain ponies suffered no effects from the rising elevation and clipped ahead at a swift pace.  Patches of snow spilled from embankments onto the rutted paths.  A brisk wind moaned a soft dirge as it whipped through the towering evergreens cloaking the mountainside. Silhara called a sudden halt.  Martise peered around his arm, expecting to see some obstacle in their path.  The way was clear, with only the Kurmans watching them curiously. “What’s wrong?” “You’re quaking hard enough to make my teeth rattle.”  He moved his leg back and untied one of the packs strapped to the saddle.  “Get down.” She slid off Gnat’s back.  Silhara followed and pulled one of their blankets from the packet.  “Here.  Wrap this around you.” She had only pulled the blanket over her shoulders when he picked her up and tossed her onto Gnat’s back once more, this time in the front of the flat saddle.  She clutched the horse’s mane with one hand and held on to her blanket with the other.  Silhara vaulted up behind her, scooted her back against him and took up the reins. “Better,” he said and whistled to the waiting Kurmans he was ready. Martise couldn’t agree more.  The blanket’s warmth and Silhara’s body heat soaked through her clothing and into her bones.  She leaned into his chest.  “This is nice.” An amused rumble vibrated near her ear.  “So glad you approve.”  His hand slipped under the blanket, wandered over her belly and cupped her breast.  Martise sucked in a breath as his fingers teased her nipple through her shawl and tunic.  The heat surrounding her turned scorching.  “I agree,” he murmured in her ear.  “This is nice.” He stopped his teasing when she squirmed hard enough in the saddle to nearly unseat them both, but left his hand on her breast, content to just hold her.  Martise was ready to toss off the blanket and her shawl.  Silhara’s touch had left her with a throbbing ache between her thighs.  She smiled a little at the feel of him hard against her back.  She wasn’t the only one affected by his teasing. ~ Grace Draven

355:It was a relief when we reached the village of Lumm. We did not go into it but rode on the outskirts. When the great mage-built bridge came into view I felt Shevraeth’s arm tighten as he looked this way and that. On a grassy sward directly opposite the approach to the bridge a plain carriage waited with no markings on its sides, the wheels and lower portions muddy. The only sign that this might not be some inn’s rental equipment were the five high-bred horses waiting nearby, long lines attached to their bits. A boy wearing the garb of a stable hand sat on a large rock holding the horses’ lines; nearby a footman and a driver, both in unmarked clothing but wearing servants’ hats, stood conversing in between sips from hip flagons. Steady traffic, mostly merchants, passed by, but no one gave them more than a cursory glance. The gray threaded through a caravan of laden carts. As soon as the waiting servants saw us, the flagons were hastily stowed, the horse boy leaped to his feet, and all three bowed low. “Hitch them up,” said the Marquis. The boy sprang to the horses’ mouths and the driver to the waiting harnesses as the footman moved to the stirrup of the gray. No one spoke. With a minimum of fuss the Marquis dismounted, pulled me down himself, and deposited me in the carriage on a seat strewn with pillows. Then he shut the door and walked away. By then the driver was on her box, and the horse boy was finishing the last of the harnesses, helped by the footman. Levering myself up on the seat, I watched through the window as the footman hastily transferred all the gear on the gray to the last waiting horse, and then the Marquis swung into the saddle, leaning down to address a few words to the footman. Then the gray was led out of sight, and without any warning the carriage gave a great jolt and we started off. Not one of the passerby showed the least interest in the proceedings. I wondered if I had missed yet another chance at escape, but if I did yell for help, who knew what the partisanship of the Lumm merchants was? I might very well have gotten my mouth gagged for my pains. This did not help my spirits any, for now that the immediate discomforts had eased, I realized again that I was sick. How could I effect an escape when I had as much spunk as a pot of overboiled noodles? I lay back down on the pillows, and before long the warmth and swaying of the carriage sent me off to sleep. ~ Sherwood Smith

356:The hospital is as busy as it was yesterday. We go in through the main entrance, and people walk in every direction. The people in scrubs and white coats all walk a little bit faster. There’s a guy sleeping on one of the waiting room sofas, and a hugely pregnant woman leaning against the wall by the elevator. She’s swirling a drink in a plastic cup. That baby is giving her T-shirt a run for its money. A toddler is throwing a tantrum somewhere down the hallway. The shrieking echoes. We move to the bank of elevators, too, and Melonhead isn’t one of those guys who insists on pressing a button that’s already lit. He smiles and says “Good afternoon” to the pregnant woman, but I can’t look away from her swollen belly. My mother is going to look like that. My mother is going to have a baby. My brain still can’t process this. Suddenly, the woman’s abdomen twitches and shifts. It’s startling, and my eyes flick up to find her face. She laughs at my expression. “He’s trying to get comfortable.” The elevator dings, and we all get on. Her stomach keeps moving. I realize I’m being a freak, but it’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t stop staring. She laughs again, softly, then comes closer. “Here. You can feel it.” “It’s okay,” I say quickly. Melonhead chuckles, and I scowl. “Not too many people get to touch a baby before it’s born,” she says, her voice still teasing. “You don’t want to be one of the chosen few?” “I’m not used to random women asking me to touch them,” I say. “This is number five,” she says. “I’m completely over random people touching me. Here.” She takes my wrist and puts my hand right over the twitching. Her belly is firmer than I expect, and we’re close enough that I can look right down her shirt. I’m torn between wanting to pull my hand back and not wanting to be rude. Then the baby moves under my hand, something firm pushing right against my fingers. I gasp without meaning to. “He says hi,” the woman says. I can’t stop thinking of my mother. I try to imagine her looking like this, and I fail. I try to imagine her encouraging me to touch the baby, and I fail. Four months. The elevator dings. “Come on, Murph,” says Melonhead. I look at the pregnant lady. I have no idea what to say. Thanks? “Be good,” she says, and takes a sip of her drink. The elevator closes and she’s gone ~ Brigid Kemmerer

357:So tonight I reach for my journal again. This is the first time I’ve done this since I came to Italy. What I write in my journal is that I am weak and full of fear. I explain that Depression and Loneliness have shown up, and I’m scared they will never leave. I say that I don’t want to take the drugs anymore, but I’m frightened I will have to. I am terrified that I will never really pull my life together. In response, somewhere from within me, rises a now-familiar presence, offering me all the certainties I have always wished another person would say to me when I was troubled. This is what I find myself writing on the page: I’m here. I love you. I don’t care if you need to stay up crying all night long. I will stay with you. If you need the medication again, go ahead and take it—I will love you through that, as well. If you don’t need the medication, I will love you, too. There’s nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression and Braver than Loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me. Tonight, this strange interior gesture of friendship—the lending of a hand from me to myself when nobody else is around to offer solace—reminds me of something that happened to me once in New York City. I walked into an office building one afternoon in a hurry, dashed into the waiting elevator. As I rushed in, I caught an unexpected glance of myself in a security mirror’s reflection. In that moment, my brain did an odd thing—it fired off this split-second message: “Hey! You know her! That’s a friend of yours!” And I actually ran forward toward my own reflection with a smile, ready to welcome that girl whose name I had lost but whose face was so familiar. In a flash instant of course, I realized my mistake and laughed in embarrassment at my almost doglike confusion over how a mirror works. But for some reason that incident comes to mind again tonight during my sadness in Rome, and I find myself writing this comforting reminder at the bottom of the page. Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a FRIEND… I fell asleep holding my notebook pressed against my chest, open to this most recent assurance. In the morning when I wake up, I can still smell a faint trace of depression’s lingering smoke, but he himself is nowhere to be seen. Somewhere during the night, he got up and left. And his buddy loneliness beat it, too. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert

358:Jo!” I heard a voice call. I straightened just in time to see Alex dash up the front walk. “I thought you had practice,” I said. “Cancelled,” Alex said shortly. He made the front porch and pushed back the hood of the sweatshirt he had on beneath his letterman’s jacket. His breathing was quick, as if he’d run all the way from school. “I tried to catch you guys but you’d already gone.” “Elaine’s at her house,” I said. Alex gave an exasperated laugh and moved to put his hands on my shoulders, a thing that pretty much made me forget all about my dad’s car in the drive. Apparently Alex had decided that the waiting period was over. “I didn’t sprint ten blocks to see Elaine,” he said. “I came to see you. There’s something I want to ask you, Jo.” “No, you can’t borrow my math homework,” I said. “Shut up, you idiot,” Alex said, giving me a shake. “I want you to go with me to the prom.” I opened my mouth, then closed it again. An action which no doubt made me look exactly like a fish out of water. “That wasn’t a question,” I finally said. Alex rolled his eyes. “Do you want to know why I like you?” he asked. “It took me a while, but I figured it out. It’s because you’re so impossible.” A laugh bubbled up and out before I could stop it. “Impossible,” I repeated. “What about annoying?” “That too,” Alex nodded. “You’re impossible and annoying and unpredictable. Will you please go with me to the prom?” “Aren’t you worried about what will happen if I say yes?” I asked. “Uh-uh,” Alex shook his head. “I’m only worried that you’ll say no.” “I’m not going to do that,” I answered steadily. “Thank you, Alex. I’d love to go with you to the prom.” For a moment, he simply stood, his hands on my shoulders. “You’d better hold still,” he warned. “Why’s that?” “Because I’m going to kiss you now.” Words failed me. Which turned out to be a very good thing as, for the next few minutes, I needed my lips for something else anyhow. The kiss ended and Alex eased back. There was an expression on his face I’d never seen before. Sort of startled and blank all at once, as if he’d just discovered something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t quite put a name to. “Well,” he said. “Bet you say that to all the girls,” I replied. “I’m that obvious, huh?” “Actually, no.” “Now who’s being nice?” Alex said. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Okay,” I said. He turned, and I watched him sprint off down the walk. It was only then that I realized I was still clutching my sopping wet shoes. Very smooth, Jo. No wonder the guy can’t resist you, I thought. ~ Cameron Dokey

359:Erin. “No matter what else has happened, you’re water and your element is welcome in our circle, but we don’t need any negative energy here—this is too important.” I nodded to the spiders. Erin’s gaze followed mine and she gasped. “What the hell is that?” I opened my mouth to evade her question, but my gut stopped me. I met Erin’s blue eyes. “I think it’s what’s left of Neferet. I know it’s evil and it doesn’t belong at our school. Will you help us kick it out?” “Spiders are disgusting,” she began, but her voice faltered as she glanced at Shaunee. She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “Disgusting things should go.” Resolutely, she walked to Shaunee and paused. “This is my school, too.” I thought Erin’s voice sounded weird and kinda raspy. I hoped that meant that her emotions were unfreezing and that, maybe, she was coming back around to being the kid we used to know. Shaunee held out her hand. Erin took it. “I’m glad you’re here,” I heard Shaunee whisper. Erin said nothing. “Be discreet,” I told her. Erin nodded tightly. “Water, come to me.” I could smell the sea and spring rains. “Make them wet,” she continued. Water beaded the cages and a puddle began to form under them. A fist-sized clump of spiders lost their hold on the metal and splashed into the waiting wetness. “Stevie Rae.” I held my hand out to her. She took mine, then Erin’s, completing the circle. “Earth, come to me,” she said. The scents and sounds of a meadow surrounded us. “Don’t let this pollute our campus.” Ever so slightly, the earth beneath us trembled. More spiders tumbled from the cages and fell into the pooling water, making it churn. Finally, it was my turn. “Spirit, come to me. Support the elements in expelling this Darkness that does not belong at our school.” There was a whooshing sound and all of the spiders dropped from the cages, falling into the waiting pool of water. The water quivered and began to change form, elongating—expanding. I focused, feeling the indwelling of spirit, the element for which I had the greatest affinity, and in my mind I pictured the pool of spiders being thrown out of our campus, like someone had emptied a pot of disgusting toilet water. Keeping that image in mind, I commanded: “Now get out!” “Out!” Damien echoed. “Go!” Shaunee said. “Leave!” Erin said. “Bye-bye now!” Stevie Rae said. Then, just like in my imagination, the pool of spiders lifted up, like they were going to be hurled from the earth. But in the space of a single breath the dark image reformed again into a familiar silhouette—curvaceous, beautiful, deadly. Neferet! Her features weren’t fully formed, but I recognized her and the malicious energy she radiated. “No!” I shouted. “Spirit! Strengthen each of the elements with the power of our love and loyalty! Air! Fire! Water! Earth! I call on thee, so mote it be!” There was a terrible shriek, and the Neferet apparition rushed forward. It surged from our circle, breaking over Erin ~ P C Cast

360:One evening in April a thirty-two-year-old woman, unconscious and severely injured, was admitted to the hospital in a provincial town south of Copenhagen. She had a concussion and internal bleeding, her legs and arms were broken in several places, and she had deep lesions in her face. A gas station attendant in a neighboring village, beside the bridge over the highway to Copenhagen, had seen her go the wrong way up the exit and drive at high speed into the oncoming traffic. The first three approaching cars managed to maneuver around her, but about 200 meters after the junction she collided head-on with a truck. The Dutch driver was admitted for observation but released the next day. According to his statement he started to brake a good 100 meters before the crash, while the car seemed to actually increase its speed over the last stretch. The front of the vehicle was totally crushed, part of the radiator was stuck between the road and the truck's bumper, and the woman had to be cut free. The spokesman for emergency services said it was a miracle she had survived. On arrival at the hospital the woman was in very critical condition, and it was twenty-four hours before she was out of serious danger. Her eyes were so badly damaged that she lost her sight. Her name was Lucca. Lucca Montale. Despite the name there was nothing particularly Italian about her appearance. She had auburn hair and green eyes in a narrow face with high cheek-bones. She was slim and fairly tall. It turned out she was Danish, born in Copenhagen. Her husband, Andreas Bark, arrived with their small son while she was still on the operating table. The couple's home was an isolated old farmhouse in the woods seven kilometers from the site of the accident. Andreas Bark told the police he had tried to stop his wife from driving. He thought she had just gone out for a breath of air when he heard the car start. By the time he got outside he saw it disappearing along the road. She had been drinking a lot. They had had a marital disagreement. Those were the words he used; he was not questioned further on that point. Early in the morning, when Lucca Montale was moved from the operating room into intensive care, her husband was still in the waiting room with the sleeping boy's head on his lap. He was looking out at the sky and the dark trees when Robert sat down next to him. Andreas Bark went on staring into the gray morning light with an exhausted, absent gaze. He seemed slightly younger than Robert, in his late thirties. He had dark, wavy hair and a prominent chin, his eyes were narrow and deep-set, and he was wearing a shabby leather jacket. Robert rested his hands on his knees in the green cotton trousers and looked down at the perforations in the leather uppers of his white clogs. He realized he had forgotten to take off his plastic cap after the operation. The thin plastic crackled between his hands. Andreas looked at him and Robert straightened up to meet his gaze. The boy woke. ~ Jens Christian Gr ndahl

361:Spring Song Ii THE spring is here, and the long nights grow Less bitterly cold than awhile ago; Our rags serve their purpose now, and keep Warmth enough in us to let us sleep. The rain that trickles down our walls No longer seems to freeze as it falls; There was dust, not mud, on our feet to-day; There's some green in a flower-pot over the way; The sky-strip over the court's changed hue, From dull yellow-grey to clear grey-blue; Through our broken windows no more the storm Laughs and shrieks as we try to keep warm, But through dusty panes the long sunbeams peer, For the spring is here. Small joy the greenness and grace of spring To grey hard lives like our own can bring. A drowning man cares little to think Of the lights on the waves where he soon must sink. The greenest garments the spring can wear Are black already with our despair: Earth will be one with us soon--shall we care If snow or sunshine be over us there, Or if wintry the world be we found so drear, Or if spring be here? In the western half of our Christian town The Winter only pretends to frown, And when his undreaded rage is done, The 'London season' they say is begun. With wine, feast, revelling, laugh and song, The hours rose-garlanded dance along, The whirl of wickedness wilder grows In this western camp of our bitter foes; They fight with each other--the victors take 233 The largest share of the wealth we make; They spend on their horses, their women, their wives, The money wrung from our blasted lives: It is theirs to enjoy--it is ours to pay. Do they never dream of a reckoning day, When the lives they have wrecked shall be counted up, And measured the blood that has brightened their cup, When we who have worked shall take payment due, And they for their work shall have payment too? Do they dream of that coming hour? Not they! Their feet flit fast down the smooth steep way, They see not the waiting snakes that hide In the hothouse flowers at their life-path's side, They know no justice, no pity, no fear-But the spring is here! Yes--here! In the hope we had almost lost, That has sprung to bud after long years' frost; In this fire in our veins that cries, 'Give youth, Love, manhood, life, for the Right and the Truth;' In our steady purpose, for Freedom's sake, Through custom, privilege, 'fate,' to break; In the brains of the thinkers, the arms of the men Who will strike, and strike, and still strike again, Till they cut our way to the land of flowers, And the summer of freedom at last is ours-In these is the spring. The winter was sore-It is over and done, and will come no more. The fruit will grow with the changing year, Though only the blossoms now appear; For the sake of the fruit the blossoms are dear, And the spring is here--the spring is here. ~ Edith Nesbit

362:Spring Song Ii THE spring is here, and the long nights grow Less bitterly cold than awhile ago; Our rags serve their purpose now, and keep Warmth enough in us to let us sleep. The rain that trickles down our walls No longer seems to freeze as it falls; There was dust, not mud, on our feet to-day; There's some green in a flower-pot over the way; The sky-strip over the court's changed hue, From dull yellow-grey to clear grey-blue; Through our broken windows no more the storm Laughs and shrieks as we try to keep warm, But through dusty panes the long sunbeams peer, For the spring is here. Small joy the greenness and grace of spring To grey hard lives like our own can bring. A drowning man cares little to think Of the lights on the waves where he soon must sink. The greenest garments the spring can wear Are black already with our despair: Earth will be one with us soon--shall we care If snow or sunshine be over us there, Or if wintry the world be we found so drear, Or if spring be here? In the western half of our Christian town The Winter only pretends to frown, And when his undreaded rage is done, The 'London season' they say is begun. With wine, feast, revelling, laugh and song, The hours rose-garlanded dance along, The whirl of wickedness wilder grows In this western camp of our bitter foes; They fight with each other--the victors take 233 The largest share of the wealth we make; They spend on their horses, their women, their wives, The money wrung from our blasted lives: It is theirs to enjoy--it is ours to pay. Do they never dream of a reckoning day, When the lives they have wrecked shall be counted up, And measured the blood that has brightened their cup, When we who have worked shall take payment due, And they for their work shall have payment too? Do they dream of that coming hour? Not they! Their feet flit fast down the smooth steep way, They see not the waiting snakes that hide In the hothouse flowers at their life-path's side, They know no justice, no pity, no fear-But the spring is here! Yes--here! In the hope we had almost lost, That has sprung to bud after long years' frost; In this fire in our veins that cries, 'Give youth, Love, manhood, life, for the Right and the Truth;' In our steady purpose, for Freedom's sake, Through custom, privilege, 'fate,' to break; In the brains of the thinkers, the arms of the men Who will strike, and strike, and still strike again, Till they cut our way to the land of flowers, And the summer of freedom at last is ours-In these is the spring. The winter was sore-It is over and done, and will come no more. The fruit will grow with the changing year, Though only the blossoms now appear; For the sake of the fruit the blossoms are dear, And the spring is here--the spring is here. ~ Edith Nesbit

363:The Chronicle A BALLAD. MARGARITA first possest, If I remember well, my brest, Margarita first of all; But when awhile the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball. Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsels ta'en. Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favorites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke. Mary then, and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began; Alternately they sway'd; And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the Crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd. Another Mary then arose And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas! should I have been Under that iron-scepter'd queen, Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me: But soon those pleasures fled; 49 For the gracious princess dy'd, In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the soveraign power: Wondrous beautiful her face! But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame, And th' artillery of her eye; Whilst she proudly march'd about, Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan by the bye. But in her place I then obey'd Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy-maid; To whom ensu'd a vacancy: Thousand worse passions than possest The interregnum of my breast; Bless me from such an anarchy! Gentle Henriette then, And a third Mary, next began; Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria; And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Katharine, And then a long et cætera. But should I now to you relate, The strength and riches of their state; The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things, That make up all their magazines; If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts; The letters, embassies, and spies, 50 The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries (Numberless, nameless, mysteries!) And all the little lime-twigs laid, By Machiavel the waiting-maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I like them should tell All change of weathers that befell) Than Holinshed or Stow. But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me. An higher and a nobler strain My present Emperess does claim, Heleonora, first o' th' name; Whom God grant long to reign! ~ Abraham Cowley

364:The Chronicle A BALLAD. MARGARITA first possest, If I remember well, my brest, Margarita first of all; But when awhile the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball. Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsels ta'en. Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favorites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke. Mary then, and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began; Alternately they sway'd; And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the Crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd. Another Mary then arose And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas! should I have been Under that iron-scepter'd queen, Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me: But soon those pleasures fled; 49 For the gracious princess dy'd, In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the soveraign power: Wondrous beautiful her face! But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame, And th' artillery of her eye; Whilst she proudly march'd about, Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan by the bye. But in her place I then obey'd Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy-maid; To whom ensu'd a vacancy: Thousand worse passions than possest The interregnum of my breast; Bless me from such an anarchy! Gentle Henriette then, And a third Mary, next began; Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria; And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Katharine, And then a long et cætera. But should I now to you relate, The strength and riches of their state; The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things, That make up all their magazines; If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts; The letters, embassies, and spies, 50 The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries (Numberless, nameless, mysteries!) And all the little lime-twigs laid, By Machiavel the waiting-maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I like them should tell All change of weathers that befell) Than Holinshed or Stow. But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me. An higher and a nobler strain My present Emperess does claim, Heleonora, first o' th' name; Whom God grant long to reign! ~ Abraham Cowley

365:In The Waiting Room In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited and read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole "Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-not very loud or long. 45 I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even 46 the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts held us all together or made us all just one? How I didn't know any word for it how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918. ~ Elizabeth Bishop

366:In The Waiting Room In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited and read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole "Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-not very loud or long. 45 I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even 46 the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts held us all together or made us all just one? How I didn't know any word for it how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918. ~ Elizabeth Bishop

367:Fireflies out on a warm summer's night, seeing the urgent, flashing, yellow-white phosphorescence below them, go crazy with desire; moths cast to the winds an enchantment potion that draws the opposite sex, wings beating hurriedly, from kilometers away; peacocks display a devastating corona of blue and green and the peahens are all aflutter; competing pollen grains extrude tiny tubes that race each other down the female flower's orifice to the waiting egg below; luminescent squid present rhapsodic light shows, altering the pattern, brightness and color radiated from their heads, tentacles, and eyeballs; a tapeworm diligently lays a hundred thousand fertilized eggs in a single day; a great whale rumbles through the ocean depths uttering plaintive cries that are understood hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, where another lonely behemoth is attentively listening; bacteria sidle up to one another and merge; cicadas chorus in a collective serenade of love; honeybee couples soar on matrimonial flights from which only one partner returns; male fish spray their spunk over a slimy clutch of eggs laid by God-knows-who; dogs, out cruising, sniff each other's nether parts, seeking erotic stimuli; flowers exude sultry perfumes and decorate their petals with garish ultraviolet advertisements for passing insects, birds, and bats; and men and women sing, dance, dress, adorn, paint, posture, self-mutilate, demand, coerce, dissemble, plead, succumb, and risk their lives. To say that love makes the world go around is to go too far. The Earth spins because it did so as it was formed and there has been nothing to stop it since. But the nearly maniacal devotion to sex and love by most of the plants, animals, and microbes with which we are familiar is a pervasive and striking aspect of life on Earth. It cries out for explanation. What is all this in aid of? What is the torrent of passion and obsession about? Why will organisms go without sleep, without food, gladly put themselves in mortal danger for sex? ... For more than half the history of life on Earth organisms seem to have done perfectly well without it. What good is sex?... Through 4 billion years of natural selection, instructions have been honed and fine-tuned...sequences of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts, manuals written out in the alphabet of life in competition with other similar manuals published by other firms. The organisms become the means through which the instructions flow and copy themselves, by which new instructions are tried out, on which selection operates. 'The hen,' said Samuel Butler, 'is the egg's way of making another egg.' It is on this level that we must understand what sex is for. ... The sockeye salmon exhaust themselves swimming up the mighty Columbia River to spawn, heroically hurdling cataracts, in a single-minded effort that works to propagate their DNA sequences into future generation. The moment their work is done, they fall to pieces. Scales flake off, fins drop, and soon--often within hours of spawning--they are dead and becoming distinctly aromatic. They've served their purpose. Nature is unsentimental. Death is built in. ~ Carl Sagan

368:The Resting-Place “Because I live, ye shall live also.” Calmly the Paschal moonlight now is sleeping On mossy hillock and on headstone grey, Where still our Mother holds in faithful keeping Such as, while living, in her dear arms lay. Ah! loving and beloved, we know ye rest, E'en in the grave, upon her hallow'd breast. Where is the cumbrous robe—the flesh—the matter Which held the spirit in such painful thrall? A little dust that scarce a breath would scatter, Darkness, and void, and silence—this seems all. Yet somewhere, safe, the waiting body lies, While the freed spirit is in Paradise. Ah! in that day, when earth is all refinèd From death and sin, the darkness and the stain; When Eden's perfect beauty is enshrinèd In unmarred purity and light again; Transfigured, and “exceeding white as snow”— But still that body—it will rise, we know. The self-same lips that hymn'd the Easter story With heart of Easter gladness, here, may sing The song of angels, in the angels' glory, Around the throne of our Almighty King. The same feet, which this ancient pavement trod, May walk for aye the temple-courts of God. O blessed day, which saw the Saviour risen! Which told to trembling man that wondrous news— “The grave is not thy body's endless prison, Thy soul no more in vain for pardon sues. From Adam's curse, by Christ's death, thou art free— The Lord accepts this sacrifice for thee.” “Peace be with you”—by Him those words were spoken After the glorious victory was won— 248 After the angel gave that blessed token To her whose favour'd lips had called him “Son.” Ah! where were peace, if every trembling breath Strengthen'd the fetters of an endless death? Where were the peace, if that dark cloud of mourning From Calvary's hill had never pass'd away? If our deep night had never known the dawning Of that mysterious Resurrection-day? O Christ our Lord! Thou didst indeed release Thy sinful children, and didst give them peace. And now we know that Thou art throned for ever, True God, and yet true man, in heaven above; That now no power our life from Thine can sever, That naught shall rob us of Thy gift of love; That Thou, within the veil, dost intercede For all who suffer and for all in need. That Thou art with us here, too, in our sorrow— With us to help in every time of strife, Dost give to each dark day its joyous morrow, Dost make us strong with Thine own love and life. And we may love, and we may come to Thee In heaven, and share Thy great felicity! Ay, when the grass upon our grave is sighing In the cool wind and Easter moonlight fair, The mortal dust, beneath the violets lying, Shall rest in hope and rest in safety there, Till Thou shalt come with Thy celestial train, And our bright spirit take its own again. “After Thy likeness,” in its sweet perfection, Shall we awake in that eternal day; All—save the sin—shall have its resurrection, Clothed in Thy glorious immortality. And we shall stand Thy radiant throne beside, Blessed for evermore, and—satisfied! ~ Ada Cambridge

369:The Resting-Place “Because I live, ye shall live also.” Calmly the Paschal moonlight now is sleeping On mossy hillock and on headstone grey, Where still our Mother holds in faithful keeping Such as, while living, in her dear arms lay. Ah! loving and beloved, we know ye rest, E'en in the grave, upon her hallow'd breast. Where is the cumbrous robe—the flesh—the matter Which held the spirit in such painful thrall? A little dust that scarce a breath would scatter, Darkness, and void, and silence—this seems all. Yet somewhere, safe, the waiting body lies, While the freed spirit is in Paradise. Ah! in that day, when earth is all refinèd From death and sin, the darkness and the stain; When Eden's perfect beauty is enshrinèd In unmarred purity and light again; Transfigured, and “exceeding white as snow”— But still that body—it will rise, we know. The self-same lips that hymn'd the Easter story With heart of Easter gladness, here, may sing The song of angels, in the angels' glory, Around the throne of our Almighty King. The same feet, which this ancient pavement trod, May walk for aye the temple-courts of God. O blessed day, which saw the Saviour risen! Which told to trembling man that wondrous news— “The grave is not thy body's endless prison, Thy soul no more in vain for pardon sues. From Adam's curse, by Christ's death, thou art free— The Lord accepts this sacrifice for thee.” “Peace be with you”—by Him those words were spoken After the glorious victory was won— 248 After the angel gave that blessed token To her whose favour'd lips had called him “Son.” Ah! where were peace, if every trembling breath Strengthen'd the fetters of an endless death? Where were the peace, if that dark cloud of mourning From Calvary's hill had never pass'd away? If our deep night had never known the dawning Of that mysterious Resurrection-day? O Christ our Lord! Thou didst indeed release Thy sinful children, and didst give them peace. And now we know that Thou art throned for ever, True God, and yet true man, in heaven above; That now no power our life from Thine can sever, That naught shall rob us of Thy gift of love; That Thou, within the veil, dost intercede For all who suffer and for all in need. That Thou art with us here, too, in our sorrow— With us to help in every time of strife, Dost give to each dark day its joyous morrow, Dost make us strong with Thine own love and life. And we may love, and we may come to Thee In heaven, and share Thy great felicity! Ay, when the grass upon our grave is sighing In the cool wind and Easter moonlight fair, The mortal dust, beneath the violets lying, Shall rest in hope and rest in safety there, Till Thou shalt come with Thy celestial train, And our bright spirit take its own again. “After Thy likeness,” in its sweet perfection, Shall we awake in that eternal day; All—save the sin—shall have its resurrection, Clothed in Thy glorious immortality. And we shall stand Thy radiant throne beside, Blessed for evermore, and—satisfied! ~ Ada Cambridge

370:Ella.” The sound was so quiet, I barely heard it through the blood-rush in my ears. I turned to look down the hallway. A man was coming toward me, his lean form clad in a pair of baggy scrub pants and a loose T-shirt. His arm was bandaged with silver-gray burn wrap. I knew the set of those shoulders, the way he moved. Jack. My eyes blurred, and I felt my pulse escalate to a painful throbbing. I began to shake from the effects of trying to encompass too much feeling, too fast. “Is it you?” I choked. “Yes. Yes. God, Ella . . .” I was breaking down, every breath shattering. I gripped my elbows with my hands, crying harder as Jack drew closer. I couldn’t move. I was terrified that I was hallucinating, conjuring an image of what I wanted most, that if I reached out I would find nothing but empty space. But Jack was there, solid and real, reaching around me with hard, strong arms. The contact with him was electrifying. I flattened against him, unable to get close enough. He murmured as I sobbed against his chest. “Ella . . . sweetheart, it’s all right. Don’t cry. Don’t . . .” But the relief of touching him, being close to him, had caused me to unravel. Not too late. The thought spurred a rush of euphoria. Jack was alive, and whole, and I would take nothing for granted ever again. I fumbled beneath the hem of his T-shirt and found the warm skin of his back. My fingertips encountered the edge of another bandage. He kept his arms firmly around me as if he understood that I needed the confining pressure, the feel of him surrounding me as our bodies relayed silent messages. Don’t let go. I’m right here. Tremors kept running along my entire frame. My teeth chattered, making it hard to talk. “I th-thought you might not come back.” Jack’s mouth, usually so soft, was rough and chapped against my cheek, his jaw scratchy with bristle. “I’ll always come back to you.” His voice was hoarse. I hid my face against his neck, breathing him in. His familiar scent had been obliterated by the antiseptic pungency of antiseptic burn dressings, and heavy saltwater brine. “Where are you hurt?” Sniffling, I reached farther over his back, investigating the extent of the bandage. His fingers tangled in the smooth, soft locks of my hair. “Just a few burns and scrapes. Nothing to worry about.” I felt his cheek tauten with a smile. “All your favorite parts are still there.” We were both quiet for a moment. I realized he was trembling, too. “I love you, Jack,” I said, and that started a whole new rush of tears, because I was so unholy glad to be able to say it to him. “I thought it was too late . . . I thought you’d never know, because I was a coward, and I’m so—” “I knew.” Jack sounded shaken. He drew back to look down at me with glittering bloodshot eyes. “You did?” I sniffled. He nodded. “I figured I couldn’t love you as much as I do, without you feeling something for me, too.” He kissed me roughly, the contact between our mouths too hard for pleasure. I put my fingers to Jack’s bristled jaw and eased his face away to look at him. He was battered and scraped and sun-scorched. I couldn’t begin to imagine how dehydrated he was. I pointed an unsteady finger at the waiting room. “Your family’s in there. Why are you in the hallway?” My bewildered gaze swept down his body to his bare feet. “They’re . . . they’re letting you walk around like this?” Jack shook his head. “They parked me in a room around the corner to wait for a couple more tests. I asked if anyone had told you I was okay, and nobody knew for sure. So I came to find you.” “You just left when you’re supposed to be having more tests?” “I had to find you.” His voice was quiet but unyielding. ~ Lisa Kleypas

371:Ella.” The sound was so quiet, I barely heard it through the blood-rush in my ears. I turned to look down the hallway. A man was coming toward me, his lean form clad in a pair of baggy scrub pants and a loose T-shirt. His arm was bandaged with silver-gray burn wrap. I knew the set of those shoulders, the way he moved. Jack. My eyes blurred, and I felt my pulse escalate to a painful throbbing. I began to shake from the effects of trying to encompass too much feeling, too fast. “Is it you?” I choked. “Yes. Yes. God, Ella . . .” I was breaking down, every breath shattering. I gripped my elbows with my hands, crying harder as Jack drew closer. I couldn’t move. I was terrified that I was hallucinating, conjuring an image of what I wanted most, that if I reached out I would find nothing but empty space. But Jack was there, solid and real, reaching around me with hard, strong arms. The contact with him was electrifying. I flattened against him, unable to get close enough. He murmured as I sobbed against his chest. “Ella . . . sweetheart, it’s all right. Don’t cry. Don’t . . .” But the relief of touching him, being close to him, had caused me to unravel. Not too late. The thought spurred a rush of euphoria. Jack was alive, and whole, and I would take nothing for granted ever again. I fumbled beneath the hem of his T-shirt and found the warm skin of his back. My fingertips encountered the edge of another bandage. He kept his arms firmly around me as if he understood that I needed the confining pressure, the feel of him surrounding me as our bodies relayed silent messages. Don’t let go. I’m right here. Tremors kept running along my entire frame. My teeth chattered, making it hard to talk. “I th-thought you might not come back.” Jack’s mouth, usually so soft, was rough and chapped against my cheek, his jaw scratchy with bristle. “I’ll always come back to you.” His voice was hoarse. I hid my face against his neck, breathing him in. His familiar scent had been obliterated by the antiseptic pungency of antiseptic burn dressings, and heavy saltwater brine. “Where are you hurt?” Sniffling, I reached farther over his back, investigating the extent of the bandage. His fingers tangled in the smooth, soft locks of my hair. “Just a few burns and scrapes. Nothing to worry about.” I felt his cheek tauten with a smile. “All your favorite parts are still there.” We were both quiet for a moment. I realized he was trembling, too. “I love you, Jack,” I said, and that started a whole new rush of tears, because I was so unholy glad to be able to say it to him. “I thought it was too late . . . I thought you’d never know, because I was a coward, and I’m so—” “I knew.” Jack sounded shaken. He drew back to look down at me with glittering bloodshot eyes. “You did?” I sniffled. He nodded. “I figured I couldn’t love you as much as I do, without you feeling something for me, too.” He kissed me roughly, the contact between our mouths too hard for pleasure. I put my fingers to Jack’s bristled jaw and eased his face away to look at him. He was battered and scraped and sun-scorched. I couldn’t begin to imagine how dehydrated he was. I pointed an unsteady finger at the waiting room. “Your family’s in there. Why are you in the hallway?” My bewildered gaze swept down his body to his bare feet. “They’re . . . they’re letting you walk around like this?” Jack shook his head. “They parked me in a room around the corner to wait for a couple more tests. I asked if anyone had told you I was okay, and nobody knew for sure. So I came to find you.” “You just left when you’re supposed to be having more tests?” “I had to find you.” His voice was quiet but unyielding ~ Lisa Kleypas

372:The House In dreams the same bad dream goes on. Like some gigantic German toy the house has been rebuilt upon its kelly-green lawn. The same dreadful set, the same family of orange and pink faces carved and dressed up like puppets who wait for their jaws to open and shut. Nineteen forty-two, nineteen forty-three, nineteen forty-four… it's all the same. We're at war. They've rationed the gas for all three cars. The Lincoln Continental breathes in its stall, a hopped up greyhound waiting to be sprung. The Irish boy who dated her (lace curtain Irish, her mother said) urges her through the lead-colored garages to feel the patent-leather fenders and peek at the mileage. All that money! and kisses too. Kisses that stick in the mouth like the vinegar candy she used to pull with her buttery fingers, pull until it was white like a dog's bone, white, thick and impossible to chew. Father, an exact likeness, his face bloated and pink with black market scotch, sits out his monthly bender in his custom-made pajamas and shouts, his tongue as quick as galloping horses, shouts into the long distance telephone call. His mouth is as wide as his kiss. Mother, 289 with just the right gesture, kicks her shoes off, but is made all wrong, impossibly frumpy as she sits there in her alabaster dressing room sorting her diamonds like a bank teller to see if they add up. The maid as thin as a pencil stick, holds dinner as usual, rubs her angry knuckles over the porcelain sink and grumbles at the gun-shy bird dog. She knows something is going on. She pricks a baked potato. The aunt, older than all the crooked women in The Brothers Grimm, leans by a gooseneck lamp in her second floor suite, turns up her earphone to eavesdrop and continues to knit, her needles working like kitchen shears and her breasts blown out like two pincushions. The houseboy, a quick-eyed Filipino, slinks by like a Japanese spy from French Provincial room to French Provincial room, emptying the ash trays and plumping up the down upholstery. His jacket shines, old shiny black, a wise undertaker. The milkman walks in his cartoon every other day in the snoozy dawn, rattling his bottles like a piggy bank. And gardeners come, six at a time, pulling petunias and hairy angel bells up through the mulch. This one again, made vaguely and cruelly, one eye green and one eye blue, 290 has the only major walk-on so far, has walked from her afternoon date past the waiting baked potatoes, past the flashing back of the Japanese spy, up the cotton batten stairs, past the clicking and unclicking of the earphones, turns here at the hall by the diamonds that she'll never earn and the bender that she kissed last night among thick set stars, the floating bed and the strange white key… up like a skein of yarn, up another flight into the penthouse, to slam the door on all the years she'll have to live through… the sailor who she won't with, the boys who will walk on from Andover, Exeter and St. Marks, the boys who will walk off with pale unlined faces, to slam the door on all the days she'll stay the same and never ask why and never think who to ask, to slam the door and rip off her orange blouse. Father, father, I wish I were dead. At thirty-five she'll dream she's dead or else she'll dream she's back. All day long the house sits larger than Russia gleaming like a cured hide in the sun. All day long the machine waits: rooms, stairs, carpets, furniture, people those people who stand at the open windows like objects waiting to topple. ~ Anne Sexton

373:The House In dreams the same bad dream goes on. Like some gigantic German toy the house has been rebuilt upon its kelly-green lawn. The same dreadful set, the same family of orange and pink faces carved and dressed up like puppets who wait for their jaws to open and shut. Nineteen forty-two, nineteen forty-three, nineteen forty-four… it's all the same. We're at war. They've rationed the gas for all three cars. The Lincoln Continental breathes in its stall, a hopped up greyhound waiting to be sprung. The Irish boy who dated her (lace curtain Irish, her mother said) urges her through the lead-colored garages to feel the patent-leather fenders and peek at the mileage. All that money! and kisses too. Kisses that stick in the mouth like the vinegar candy she used to pull with her buttery fingers, pull until it was white like a dog's bone, white, thick and impossible to chew. Father, an exact likeness, his face bloated and pink with black market scotch, sits out his monthly bender in his custom-made pajamas and shouts, his tongue as quick as galloping horses, shouts into the long distance telephone call. His mouth is as wide as his kiss. Mother, 289 with just the right gesture, kicks her shoes off, but is made all wrong, impossibly frumpy as she sits there in her alabaster dressing room sorting her diamonds like a bank teller to see if they add up. The maid as thin as a pencil stick, holds dinner as usual, rubs her angry knuckles over the porcelain sink and grumbles at the gun-shy bird dog. She knows something is going on. She pricks a baked potato. The aunt, older than all the crooked women in The Brothers Grimm, leans by a gooseneck lamp in her second floor suite, turns up her earphone to eavesdrop and continues to knit, her needles working like kitchen shears and her breasts blown out like two pincushions. The houseboy, a quick-eyed Filipino, slinks by like a Japanese spy from French Provincial room to French Provincial room, emptying the ash trays and plumping up the down upholstery. His jacket shines, old shiny black, a wise undertaker. The milkman walks in his cartoon every other day in the snoozy dawn, rattling his bottles like a piggy bank. And gardeners come, six at a time, pulling petunias and hairy angel bells up through the mulch. This one again, made vaguely and cruelly, one eye green and one eye blue, 290 has the only major walk-on so far, has walked from her afternoon date past the waiting baked potatoes, past the flashing back of the Japanese spy, up the cotton batten stairs, past the clicking and unclicking of the earphones, turns here at the hall by the diamonds that she'll never earn and the bender that she kissed last night among thick set stars, the floating bed and the strange white key… up like a skein of yarn, up another flight into the penthouse, to slam the door on all the years she'll have to live through… the sailor who she won't with, the boys who will walk on from Andover, Exeter and St. Marks, the boys who will walk off with pale unlined faces, to slam the door on all the days she'll stay the same and never ask why and never think who to ask, to slam the door and rip off her orange blouse. Father, father, I wish I were dead. At thirty-five she'll dream she's dead or else she'll dream she's back. All day long the house sits larger than Russia gleaming like a cured hide in the sun. All day long the machine waits: rooms, stairs, carpets, furniture, people those people who stand at the open windows like objects waiting to topple. ~ Anne Sexton

374:At The Making Of Man First all the host of Raphael In liveries of gold, Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm The spinning spheres are rolled,– The Seraphs of the morning calm Whose hearts are never cold. He shall be born a spirit, Part of the soul that yearns, The core of vital gladness That suffers and discerns, The stir that breaks the budding sheath When the green spring returns,– The gist of power and patience Hid in the plasmic clay, The calm behind the senses, The passionate essay To make his wise and lovely dream Immortal on a day. The soft Aprilian ardours That warm the waiting loam Shall whisper in his pulses To bid him overcome, And he shall learn the wonder-cry Beneath the azure dome. And though all-dying nature Should teach him to deplore, The ruddy fires of autumn Shall lure him but the more To pass from joy to stronger joy, As through an open door. He shall have hope and honour, Proud trust and courage stark, To hold him to his purpose Through the unlighted dark, 49 And love that sees the moon's full orb In the first silver arc. And he shall live by kindness And the heart's certitude, Which moves without misgiving In ways not understood, Sure only of the vast event,– The large and simple good. Then Gabriel's host in silver gear And vesture twilight blue, The spirits of immortal mind, The warders of the true, Took up the theme that gives the world Significance anew. He shall be born to reason, And have the primal need To understand and follow Wherever truth may lead,– To grow in wisdom like a tree Unfolding from a seed. A watcher by the sheepfolds, With wonder in his eyes, He shall behold the seasons, And mark the planets rise, Till all the marching firmament Shall rouse his vast surmise. Beyond the sweep of vision, Or utmost reach of sound, This cunning fire-maker, This tiller of the ground, Shall learn the secrets of the suns And fathom the profound. For he must prove all being, Sane, beauteous, benign, And at the heart of nature Discover the divine,– 50 Himself the type and symbol Of the eternal trine. He shall perceive the kindling Of knowledge, far and dim, As of the fire that brightens Below the dark sea-rim, When ray by ray the splendid sun Floats to the world's wide brim. And out of primal instinct, The lore of lair and den, He shall emerge to question How, wherefore, whence, and when, Till the last frontier of the truth Shall lie within his ken. Then Michael's scarlet-suited host Took up the word and sang; As though a trumpet had been loosed In heaven, the arches rang; For these were they who feel the thrill Of beauty like a pang. He shall be framed and balanced For loveliness and power, Lithe as the supple creatures, And coloured as a flower, Sustained by the all-feeding earth, Nurtured by wind and shower, To stand within the vortex Where surging forces play, A poised and pliant figure Immutable as they, Till time and space and energy Surrender to his sway. He shall be free to journey Over the teeming earth, An insatiable seeker, A wanderer from his birth, 51 Clothed in the fragile veil of sense, With fortitude for girth. His hands shall have dominion Of all created things, To fashion in the likeness Of his imaginings, To make his will and thought survive Unto a thousand springs. The world shall be his province, The princedom of his skill; The tides shall wear his harness, The winds obey his will; Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost, Shall work to do him ill. A creature fit to carry The pure creative fire, Whatever truth inform him, Whatever good inspire, He shall make lovely in all things To the end of his desire. ~ Bliss William Carman

375:discovered the painter's body, an apparent suicide. That same year, the Thaxters bought 186 acres (75 hectares) along Seapoint Beach on Cutts Island, Kittery Point, where they built a grand Shingle Style "cottage" called Champernowne Farm. In 1880, they auctioned the Newtonville house, and by 1881, moved to the new home. It stayed in the family until the 1989 death of her granddaughter and biographer, Rosamond Thaxter. Her poems first appeared in The Atlantic Monthly and she became one of America's favorite authors in the late 19th century. Among her best-known poems are The Burgomaster Gull, Landlocked, Milking, The Great White Owl, The Kingfisher, and especially The Sandpiper. ~ Celia Thaxter died suddenly while on Appledore Island. She was buried not far from her cottage, which unfortunately burned in the 1914 fire that destroyed The Appledore House hotel. A Tryst From out the desolation of the North An iceberg took it away, From its detaining comrades breaking forth, And traveling night and day. At whose command? Who bade it sail the deep With that resistless force? Who made the dread appointment it must keep? Who traced its awful course? To the warm airs that stir in the sweet South, A good ship spread her sails; Stately she passed beyond the harbor's mouth, Chased by the favoring gales; And on her ample decks a happy crowd Bade the fair land good-by; Clear shone the day, with not a single cloud In all the peaceful sky. Brave men, sweet women, little children bright For all these she made room, And with her freight of beauty and delight She went to meet her doom. Storms buffeted the iceberg, spray was swept Across its loftiest height; Guided alike by storm and calm, it kept Its fatal path aright. Then warmer waves gnawed at its crumbling base, As if in piteous plea; The ardent sun sent slow tears down its face Soft flowing to the sea. Dawn kissed it with her tender rose tints. Eve Bathed it in violet, The wistful color o'er it seemed to grieve With a divine regret. Whether Day clad its clefts in rainbows dim And shadowy as a dream, Or Night through lonely spaces saw it swim White in the moonlight's gleam, Ever Death rode upon its solemn heights, Ever his watch he kept; Cold at its heart through changing days and nights Its changeless purpose slept. And where afar a smiling coast it passed, Straightway the air grew chill; Dwellers thereon perceived a bitter blast, A vague report of ill. Like some imperial creature, moving slow, Meanwhile, with matchless grace, The stately ship, unconscious of her foe, Drew near the trysting place. For still the prosperous breezes followed her, And half the voyage was o'er; In many a breast glad thoughts began to stir Of lands that lay before. And human hearts with longing love were dumb, That soon should cease to beat, Thrilled with the hope of meetings soon to come, And lost in memories sweet. Was not the weltering waste of water wide Enough for both to sail? What drew the two together o'er the tide, Fair ship and iceberg pale? There came a night with neither moon nor star, Clouds draped the sky in black; With fluttering canvas reefed at every spar, And weird fire in her track, The ship swept on; a wild wind gathering fast Drove her at utmost speed. Bravely she bent before the fitful blast That shook her like a reed. 0 helmsman, turn thy wheel! Will no surmise Cleave through the midnight drear? No warning of the horrible surprise Reach thine unconscious ear? She rushed upon her ruin. Not a flash Broke up the waiting dark; Dully through wind and sea one awful crash Sounded, with none to mark. Scarcely her crew had time to clutch despair. So swift the work was done: Ere their pale lips could frame a speechless prayer, They perished, every one! ~ Celia Thaxter

376:Sunrise Weep for the martyr! Strew his bier With the last roses of the year; Shadow the land with sables; knell The harsh-tongued, melancholy bell; Beat the dull muffled drum, and flaunt The drooping banner; let the chant Of the deep-throated organ sobOne voice, one sorrow, one heart-throb, From land to land, from sea to seaThe huge world quires his elegy. Tears, love, and honor he shall have, Through ages keeping green his grave. Too late approved, too early lost, His story is the people's boast. Tough-sinewed offspring of the soil, Of peasant lineage, reared to toil, In Europe he had been a thing To the glebe tethered-here a king! Crowned not for some transcendent gift, Genius of power that may lift A Caesar or a Bonaparte Up to the starred goal of his heart; But that he was the epitome Of all the people aim to be. Were they his dying trust? He was No less their model and their glass. In him the daily traits were viewed Of the undistinguished multitude. Brave as the silent myriads are, Crushed by the juggernaut world-car; Strong with the people's strength, yet mild, Simple and tender as a child; Wise with the wisdom of the heart, Able in council, field, and mart; Nor lacking in the lambent gleam, The great soul's final stamp-the beam Of genial fun, the humor sane Wherewith the hero sports with pain. His virtues hold within the span 198 Of his obscurest fellow-man. To live without reproach, to die Without a fear-in these words lie His highest aims, for none too high. No triumph his beyond the reach Of patient courage, kindly speech; And yet so brave the soul outbreathed, The great example he bequeathed, Were all to follow, we should see A universal chivalry. His trust, the People! They respond From Maine to Florida, beyond The sea-walled continent's broad scope, Honor his pledge, confirm his hope. Hark! over seas the echo hence, The nations do him reverence. An Empress lays her votive wreath Where peoples weep with bated breath. The world-clock strikes a fateful hour, Bright with fair portents, big with power,The first since history's course has run, When kings' and peoples' cause is one; Those mourn a brother-these a son! O how he loved them! That gray morn, When his wound-wasted form was borne North, from the White House to the sea, Lifting his tired lids thankfully, 'How good,' he murmured in his pain, 'To see the people once again!' Oh, how they loved him! They stood there, Thronging the road, the street, the square, With hushed lips locked in silent prayer, Uncovered heads and streaming eyes, Breathless as when a father dies. The records of the ghostly ride, Past town and field at morning-tide. When life's full stream is wont to gush Through all its ways with boisterous rush, 199 -The records note that once a hound Had barked, and once was heard the sound Of cart-wheels rumbling on the stonesAnd once, mid stifled sobs and groans, One man dared audibly lament, And cried, 'God bless the president!' Always the waiting crowds to send A God-speed to his journey's endThe anxious whisper, brow of gloom, As in a sickness-sacred room, Till his ear drank with ecstasy The rhythmic thunders of the sea. Tears for the smitten fatherless, The wife's, the mother's life-distress, To whom the million-throated moan From throne and hut, may not atone For one hushed voice, one empty chair, One presence missing everywhere. But only words of joy and sheer, The people from his grave shall hear. Were they not worthy of his trust, From whose seed sprang the sacred dust? He broke the bars that separate The humble from the high estate. And heirs of empire round his bed Mourn with the 'disinherited.' Oh, toil-worn, patient Heart that bleeds, Whose martyrdom even his exceeds, Wronged, cursed, despised, misunderstoodOh, all-enduring multitude, Rejoice! amid you tears, rejoice! There issues from this grave a voice, Proclaiming your long night is o'er, Your day-dawn breaks from shore to shore. You have redeemed his pledge, remained Secure, erect, and self-sustained, Holding more dear one thing alone, Even than the blood of dearest son, Revering with religious awe The inviolable might of Law. 200 ~ Emma Lazarus

377:Sunrise Weep for the martyr! Strew his bier With the last roses of the year; Shadow the land with sables; knell The harsh-tongued, melancholy bell; Beat the dull muffled drum, and flaunt The drooping banner; let the chant Of the deep-throated organ sobOne voice, one sorrow, one heart-throb, From land to land, from sea to seaThe huge world quires his elegy. Tears, love, and honor he shall have, Through ages keeping green his grave. Too late approved, too early lost, His story is the people's boast. Tough-sinewed offspring of the soil, Of peasant lineage, reared to toil, In Europe he had been a thing To the glebe tethered-here a king! Crowned not for some transcendent gift, Genius of power that may lift A Caesar or a Bonaparte Up to the starred goal of his heart; But that he was the epitome Of all the people aim to be. Were they his dying trust? He was No less their model and their glass. In him the daily traits were viewed Of the undistinguished multitude. Brave as the silent myriads are, Crushed by the juggernaut world-car; Strong with the people's strength, yet mild, Simple and tender as a child; Wise with the wisdom of the heart, Able in council, field, and mart; Nor lacking in the lambent gleam, The great soul's final stamp-the beam Of genial fun, the humor sane Wherewith the hero sports with pain. His virtues hold within the span 198 Of his obscurest fellow-man. To live without reproach, to die Without a fear-in these words lie His highest aims, for none too high. No triumph his beyond the reach Of patient courage, kindly speech; And yet so brave the soul outbreathed, The great example he bequeathed, Were all to follow, we should see A universal chivalry. His trust, the People! They respond From Maine to Florida, beyond The sea-walled continent's broad scope, Honor his pledge, confirm his hope. Hark! over seas the echo hence, The nations do him reverence. An Empress lays her votive wreath Where peoples weep with bated breath. The world-clock strikes a fateful hour, Bright with fair portents, big with power,The first since history's course has run, When kings' and peoples' cause is one; Those mourn a brother-these a son! O how he loved them! That gray morn, When his wound-wasted form was borne North, from the White House to the sea, Lifting his tired lids thankfully, 'How good,' he murmured in his pain, 'To see the people once again!' Oh, how they loved him! They stood there, Thronging the road, the street, the square, With hushed lips locked in silent prayer, Uncovered heads and streaming eyes, Breathless as when a father dies. The records of the ghostly ride, Past town and field at morning-tide. When life's full stream is wont to gush Through all its ways with boisterous rush, 199 -The records note that once a hound Had barked, and once was heard the sound Of cart-wheels rumbling on the stonesAnd once, mid stifled sobs and groans, One man dared audibly lament, And cried, 'God bless the president!' Always the waiting crowds to send A God-speed to his journey's endThe anxious whisper, brow of gloom, As in a sickness-sacred room, Till his ear drank with ecstasy The rhythmic thunders of the sea. Tears for the smitten fatherless, The wife's, the mother's life-distress, To whom the million-throated moan From throne and hut, may not atone For one hushed voice, one empty chair, One presence missing everywhere. But only words of joy and sheer, The people from his grave shall hear. Were they not worthy of his trust, From whose seed sprang the sacred dust? He broke the bars that separate The humble from the high estate. And heirs of empire round his bed Mourn with the 'disinherited.' Oh, toil-worn, patient Heart that bleeds, Whose martyrdom even his exceeds, Wronged, cursed, despised, misunderstoodOh, all-enduring multitude, Rejoice! amid you tears, rejoice! There issues from this grave a voice, Proclaiming your long night is o'er, Your day-dawn breaks from shore to shore. You have redeemed his pledge, remained Secure, erect, and self-sustained, Holding more dear one thing alone, Even than the blood of dearest son, Revering with religious awe The inviolable might of Law. 200 ~ Emma Lazarus

378:Circe The sun drops luridly into the west; darkness has raised her arms to draw him down before the time, not waiting as of wont till he has come to her behind the sea; and the smooth waves grow sullen in the gloom and wear their threatening purple; more and more the plain of waters sways and seems to rise convexly from its level of the shores; and low dull thunder rolls along the beach: there will be storm at last, storm, glorious storm. Oh welcome, welcome, though it rend my bowers, scattering my blossomed roses like the dust, splitting the shrieking branches, tossing down my riotous vines with their young half-tinged grapes like small round amethysts or beryls strung tumultuously in clusters, though it sate its ravenous spite among my goodliest pines standing there round and still against the sky that makes blue lakes between their sombre tufts, or harry from my silvery olive slopes some hoary king whose gnarled fantastic limbs wear crooked armour of a thousand years; though it will hurl high on my flowery shores the hostile wave that rives at the poor sward and drags it down the slants, that swirls its foam over my terraces, shakes their firm blocks of great bright marbles into tumbled heaps, and makes my preached and mossy labyrinths, where the small odorous blossoms grow like stars strewn in the milky way, a briny marsh. What matter? let it come and bring me change, breaking the sickly sweet monotony. I am too weary of this long bright calm; always the same blue sky, always the sea the same blue perfect likeness of the sky, one rose to match the other that has waned, to-morrow's dawn the twin of yesterday's; 57 and every night the ceaseless crickets chirp the same long joy and the late strain of birds repeats their strain of all the even month; and changelessly the petty plashing surfs bubble their chiming burden round the stones; dusk after dusk brings the same languid trance upon the shadowy hills, and in the fields the waves of fireflies come and go the same, making the very flash of light and stir vex one like dronings of the spinning wheel. Give me some change. Must life be only sweet, all honey-pap as babes would have their food? And, if my heart must always be adrowse in a hush of stagnant sunshine, give me then something outside me stirring; let the storm break up the sluggish beauty, let it fall beaten below the feet of passionate winds, and then to-morrow waken jubilant in a new birth: let me see subtle joy of anguish and of hopes, of change and growth. What fate is mine who, far apart from pains and fears and turmoils of the cross-grained world, dwell, like a lonely god, in a charmed isle where I am first and only, and, like one who should love poisonous savours more than mead, long for a tempest on me and grow sick of resting, and divine free carelessness! Oh me, I am a woman, not a god; yea, those who tend me even are more than I, my nymphs who have the souls of flowers and birds singing and blossoming immortally. Ah me! these love a day and laugh again, and loving, laughing, find a full content; but I know nought of peace, and have not loved. Where is my love? Does some one cry for me, not knowing whom he calls? does his soul cry for mine to grow beside it, grow in it? does he beseech the gods to give him me, 58 the one unknown rare woman by whose side no other woman, thrice as beautiful, should once seem fair to him; to whose voice heard in any common tones no sweetest sound of love made melody on silver lutes, or singing like Apollo's when the gods grow pale with happy listening, might be peered for making music to him; whom once found there will be no more seeking anything? Oh love, oh love, oh love, art not yet come out of the waiting shadows into life? art not yet come after so many years that I have longed for thee? Come! I am here. Not yet. For surely I should feel a sound of his far answering, if now in the world he sought me who will seek me--Oh ye gods will he not seek me? Is it all a dream? will there be never never such a man? will there be only these, these bestial things who wallow in my styes, or mop and mow among the trees, or munch in pens and byres, or snarl and filch behind their wattled coops; these things who had believed that they were men? Nay but he will come. Why am I so fair, and marvellously minded, and with sight which flashes suddenly on hidden things, as the gods see who do not need to look? why wear I in my eyes that stronger power than basilisks, whose gaze can only kill, to draw men's souls to me to live or die as I would have them? why am I given pride which yet longs to be broken, and this scorn cruel and vengeful for the lesser men who meet the smiles I waste for lack of him and grow too glad? why am I who I am, but for the sake of him whom fate will send one day to be my master utterly, that he should take me, the desire of all, whom only he in the world could bow to him? 59 Oh sunlike glory of pale glittering hairs, bright as the filmy wires my weavers take to make me golden gauzes; oh deep eyes, darker and softer than the bluest dusk of August violets, darker and deep like crystal fathomless lakes in summer noons; oh sad sweet longing smile; oh lips that tempt my very self to kisses; oh round cheeks, tenderly radiant with the even flush of pale smoothed coral; perfect lovely face answering my gaze from out this fleckless pool; wonder of glossy shoulders, chiselled limbs; should I be so your lover as I am, drinking an exquisite joy to watch you thus in all a hundred changes through the day, but that I love you for him till he comes, but that my beauty means his loving it? Oh, look! a speck on this side of the sun, coming--yes, coming with the rising wind that frays the darkening cloud-wrack on the verge and in a little while will leap abroad, spattering the sky with rushing blacknesses, dashing the hissing mountainous waves at the stars. 'Twill drive me that black speck a shuddering hulk caught in the buffeting waves, dashed impotent from ridge to ridge, will drive it in the night with that dull jarring crash upon the beach, and the cries for help and the cries of fear and hope. And then to-morrow they will thoughtfully, with grave low voices, count their perils up, and thank the gods for having let them live, and tell of wives or mothers in their homes, and children, who would have such loss in them that they must weep, and may be I weep too, with fancy of the weepings had they died. And the next morrow they will feel their ease and sigh with sleek content, or laugh elate, tasting delights of rest and revelling, music and perfumes, joyaunce for the eyes 60 of rosy faces and luxurious pomps, the savour of the banquet and the glow and fragrance of the wine-cup; and they'll talk how good it is to house in palaces out of the storms and struggles, and what luck strewed their good ship on our accessless coast. Then the next day the beast in them will wake, and one will strike and bicker, and one swell with puffed up greatness, and one gibe and strut in apish pranks, and one will line his sleeve with pilfered booties, and one snatch the gems out of the carven goblets as they pass, one will grow mad with fever of the wine, and one will sluggishly besot himself, and one be lewd, and one be gluttonous; and I shall sickly look, and loathe them all. Oh my rare cup! my pure and crystal cup, with not one speck of colour to make false the passing lights, or flaw to make them swerve! My cup of Truth! How the lost fools will laugh and thank me for my boon, as if I gave some momentary flash of the gods' joy, to drink where I have drunk and touch the touch of my lips with their own! Aye, let them touch. Too cruel am I? And the silly beasts, crowding around me when I pass their way, glower on me and, although they love me still, (with their poor sorts of love such as they could,) call wrath and vengeance to their humid eyes to scare me into mercy, or creep near with piteous fawnings, supplicating bleats. Too cruel? Did I choose them what they are? or change them from themselves by poisonous charms? But any draught, pure water, natural wine, out of my cup, revealed them to themselves and to each other. Change? there was no change; only disguise gone from them unawares: and had there been one right true man of them he would have drunk the draught as I had drunk, and stood unchanged, and looked me in the eyes, 61 abashing me before him. But these things-why, which of them has even shown the kind of some one nobler beast? Pah, yapping wolves and pitiless stealthy wild-cats, curs and apes and gorging swine and slinking venomous snakes all false and ravenous and sensual brutes that shame the Earth that bore them, these they are. Lo, lo! the shivering blueness darting forth on half the heavens, and the forked thin fire strikes to the sea: and hark, the sudden voice that rushes through the trees before the storm, and shuddering of the branches. Yet the sky is blue against them still, and early stars glimmer above the pine-tops; and the air clings faint and motionless around me here. Another burst of flame--and the black speck shows in the glare, lashed onwards. It were well I bade make ready for our guests to-night. ~ Augusta Davies Webster

379:The Happiest Girl In The World A week ago; only a little week: it seems so much much longer, though that day is every morning still my yesterday; as all my life 'twill be my yesterday, for all my life is morrow to my love. Oh fortunate morrow! Oh sweet happy love! A week ago; and I am almost glad to have him now gone for this little while, that I may think of him and tell myself what to be his means, now that I am his, and know if mine is love enough for him, and make myself believe it all is true. A week ago; and it seems like a life, and I have not yet learned to know myself: I am so other than I was, so strange, grown younger and grown older all in one; and I am not so sad and not so gay; and I think nothing, only hear him think. That morning, waking, I remembered him "Will he be here to-day? he often comes; -and is it for my sake or to kill time?" and, wondering "Will he come?" I chose the dress he seemed to like the best, and hoped for him; and did not think I could quite love him yet. And did I love him then with all my heart? or did I wait until he held my hands and spoke "Say, shall it be?" and kissed my brow, and I looked at him and he knew it all? And did I love him from the day we met? but I more gladly danced with some one else who waltzed more smoothly and was merrier: and did I love him when he first came here? but I more gladly talked with some one else whose words were readier and who sought me more. When did I love him? How did it begin? 156 The small green spikes of snowdrops in the spring are there one morning ere you think of them; still we may tell what morning they pierced up: June rosebuds stir and open stealthily, and every new blown rose is a surprise; still we can date the day when one unclosed: but how can I tell when my love began? Oh, was it like the young pale twilight star that quietly breaks on the vacant sky, is sudden there and perfect while you watch, and, though you watch, you have not seen it dawn, the star that only waited and awoke? But he knows when he loved me; for he says the first time we had met he told a friend "The sweetest dewy daisy of a girl, but not the solid stuff to make a wife;" and afterwards the first time he was here, when I had slipped away into our field to watch alone for sunset brightening on and heard them calling me, he says he stood and saw me come along the coppice walk beneath the green and sparkling arch of boughs, and, while he watched the yellow lights that played with the dim flickering shadows of the leaves over my yellow hair and soft pale dress, flitting across me as I flitted through, he whispered inly, in so many words, "I see my wife; this is my wife who comes, and seems to bear the sunlight on with her:" and that was when he loved me, so he says. Yet is he quite sure? was it only then? and had he had no thought which I could feel? for why was it I knew that he would watch, and all the while thought in my silly heart, as I advanced demurely, it was well I had on the pale dress with sweeping folds which took the light and shadow tenderly, and that the sunlights touched my hair and cheek, 157 because he'd note it all and care for it? Oh vain and idle poor girl's heart of mine, content with that coquettish mean content! He, with his man's straight purpose, thinking "wife," and I but that 'twas pleasant to be fair and that 'twas pleasant he should count me fair. But oh, to think he should be loving me and I be no more moved out of myself! The sunbeams told him, but they told me nought, except that maybe I was looking well. And oh had I but known! Why did no bird, trilling its own sweet lovesong, as I passed, so musically marvellously glad, sing one for me too, sing me "It is he," sing "Love him," and "You love him: it is he," that I might then have loved him when he loved, that one dear moment might be date to both? And must I not be glad he hid his thought and did not tell me then, when it was soon and I should have been startled, and not known how he is just the one man I can love, and, only with some pain lest he were pained, and nothing doubting, should have answered "No." How strange life is! I should have answered "No." Oh, can I ever be half glad enough he is so wise and patient and could wait! He waited as you wait the reddening fruit which helplessly is ripening on the tree, and not because it tries or longs or wills, only because the sun will shine on it: but he who waited was himself that sun. Oh was it worth the waiting? was it worth? For I am half afraid love is not love, this love which only makes me rest in him and be so happy and so confident, this love which makes me pray for longest days that I may have them all to use for him, this love which almost makes me yearn for pain 158 that I might have borne something for his sake, this love which I call love, is less than love. Where are the fires and fevers and the pangs? where is the anguish of too much delight, and the delirious madness at a kiss, the flushing and the paling at a look, and passionate ecstasy of meeting hands? where is the eager weariness at time that will not bate a single measured hour to speed to us the far-off wedding day? I am so calm and wondering, like a child who, led by a firm hand it knows and trusts along a stranger country beautiful with a bewildering beauty to new eyes if they be wise to know what they behold, finds newness everywhere but no surprise, and takes the beauty as an outward part of being led so kindly by the hand. I am so cold: is mine but a child's heart, and not a woman's fit for such a man? Alas am I too cold, am I too dull, can I not love him as another could? And oh, if love be fire, what love is mine that is but like the pale subservient moon who only asks to be earth's minister? And, oh, if love be whirlwind, what is mine that is but like a little even brook which has no aim but flowing to the sea, and sings for happiness because it flows? Ah well, I would that I could love him more and not be only happy as I am; I would that I could love him to his worth, with that forgetting all myself in him, that subtle pain of exquisite excess, that momentary infinite sharp joy, I know by books but cannot teach my heart: and yet I think my love must needs be love, since he can read me through -- oh happy strange, my thoughts that were my secrets all for me grown instantly his open easy book! -since he can read me through, and is content. 159 And yesterday, when they all went away, save little Amy with her daisy chains, and left us in that shadow of tall ferns, and the child, leaning on me, fell asleep, and I, tired by the afternoon long walk, said "I could almost gladly sleep like her," did he not answer, drawing down my head, "Sleep, darling, let me see you rest on me," and when the child, awaking, wakened me, did he not say "Dear, you have made me glad, for, seeing you so sleeping peacefully, I feel that you do love me utterly, no questionings, no regrettings, but at rest." Oh yes, my good true darling, you spoke well "No questionings, no regrettings, but at rest:" what should I question, what should I regret, now I have you who are my hope and rest? I am the feathery wind-wafted seed that flickered idly half a merry morn, now thralled into the rich life-giving earth to root and bud and waken into leaf and make it such poor sweetness as I may; the prisoned seed that never more shall float the frolic playfellow of summer winds and mimic the free changeful butterfly; the prisoned seed that prisoned finds its life and feels its pulses stir, and grows, and grows. Oh love, who gathered me into yourself, oh love, I am at rest in you, and live. And shall I for so many coming days be flower and sweetness to him? Oh pale flower, grow, grow, and blossom out, and fill the air, feed on his richness, grow, grow, blossom out, and fill the air, and be enough for him. Oh crystal music of the air-borne lark, so falling, nearer, nearer, from the sky, are you a message to me of dear hopes? 160 oh trilling gladness, flying down to earth, have you brought answer of sweet prophecy? have you brought answer to the thoughts in me? Oh happy answer, and oh happy thoughts! and which is the bird's carol, which my heart's? My love, my love, my love! And I shall be so much to him, so almost everything: and I shall be the friend whom he will trust, and I shall be the child whom he will teach, and I shall be the servant he will praise, and I shall be the mistress he will love, and I shall be his wife. Oh days to come, will ye not pass like gentle rhythmic steps that fall to sweetest music noiselessly? But I have known the lark's song half sound sad, and I have seen the lake, which rippled sun, toss dimmed and purple in a sudden wind; and let me laugh a moment at my heart that thinks the summer-time must all be fair, that thinks the good days always must be good: yes let me laugh a moment -- may be weep. But no, but no, not laugh; for through my joy I have been wise enough to know the while some tears and some long hours are in all lives, in every promised land some thorn plants grow, some tangling weeds as well as laden vines: and no, not weep; for is not my land fair, my land of promise flushed with fruit and bloom? and who would weep for fear of scattered thorns? and very thorns bear oftentimes sweet fruits. Oh the black storm that breaks across the lake ruffles the surface, leaves the deeps at rest -deep in our hearts there always will be rest: oh summer storms fall sudden as they rose, the peaceful lake forgets them while they die -our hearts will always have it summer time. All rest, all summer time. My love, my love, 161 I know it will be so; you are so good, and I, near you, shall grow at last like you; and you are tender, patient -- oh I know you will bear with me, help me, smile to me, and let me make you happy easily; and I, what happiness could I have more than that dear labour of a happy wife? I would not have another. Is it wrong, and is it selfish that I cannot wish, that I, who yet so love the clasping hand and innocent fond eyes of little ones, I cannot wish that which I sometimes read is women's dearest wish hid in their love, to press a baby creature to my breast? Oh is it wrong? I would be all for him, not even children coming 'twixt us two to call me from his service to serve them; and maybe they would steal too much of love, for, since I cannot love him now enough, what would my heart be halved? or would it grow? But he perhaps would love me something less, finding me not so always at his side. Together always, that was what he said; together always. Oh dear coming days! O dear dear present days that pass too fast, although they bring such rainbow morrows on! that pass so fast, and yet, I know not why, seem always to encompass so much time. And I should fear I were too happy now, and making this poor world too much my Heaven, but that I feel God nearer and it seems as if I had learned His love better too. So late already! The sun dropping down, and under him the first long line of red -my truant should be here again by now, is come maybe. I will not seek him, I; he would be vain and think I cared too much; I will wait here, and he shall seek for me, and I will carelessly -- Oh his dear step -he sees me, he is coming; my own love! 162 ~ Augusta Davies Webster

380:Ii. The Quest Of Silence Secreta Silvarum: Prelude Oh yon, when Holda leaves her hill of winter, on the quest of June, black oaks with emerald lamplets thrill that flicker forth to her magic tune. At dawn the forest shivers whist and all the hidden glades awake; then sunshine gems the milk-white mist and the soft-swaying branches make along its edge a woven sound of legends that allure and flit and horns wound towards the enchanted ground where, in the light moon-vapours lit, all night, while the black woods in mass, serried, forbid with goblin fear, fay-revels gleam o'er the pale grass till shrill-throats ring the matins near. Oh there, oh there in the sweet o' the year, adventurous in the witching green, last feal of the errant spear, to seek the eyes of lost Undine clear blue above the blue cold stream that lingers till her plaint be done, oh, and perchance from that sad dream to woo her, laughing, to the sun and that glad blue that seems to flow far up, where dipping branches lift sidelong their soft-throng'd frondage slow and slow the thin cloud-fleecelets drift. Oh, there to drowse the summer thro' deep in some odorous twilit lair, swoon'd in delight of golden dew within the sylvan witches hair; the while on half-veil'd eyes to feel the yellow sunshafts broken dim, and seldom waftures moth-like steal and settle, on the bare-flung limb: or under royal autumn, pall'd 27 in smouldering magnificence, to feel the olden heart enthrall'd in wisdoms of forgotten sense, and mad desire and pain that fill'd red August's heart of throbbing bloom in one grave hour of knowledge still'd where glory ponders o'er its doom: and, when the boughs are sombre lace and silence chisels silver rime, o'er some old hearth, with dim-lit face, to dream the vanish'd forest prime, the springtime's sweet and June's delight, more precious now that hard winds chill the dews that made their mornings bright, and Holda sleeps beneath her hill. What tho' the outer day be brazen rude not here the innocence of morn is fled: this green unbroken dusk attests it wed with freshness, where the shadowy breasts are nude, hers guess'd, whose looks, felt dewy-cool, elude — save this reproach that smiles on foolish dread: wood-word, grave gladness in its heart, unsaid, knoweth the guarded name of Quietude. Nor start, if satyr-shapes across the path tumble; it is but children: lo, the wrath couchant, heraldic, of her beasts that pierce with ivory single horn whate'er misplaced outrageous nears, or whinny of the fierce Centaur, or mailed miscreant unchaste. II O friendly shades, where anciently I grew! me entering at dawn a child ye knew, all little welcoming leaves, and jealous wove your roof of lucid emerald above, that scarce therethro' the envious sun might stray, save smiling dusk or, lure for idle play, such glancing finger your chance whim allows, all that long forenoon of the tuneful boughs; which growing on, the myriad small noise 28 and flitting of the wood-life's busy joys, thro' tenuous weft of sound, had left, divined, the impending threat of silence, clear, behind: and, noon now past, that hush descended large in the wood's heart, and caught me in its marge of luminous foreboding widely flung; so hourlong I have stray'd, and tho' among the glimpsing lures of all green aisles delays that revelation of its wondrous gaze, yet am I glad to wander, glad to seek and find not, so the gather'd tufts bespeak, naked, reclined, its friendly neighbourhood — as in this hollow of the rarer wood where, listening, in the cool glen-shade, with me, white-bloom'd and quiet, stands a single tree; rich spilth of gold is on the eastward rise; westward the violet gloom eludes mine eyes. This is the house of Pan, not whom blind craze and babbling wood-wits tell, where bare flints blaze, noon-tide terrific with the single shout, but whom behind each bole sly-peering out the traveller knows, but turning, disappear'd with chuckle of laughter in his thicket-beard, and rustle of scurrying faun-feet where the ground each autumn deeper feels its yellow mound. Onward: and lo, at length, the secret glade, soft-gleaming grey, what time the grey trunks fade in the white vapours o'er its further rim. 'Tis no more time to linger: now more dim the woods are throng'd to ward the haunted spot where, as I turn my homeward face, I wot the nymphs of twilight have resumed, unheard, their glimmering dance upon the glimmering sward. III The point of noon is past, outside: light is asleep; brooding upon its perfect hour: the woods are deep and solemn, fill'd with unseen presences of light that glint, allure, and hide them; ever yet more bright (it seems) the turn of a path will show them: nay, but rest; seek not, and think not; dream, and know not; this is best: the hour is full; be lost: whispering, the woods are bent, 29 This is the only revelation; be content. IIII The forest has its horrors, as the sea: and ye that enter from the staling lea into the early freshness kept around the waiting trunks that watch its rarer bound, after the glistening song that, sprinkled, leaves an innocence upon the glancing leaves; O ye that dream to find the morning yet secret and chaste, beside her mirror set, some glimmering source o'ershadow'd, where the light is coolness felt, whom filter'd glints invite thro' the slow-shifting green transparency; O ye that hearken towards pale mystery a rustle of hidden pinions, and obey the beckoning of each little leaf asway: return, return, or e'er to warn you back the shadow bend along your rearward track longer and longer from the brooding west; return, and evening shall bosom your rest in the warm gloom that wraps the blazing hearth: there hear from wither'd lips long wean'd of mirth the tale that lulls old watches; — How they rode, brave-glittering once, where the brave morning glow'd along the forest-edges, and were lost for ever, where the crossing trunks are most; and, far beyond the dim arcades of song, where moon-mist weaves a dancing elfin throng, and far beyond the luring glades that brood around a maiden thought of Quietude, the savage realm begins, of lonely dread, black branches from the fetid marish bred that lurks to trap the loyal careless foot, and gaping trunks protrude a snaky root o'er slinking paths that centre, where beneath a sudden rock on the short blasted heath, bare-set, a cavern lurks and holds within its womb, obscene with some corroding sin, coil'd on itself and stirring, a squat shade before the entrance rusts a broken blade. The forest hides its horrors, as the sea. 30 V No emerald spring, no royal autumn-red, no glint of morn or sullen vanquish'd day might venture against this obscene horror's sway blackly from the witch-blasted branches shed. No silver bells around the bridle-head ripple, and on no quest the pennons play: the path's romance is shuddering disarray, or eaten by the marsh: the knights are dead. The Lady of the Forest was a tale: of the white unicorns that round her sleep gamboll'd, no turf retains a print; and man, rare traveller, feels, athwart the knitted bale watching, now lord of loathly deaths that creep, maliciously the senile leer of Pan. Fire in the heavens, and fire along the hills, and fire made solid in the flinty stone, thick-mass'd or scatter'd pebble, fire that fills the breathless hour that lives in fire alone. This valley, long ago the patient bed of floods that carv'd its antient amplitude, in stillness of the Egyptian crypt outspread, endures to drown in noon-days tyrant mood. Behind the veil of burning silence bound, vast life's innumerous busy littleness is hush'd in vague-conjectured blur of sound that dulls the brain with slumbrous weight, unless some dazzling puncture let the stridence throng in the cicada's torture-point of song. Peace dwells in blessing o'er a place folded within the hills to keep and under dark boughs seawind-frayd: and the kind slopes where soothings creep, in the gold light or the green shade, wear evermore the ancient face of silence, and the eyes of sleep; because they are listening evermore unto the seawinds what they tell to the wise, nodding, indifferent trees high on the ridge that guard the dell, 31 of wars on many a far grey shore and how the shores decay and fade before the obstinate old seas: and all their triumphing is made a tale that dwindles with the eves, while the soft dusk lingers, delay'd, and drifts between the indolent leaves. A gray and dusty daylight flows athwart the shatter'd traceries, pale absence of the ruin'd rose. Here once, on labour-harden'd knees, beneath the kindly vaulted gloom that gather'd them in quickening ease, they saw the rose of heaven bloom, alone, in heights of musky air, with many an angel's painted plume. So, shadowing forth their dim-felt prayer, the daedal glass compell'd to grace the outer days indifferent stare, where now its disenhallow'd face beholds the petal-ribs enclose nought, in their web of shatter'd lace, save this pale absence of the rose. Breaking the desert's tawny level ring three columns, an oasis; but no shade falls from the curl'd acanthus-leaves; no spring bubbles soft laughter for its leaning maid. The cell is waste: where once the god abode a burning desolation furls its wing: enter, and lo! once more, the hopeless road world-wide, the tawny desert's level ring. Before she pass'd behind the glacier wall that hides her white eternal sorceries the northern witch, in clinging ermine pall, cast one last look along the shallow seas, a look that held them in its numbing thrall and melted onward to the sandy leas where our lorn city lives its lingering fall and wistful summer shrinks in scant-clad trees. 32 Hence came one greyness over grass and stone: the silent-lapping waters fade and tone into the air and into them the land; and all along our stagnant waterways a drown'd and dusky gleaming sleeps, unbann'd, the lurking twilight of her vanish'd gaze. Out of no quarter of the charted sky flung in the bitter wind intolerably, abrupt, the trump that sings behind the end exults alone. Here grass is none to bend: the stony plain blackens with rapid night that best reveals the land's inflicted blight since in the smitten hero-hand the sword broke, and the hope the long-dumb folk adored, and over all the north a tragic flare told Valhall perish'd and the void's despair to dwell as erst, all disinhabited, a vault above the heart its hungering led. The strident clangour cuts; but space is whole, inert, absorb'd in dead regret. Here, sole, on the bare uplands, stands, vast thro' the gloom staring, to mark an irretrievable doom, the stranger stone, sphinx-couchant, thunder-hurl'd from red star-ruin o'er the elder world. This night is not of gentle draperies or cluster'd banners where the star-breaths roam, nor hangs above the torch a lurching dome of purple shade that slips with phantom ease; but, on our apathy encroaching, these, stable, whose smooth defiance none hath clomb, basalt and jade, a patience of the gnome, polish'd and shadow-brimm'd transparencies. Far, where our oubliette is shut, above, we guess the ample lids that never move beneath her brows, each massive arch inert hung high-contemptuous o'er the blatant wars we deem'd well waged for her, who may avert some Janus-face that smiles on hidden stars. Lightning: and, momently, the silhouette, 33 flat on the far horizon, comes and goes of that night-haunting city; minaret, dome, spire, all sharp while yet the levin glows. Day knows it not; whether fierce noon-tide fuse earth's rim with sky in throbbing haze, or clear gray softness tinge afresh the enamell'd hues of mead and stream, it shows no tipping spear. Night builds it: now upon the marbled plain a blur, discern'd lurking, ever more nigh; now close against the walls that hem my reign a leaguer-town, threatening my scope of sky. So late I saw it; in a misty moon it bulk'd, all dusky and transparent, dumb as ever, fast in some prodigious swoon: its battlements deserted — who might come? — ay, one! his eyes, 'neath the high turban's plume, watch'd mine, intent, behind the breast-high stone: his face drew mine across the milky gloom: a sudden moonbeam show'd it me, my own! ONE! an iron core, shock'd and dispers'd in throbs of sound that ebb across the bay: I shudder: the one clang smites disarray thro' all my sense, that starts awake, inhears'd in the whole lifeless world: and some accurs'd miasma steals, resumed from all decay, where the dead tide lies flat round the green quay, hinting what self-fordone despairs it nurs'd. The corpse of time is stark upon the night: my soul is coffin'd, staring, grave-bedight, upon some dance of death that reels and feasts around its living tomb, with vampire grin, inverted sacraments of Satan's priests — and, mask'd no more, the maniac face of sin. There is a far-off thrill that troubles me: a faint thin ripple of shadow, momently, dies out across my lucid icy cell. I am betrayed by winter to the spell of morbid sleep, that somewhere rolls its waves insidiously, gather'd from unblest graves, to creep above each distant crumbled mole. 34 When that assault is full against my soul, I must go down, thro' chapels black with mould, past ruin'd doors, whose arches, ridged with gold, catch, in their grooves, a gloom more blackly dript, some stairway winding hours-long towards the crypt where panic night lies stricken 'neath the curse exuding from the dense enormous hearse of some old vampire-god, whose bulk, within, lies gross and festering in his shroud of sin. ~ Christopher John Brennan

381:The Kalevala - Rune Xi LEMMINKAINEN'S LAMENT. This the time to sing of Ahti, Son of Lempo, Kaukomieli, Also known as Lemminkainen. Ahti was the king of islands, Grew amid the island-dwellings, At the site of his dear mother, On the borders of the ocean, On the points of promontories. Ahti fed upon the salmon, Fed upon the ocean whiting, Thus became a mighty hero, In his veins the blood of ages, Read erect and form commanding, Growth of mind and body perfect But alas! he had his failings, Bad indeed his heart and morals, Roaming in unworthy places, Staying days and nights in sequences At the homes of merry maidens, At the dances of the virgins, With the maids of braided tresses. Up in Sahri lived a maiden, Lived the fair and winsome Kulli, Lovely as a summer-flower, From a kingly house descended, Grew to perfect form and beauty, Living in her father's cottage, Home of many ancient heroes, Beautiful was she and queenly, Praised throughout the whole of Ehstland; From afar men came to woo her, To the birthplace of the virgin, To the household of her mother. For his son the Day-star wooes her, But she will not go to Sun-land, Will not shine beside the Day-star, 128 In his haste to bring the summer. For her son, the bright Moon wooes her, But she will not go to Moon-land, By the bright Moon will not glimmer, Will not run through boundless ether. For his son the Night-star wooes her, But she will not go to Star-land, Will not twinkle in the starlight, Through the dreary nights in winter. Lovers come from distant Ehstlaud, Others come from far-off Ingern, But they cannot win the maiden, This the answer that she gives them 'Vainly are your praises lavished Vainly is your silver offered, Wealth and praise are no temptation; Never shall I go to Ehstland, Never shall I go a-rowing On the waters of the Ingern, Shall not cross the Sahri-waters, Never eat the fish of Ehstland, Never taste the Ehstland viands. Ingerland shall never see me, Will not row upon her rivers, Will not step within her borders; Hunger there, and fell starvation, Wood is absent, fuel wanting, Neither water, wheat, nor barley, Even rye is not abundant.' Lemminkainen of the islands, Warlike hero, Kaukomieli, Undertakes to win the maiden, Woo and win the Sahri-flower, Win a bride so highly honored, Win the maid with golden tresses, Win the Sahri maid of beauty; But his mother gives him warning: 'Nay,' replies his gray-haired mother, 'Do not woo, my son beloved, Maiden of a higher station; She will never make thee happy With her lineage of Sahri.' 129 Spake the hero, Lemminkainen, These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Should I come from lowly station, Though my tribe is not the highest, I shall woo to please my fancy, Woo the maiden fair and lovely, Choose a wife for worth and beauty.' This the anxious mother's answer: 'Lemminkainen, son beloved, Listen to advice maternal: Do not go to distant Sahri, To her tribe of many branches; All the maidens there will taunt thee, All the women will deride thee.' Lemminkainen, little hearing, Answers thus his mother's pleading: 'I will still the sneers of women, Silence all the taunts of maidens, I will crush their haughty bosoms, Smite the hands and cheeks of infants; Surely this will check their insults, Fitting ending to derision!' This the answer of' the mother: 'Woe is me, my son beloved! Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Shouldst thou taunt the Sahri daughters. Or insult the maids of virtue, Shouldst thou laugh them to derision, There will rise a great contention, Fierce the battle that will follow. All the hosts of Sahri-suitors, Armed in thousands will attack thee, And will slay thee for thy folly.' Nothing listing, Lemminkainen, Heeding not his mother's warning, Led his war-horse from the stables, Quickly hitched the fiery charger, Fleetly drove upon his journey, To the distant Sahri-village, There to woo the Sahri-flower, There to win the Bride of Beauty. All the aged Sahri-women, 130 All the young and lovely maidens Laughed to scorn the coming stranger Driving careless through the alleys, Wildly driving through the court-yard, Now upsetting in the gate-way, Breaking shaft, and hame, and runner. Then the fearless Lemminkainen, Mouth awry and visage wrinkled, Shook his sable locks and answered: 'Never in my recollection Have I heard or seen such treatment, Never have I been derided, Never suffered sneers of women, Never suffered scorn of virgins, Not in my immortal life-time. Is there any place befitting On the Sahri-plains and pastures, Where to join in songs and dances? Is there here a hall for pleasure, Where the Sahri-maidens linger, Merry maids with braided tresses?' Thereupon the Sahri-maidens Answered from their promontory., 'Room enough is there in Sahri, Room upon the Sahri-pastures, Room for pleasure-halls and dances; Sing and dance upon our meadows, Be a shepherd on the mountains, Shepherd-boys have room for dancing; Indolent the Sahri-children, But the colts are fat and frisky.' Little caring, Lemminkainen Entered service there as shepherd, In the daytime on the pastures, In the evening, making merry At the games of lively maidens, At the dances with the virgins, With the maids with braided tresses. Thus it was that Lemminkainen, Thus the shepherd, Kaukomieli, Quickly hushed the women's laughter, Quickly quenched the taunts of maidens, 131 Quickly silenced their derision. All the dames and Sahri-daughters Soon were feasting Lemminkainen, At his side they danced and lingered. Only was there one among them, One among the Sahri-virgins, Harbored neither love nor wooers, Favored neither gods nor heroes, This the lovely maid Kyllikki, This the Sahri's fairest flower. Lemminkainen, full of pleasure, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Rowed a hundred boats in pieces, Pulled a thousand oars to fragments, While he wooed the Maid of Beauty, Tried to win the fair Kyllikki. Finally the lovely maiden, Fairest daughter of the Northland, Thus addresses Lemminkainen: 'Why dost linger here, thou weak one, Why dost murmur on these borders, Why come wooing at my fireside, Wooing me in belt of copper? Have no time to waste upon thee, Rather give this stone its polish, Rather would I turn the pestle In the heavy sandstone mortar; Rather sit beside my mother In the dwellings of my father. Never shall I heed thy wooing, Neither wights nor whisks I care for, Sooner have a slender husband Since I have a slender body; Wish to have him fine of figure, Since perchance I am well-shapen; Wish to have him tall and stately, Since my form perchance is queenly; Never waste thy time in wooing Saliri's maid and favored flower.' Time had gone but little distance, Scarcely had a month passed over, When upon a merry evening, 132 Where the maidens meet for dancing, In the glen beyond the meadow, On a level patch of verdure, Came too soon the maid Kyllikki, Sahri's pride, the Maid of Beauty; Quickly followed Lemminkainen, With his stallion proudly prancing, Fleetest racer of the Northland, Fleetly drives beyond the meadow, Where the maidens meet for dancing, Snatches quick the maid Kyllikki, On the settle seats the maiden, Quickly draws the leathern cover, And adjusts the brichen cross-bar, Whips his courser to a gallop. With a rush, and roar, and rattle, Speeds he homeward like the storm-wind, Speaks these words to those that listen: 'Never, never, anxious maidens, Must ye give the information, That I carried off Kyllikki To my distant home and kindred. If ye do not heed this order, Ye shall badly fare as maidens; I shall sing to war your suitors, Sing them under spear and broadsword, That for months, and years, and ages, Never ye will see their faces, Never hear their merry voices, Never will they tread these uplands, Never will they join these dances, Never will they drive these highways.' Sad the wailing of Kyllikki, Sad the weeping flower of Sahri! Listen to her tearful pleading: 'Give, O give me back my freedom, Free me from the throes of thralldom, Let this maiden wander homeward, By some foot-path let me wander To my father who is grieving, To my mother who is weeping; Let me go or I will curse thee! 133 If thou wilt not give me freedom, Wilt not let me wander homeward, Where my loved ones wait my coming, I have seven stalwart brothers, Seven sons of father's brother, Seven sons of mother's sister, Who pursue the tracks of red-deer, Hunt the hare upon the heather; They will follow thee and slay thee, Thus I'll gain my wished-for freedom.' Lemminkainen, little heeding, Would not grant the maiden's wishes, Would not heed her plea for mercy. Spake again the waiting virgin, Pride and beauty of the Northland: 'Joyful was I with my kindred, Joyful born and softly nurtured Merrily I spent my childhood, Happy I, in virgin-freedom, In the dwelling of my father, By the bedside of my mother, With my lineage in Sahri; But alas! all joy has vanished, All my happiness departed, All my maiden beauty waneth Since I met thine evil spirit, Shameless hero of dishonor, Cruel fighter of the islands, Merciless in civil combat.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen, These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Dearest maiden, fair Kyllikki, My sweet strawberry of Pohya, Still thine anguish, cease thy weeping, Be thou free from care and sorrow, Never shall I do thee evil, Never will my hands maltreat thee, Never will mine arms abuse thee, Never will my tongue revile thee, Never will my heart deceive thee. 'Tell me why thou hast this anguish, Why thou hast this bitter sorrow, 134 Why this sighing and lamenting, Tell me why this wail of sadness? Banish all thy cares and sorrows, Dry thy tears and still thine anguish, I have cattle, food, and shelter, I have home, and friends, and kindred, Kine upon the plains and uplands, In the marshes berries plenty, Strawberries upon the mountains I have kine that need no milking, Handsome kine that need no feeding, Beautiful if not well-tended; Need not tie them up at evening, Need not free them in the morning, Need not hunt them, need not feed them, Need not give them salt nor water. 'Thinkest thou my race is lowly, Dost thou think me born ignoble, Does my lineage agrieve thee? Was not born in lofty station, From a tribe of noble heroes, From a worthy race descended; But I have a sword of fervor, And a spear yet filled with courage, Surely these are well descended, These were born from hero-races, Sharpened by the mighty Hisi, By the gods were forged and burnished; Therefore will I give thee greatness, Greatness of my race and nation, With my broadsword filled with fervor, With my spear still filled with courage.' Anxiously the sighing maiden Thus addresses Lemminkainen: 'O thou Ahti, son of Lempo, Wilt thou take this trusting virgin, As thy faithful life-companion, Take me under thy protection, Be to me a faithful husband, Swear to me an oath of honor, That thou wilt not go to battle, When for gold thou hast a longing, 135 When thou wishest gold and silver?' This is Lemminkainen's answer: I will swear an oath of honor, That I'll never go to battle, When for gold I feel a longing, When I wish for gold and silver. Swear thou also on thine honor, Thou wilt go not to the village, When desire for dance impels thee, Wilt not visit village-dances.' Thus the two made oath together, Registered their vows in heaven, Vowed before omniscient Ukko, Ne'er to go to war vowed Ahti, Never to the dance, Kyllikki. Lemminkainen, full of joyance, Snapped his whip above his courser, Whipped his racer to a gallop, And these words the hero uttered: 'Fare ye well, ye Sahri-meadows, Roots of firs, and stumps of birch-trees. That I wandered through in summer, That I travelled o'er in winter, Where ofttimes in rainy seasons, At the evening hour I lingered, When I sought to win the virgin, Sought to win the Maid of Beauty, Fairest of the Sahri-flowers. Fare ye well, ye Sahri-woodlands, Seas and oceans, lakes and rivers, Vales and mountains, isles and inlets, Once the home of fair Kyllikki!' Quick the racer galloped homeward, Galloped on along the highway, Toward the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala. As they neared the Ahti-dwellings, Thus Kyllikki spake in sorrow: 'Cold and drear is thy cottage, Seeming like a place deserted; Who may own this dismal cabin, Who the one so little honored?' 136 Spake the hero, Lemminkainen, These the words that Ahti uttered: 'Do not grieve about my cottage, Have no care about my chambers; I shall build thee other dwellings, I shall fashion them much better, Beams, and posts, and sills, and rafters, Fashioned from the sacred birch-wood.' Now they reach the home of Ahti, Lemminkainen's home and birthplace, Enter they his mother's cottage; There they meet his aged mother, These the words the mother uses: 'Long indeed hast thou been absent, Long in foreign lands hast wandered, Long in Sahri thou hast lingered!' This is Lemminkainen's answer: 'All the host of Sahri-women, All the chaste and lovely maidens, All the maids with braided tresses, Well have paid for their derision, For their scorn and for their laughter, That they basely heaped upon me. I have brought the best among them In my sledge to this thy cottage; Well I wrapped her in my fur-robes, Kept her warm enwrapped in bear-skin, Brought her to my mother's dwelling, As my faithful life-companion; Thus I paid the scornful maidens, Paid them well for their derision. 'Cherished mother of my being, I have found the long-sought jewel, I have won the Maid of Beauty. Spread our couch with finest linen, For our heads the softest pillows, On our table rarest viands, So that I may dwell in pleasure With my spouse, the bride of honor, With the pride of distant Sahri.' This the answer of the mother: 'Be thou praised, O gracious Ukko, 137 Loudly praised, O thou Creator, Since thou givest me a daughter, Ahti's bride, my second daughter, Who can stir the fire at evening, Who can weave me finest fabrics, Who can twirl the useful spindle, Who can rinse my silken ribbons, Who can full the richest garments. 'Son beloved, praise thy Maker, For the winning of this virgin, Pride and joy of distant Sahri Kind indeed is thy Creator, Wise the ever-knowing Ukko! Pure the snow upon the mountains, Purer still thy Bride of Beauty; White the foam upon the ocean, Whiter still her virgin-spirit; Graceful on the lakes, the white-swan, Still more graceful, thy companion: Beautiful the stars in heaven, Still more beautiful, Kyllikki. Larger make our humble cottage, Wider build the doors and windows, Fashion thou the ceilings higher, Decorate the walls in beauty, Now that thou a bride hast taken From a tribe of higher station, Purest maiden of creation, From the meadow-lands of Sahri, From the upper shores of Northland.' ~ Elias Lönnrot

382:Dante At Verona Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice. (Div. Com. Purg. xxx.) OF Florence and of Beatrice Servant and singer from of old, O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd The knell that gave his Lady peace; And now in manhood flew the dart Wherewith his City pierced his heart. Yet if his Lady's home above Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul; And if his City held control To cast the body forth to rove, The soul could soar from earth's vain throng, And Heaven and Hell fulfil the song. Follow his feet's appointed way;— But little light we find that clears The darkness of the exiled years. Follow his spirit's journey:—nay, What fires are blent, what winds are blown On paths his feet may tread alone? Yet of the twofold life he led In chainless thought and fettered will Some glimpses reach us,—somewhat still Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,— Of the soul's quest whose stern avow For years had made him haggard now. Alas! the Sacred Song whereto Both heaven and earth had set their hand Not only at Fame's gate did stand Knocking to claim the passage through, But toiled to ope that heavier door Which Florence shut for evermore. Shall not his birth's baptismal Town One last high presage yet fulfil, And at that font in Florence still His forehead take the laurel-crown? O God! or shall dead souls deny The undying soul its prophecy? Aye, 'tis their hour. Not yet forgot 69 The bitter words he spoke that day When for some great charge far away Her rulers his acceptance sought. “And if I go, who stays?”—so rose His scorn:—“and if I stay, who goes?” “Lo! thou art gone now, and we stay” (The curled lips mutter): “and no star Is from thy mortal path so far As streets where childhood knew the way. To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, But thine own house they come not in.” Therefore, the loftier rose the song To touch the secret things of God, The deeper pierced the hate that trod On base men's track who wrought the wrong; Till the soul's effluence came to be Its own exceeding agony. Arriving only to depart, From court to court, from land to land, Like flame within the naked hand His body bore his burning heart That still on Florence strove to bring God's fire for a burnt offering. Even such was Dante's mood, when now, Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, He dwelt at yet another court, There where Verona's knee did bow And her voice hailed with all acclaim Can Grande della Scala's name. As that lord's kingly guest awhile His life we follow; through the days Which walked in exile's barren ways,— The nights which still beneath one smile Heard through all spheres one song increase,— “Even I, even I am Beatrice.” At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Due reverence did his steps attend; The ushers on his path would bend At ingoing as at going out; The penmen waited on his call At council-board, the grooms in hall. And pages hushed their laughter down, 70 And gay squires stilled the merry stir, When he passed up the dais-chamber With set brows lordlier than a frown; And tire-maids hidden among these Drew close their loosened bodices. Perhaps the priests, (exact to span All God's circumference,) if at whiles They found him wandering in their aisles, Grudged ghostly greeting to the man By whom, though not of ghostly guild, With Heaven and Hell men's hearts were fill'd. And the court-poets (he, forsooth, A whole world's poet strayed to court!) Had for his scorn their hate's retort. He'd meet them flushed with easy youth, Hot on their errands. Like noon-flies They vexed him in the ears and eyes. But at this court, peace still must wrench Her chaplet from the teeth of war: By day they held high watch afar, At night they cried across the trench; And still, in Dante's path, the fierce Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. But vain seemed all the strength to him, As golden convoys sunk at sea Whose wealth might root out penury: Because it was not, limb with limb, Knit like his heart-strings round the wall Of Florence, that ill pride might fall. Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust Cleared from the sundered press of knights Ere yet again it swoops and smites, He almost deemed his longing must Find force to yield that multitude And hurl that strength the way he would. How should he move them,—fame and gain On all hands calling them at strife? He still might find but his one life To give, by Florence counted vain; One heart the false hearts made her doubt, One voice she heard once and cast out. Oh! if his Florence could but come, 71 A lily-sceptred damsel fair, As her own Giotto painted her On many shields and gates at home,— A lady crowned, at a soft pace Riding the lists round to the dais: Till where Can Grande rules the lists, As young as Truth, as calm as Force, She draws her rein now, while her horse Bows at the turn of the white wrists; And when each knight within his stall Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all: All the foul tale,—truth sworn untrue And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? Great God! and must she not prevail To fire them ere they heard it through,— And hand achieve ere heart could rest That high adventure of her quest? How would his Florence lead them forth, Her bridle ringing as she went; And at the last within her tent, 'Neath golden lilies worship-worth, How queenly would she bend the while And thank the victors with her smile! Also her lips should turn his way And murmur: “O thou tried and true, With whom I wept the long years through! What shall it profit if I say, Thee I remember? Nay, through thee All ages shall remember me.” Peace, Dante, peace! The task is long, The time wears short to compass it. Within thine heart such hopes may flit And find a voice in deathless song: But lo! as children of man's earth, Those hopes are dead before their birth. Fame tells us that Verona's court Was a fair place. The feet might still Wander for ever at their will In many ways of sweet resort; And still in many a heart around The Poet's name due honour found. Watch we his steps. He comes upon 72 The women at their palm-playing. The conduits round the gardens sing And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, Where wearied damsels rest and hold Their hands in the wet spurt of gold. One of whom, knowing well that he, By some found stern, was mild with them, Would run and pluck his garment's hem, Saying, “Messer Dante, pardon me,”— Praying that they might hear the song Which first of all he made, when young. “Donne che avete” . . . Thereunto Thus would he murmur, having first Drawn near the fountain, while she nurs'd His hand against her side: a few Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said: Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head. For then the voice said in his heart, “Even I, even I am Beatrice”; And his whole life would yearn to cease: Till having reached his room, apart Beyond vast lengths of palace-floor, He drew the arras round his door. At such times, Dante, thou hast set Thy forehead to the painted pane Full oft, I know; and if the rain Smote it outside, her fingers met Thy brow; and if the sun fell there, Her breath was on thy face and hair. Then, weeping, I think certainly Thou hast beheld, past sight of eyne,— Within another room of thine Where now thy body may not be But where in thought thou still remain'st,— A window often wept against: The window thou, a youth, hast sought, Flushed in the limpid eventime, Ending with daylight the day's rhyme Of her; where oftenwhiles her thought Held thee—the lamp untrimmed to write— In joy through the blue lapse of night. At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, 73 Guests seldom wept. It was brave sport, No doubt, at Can La Scala's court, Within the palace and without; Where music, set to madrigals, Loitered all day through groves and halls. Because Can Grande of his life Had not had six-and-twenty years As yet. And when the chroniclers Tell you of that Vicenza strife And of strifes elsewhere,—you must not Conceive for church-sooth he had got Just nothing in his wits but war: Though doubtless 'twas the young man's joy (Grown with his growth from a mere boy,) To mark his “Viva Cane!” scare The foe's shut front, till it would reel All blind with shaken points of steel. But there were places—held too sweet For eyes that had not the due veil Of lashes and clear lids—as well In favour as his saddle-seat: Breath of low speech he scorned not there Nor light cool fingers in his hair. Yet if the child whom the sire's plan Made free of a deep treasure-chest Scoffed it with ill-conditioned jest,— We may be sure too that the man Was not mere thews, nor all content With lewdness swathed in sentiment. So you may read and marvel not That such a man as Dante—one Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought— Now at the same guest-table far'd Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard. Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within the glass,— They feasting where no sun could pass: And when the women, all as one, Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing, we know. But Dante recked not of the wine; 74 Whether the women stayed or went, His visage held one stern intent: And when the music had its sign To breathe upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. And as he spared not to rebuke The mirth, so oft in council he To bitter truth bore testimony: And when the crafty balance shook Well poised to make the wrong prevail, Then Dante's hand would turn the scale. And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona's sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, “the Mars of war, Sole arbiter of life and death,”— Be sure that Dante saved his breath. And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante's guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In Folly's horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb. Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplexed If any day that could come next Were worth the waiting for or no, And mute he sat amid their din,— Can Grande called the Jester in. Rank words, with such, are wit's best wealth. Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i' the air. Then, facing on his guest, he cried,— 75 “Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide.” And Dante: “'Tis man's ancient whim That still his like seems good to him.” Also a tale is told, how once, At clearing tables after meat, Piled for a jest at Dante's feet Were found the dinner's well-picked bones; So laid, to please the banquet's lord, By one who crouched beneath the board. Then smiled Can Grande to the rest:— “Our Dante's tuneful mouth indeed Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!” “Fair host of mine,” replied the guest, “So many bones you'd not descry If so it chanced the dog were I.” But wherefore should we turn the grout In a drained cup, or be at strife From the worn garment of a life To rip the twisted ravel out? Good needs expounding; but of ill Each hath enough to guess his fill. They named him Justicer-at-Law: Each month to bear the tale in mind Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd And of the load an ox might draw; To cavil in the weight of bread And to see purse-thieves gibbeted. And when his spirit wove the spell (From under even to over-noon In converse with itself alone,) As high as Heaven, as low as Hell,— He would be summoned and must go: For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo? Therefore the bread he had to eat Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares; And the rush-strown accustomed stairs Each day were steeper to his feet; And when the night-vigil was done, His brows would ache to feel the sun. Nevertheless, when from his kin 76 There came the tidings how at last In Florence a decree was pass'd Whereby all banished folk might win Free pardon, so a fine were paid And act of public penance made,— This Dante writ in answer thus, Words such as these: “That clearly they In Florence must not have to say,— The man abode aloof from us Nigh fifteen years, yet lastly skulk'd Hither to candleshrift and mulct. “That he was one the Heavens forbid To traffic in God's justice sold By market-weight of earthly gold, Or to bow down over the lid Of steaming censers, and so be Made clean of manhood's obloquy. “That since no gate led, by God's will, To Florence, but the one whereat The priests and money-changers sat, He still would wander; for that still, Even through the body's prison-bars, His soul possessed the sun and stars.” Such were his words. It is indeed For ever well our singers should Utter good words and know them good Not through song only; with close heed Lest, having spent for the work's sake Six days, the man be left to make. Months o'er Verona, till the feast Was come for Florence the Free Town: And at the shrine of Baptist John The exiles, girt with many a priest And carrying candles as they went, Were held to mercy of the saint. On the high seats in sober state,— Gold neck-chains range o'er range below Gold screen-work where the lilies grow,— The Heads of the Republic sate, Marking the humbled face go by Each one of his house-enemy. And as each proscript rose and stood 77 From kneeling in the ashen dust On the shrine-steps, some magnate thrust A beard into the velvet hood Of his front colleague's gown, to see The cinders stuck in the bare knee. Tosinghi passed, Manelli passed, Rinucci passed, each in his place; But not an Alighieri's face Went by that day from first to last In the Republic's triumph; nor A foot came home to Dante's door. (RESPUBLICA—a public thing: A shameful shameless prostitute, Whose lust with one lord may not suit, So takes by turn its revelling A night with each, till each at morn Is stripped and beaten forth forlorn, And leaves her, cursing her. If she, Indeed, have not some spice-draught, hid In scent under a silver lid, To drench his open throat with—he Once hard asleep; and thrust him not At dawn beneath the stairs to rot. Such this Republic!—not the Maid He yearned for; she who yet should stand With Heaven's accepted hand in hand, Invulnerable and unbetray'd: To whom, even as to God, should be Obeisance one with Liberty.) Years filled out their twelve moons, and ceased One in another; and alway There were the whole twelve hours each day And each night as the years increased; And rising moon and setting sun Beheld that Dante's work was done. What of his work for Florence? Well It was, he knew, and well must be. Yet evermore her hate's decree Dwelt in his thought intolerable:— His body to be burned,*—his soul To beat its wings at hope's vain goal. What of his work for Beatrice? 78 Now well-nigh was the third song writ,— The stars a third time sealing it With sudden music of pure peace: For echoing thrice the threefold song, The unnumbered stars the tone prolong.† Each hour, as then the Vision pass'd, He heard the utter harmony Of the nine trembling spheres, till she Bowed her eyes towards him in the last, So that all ended with her eyes, Hell, Purgatory, Paradise. “It is my trust, as the years fall, To write more worthily of her Who now, being made God's minister, Looks on His visage and knows all.” Such was the hope that love dar'd blend With grief's slow fires, to make an end Of the “New Life,” his youth's dear book: Adding thereunto: “In such trust I labour, and believe I must Accomplish this which my soul took In charge, if God, my Lord and hers, Leave my life with me a few years.” The trust which he had borne in youth Was all at length accomplished. He At length had written worthily— Yea even of her; no rhymes uncouth 'Twixt tongue and tongue; but by God's aid The first words Italy had said. Ah! haply now the heavenly guide Was not the last form seen by him: But there that Beatrice stood slim And bowed in passing at his side, For whom in youth his heart made moan Then when the city sat alone Quomodo sedet sola civitas! —The words quoted by Dante in the Vita Nuova when he speaks of the death of Beatrice. Clearly herself: the same whom he Met, not past girlhood, in the street, Low-bosomed and with hidden feet; And then as woman perfectly, In years that followed, many an once,— 79 And now at last among the suns In that high vision. But indeed It may be memory might recall Last to him then the first of all,— The child his boyhood bore in heed Nine years. At length the voice brought peace,— “Even I, even I am Beatrice.” All this, being there, we had not seen. Seen only was the shadow wrought On the strong features bound in thought; The vagueness gaining gait and mien; The white streaks gathering clear to view In the burnt beard the women knew. For a tale tells that on his track, As through Verona's streets he went, This saying certain women sent:— “Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back At will! Behold him, how Hell's reek Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek.” “Whereat” (Boccaccio's words) “he smiled For pride in fame.” It might be so: Nevertheless we cannot know If haply he were not beguiled To bitterer mirth, who scarce could tell If he indeed were back from Hell. So the day came, after a space, When Dante felt assured that there The sunshine must lie sicklier Even than in any other place, Save only Florence. When that day Had come, he rose and went his way. He went and turned not. From his shoes It may be that he shook the dust, As every righteous dealer must Once and again ere life can close: And unaccomplished destiny Struck cold his forehead, it may be. No book keeps record how the Prince Sunned himself out of Dante's reach, Nor how the Jester stank in speech: While courtiers, used to cringe and wince, Poets and harlots, all the throng, 80 Let loose their scandal and their song. No book keeps record if the seat Which Dante held at his host's board Were sat in next by clerk or lord,— If leman lolled with dainty feet At ease, or hostage brooded there, Or priest lacked silence for his prayer. Eat and wash hands, Can Grande;—scarce We know their deeds now: hands which fed Our Dante with that bitter bread; And thou the watch-dog of those stairs Which, of all paths his feet knew well, Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti

383:Admetus: To My Friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson He who could beard the lion in his lair, To bind him for a girl, and tame the boar, And drive these beasts before his chariot, Might wed Alcestis. For her low brows' sake, Her hairs' soft undulations of warm gold, Her eyes' clear color and pure virgin mouth, Though many would draw bow or shiver spear, Yet none dared meet the intolerable eye, Or lipless tusk, of lion or of boar. This heard Admetus, King of Thessaly, Whose broad, fat pastures spread their ample fields Down to the sheer edge of Amphrysus' stream, Who laughed, disdainful, at the father's pride, That set such value on one milk-faced child. One morning, as he rode alone and passed Through the green twilight of Thessalian woods, Between two pendulous branches interlocked, As through an open casement, he descried A goddess, as he deemed, — in truth a maid. On a low bank she fondled tenderly A favorite hound, her floral face inclined Above the glossy, graceful animal, That pressed his snout against her cheek and gazed Wistfully, with his keen, sagacious eyes. One arm with lax embrace the neck enwreathed, With polished roundness near the sleek, gray skin. Admetus, fixed with wonder, dared not pass, Intrusive on her holy innocence And sacred girlhood, but his fretful steed Snuffed the large air, and champed and pawed the ground; And hearing this, the maiden raised her head. No let or hindrance then might stop the king, Once having looked upon those supreme eyes. The drooping boughs disparting, forth he sped, And then drew in his steed, to ask the path, Like a lost traveller in an alien land. Although each river-cloven vale, with streams Arrowy glancing to the blue Ægean, Each hallowed mountain, the abode of gods, Pelion and Ossa fringed with haunted groves, The height, spring-crowned, of dedicate Olympus, And pleasant sun-fed vineyards, were to him Familiar as his own face in the stream, Nathless he paused and asked the maid what path Might lead him from the forest. She replied, But still he tarried, and with sportsman's praise Admired the hound and stooped to stroke its head, And asked her if she hunted. Nay, not she: Her father Pelias hunted in these woods, Where there was royal game. He knew her now, — Alcestis, — and her left her with due thanks: No goddess, but a mortal, to be won By such a simple feat as driving boars And lions to his chariot. What was that To him who saw the boar of Calydon, The sacred boar of Artemis, at bay In the broad stagnant marsh, and sent his darts In its tough, quivering flank, and saw its death, Stung by sure arrows of Arcadian nymph? To river-pastures of his flocks and herds Admetus rode, where sweet-breathed cattle grazed, Heifers and goats and kids, and foolish sheep Dotted cool, spacious meadows with bent heads, And necks' soft wool broken in yellow flakes, Nibbling sharp-toothed the rich, thick-growing blades. One herdsmen kept the innumerable droves — A boy yet, young as immortality — In listless posture on a vine-grown rock. Around him huddled kids and sheep that left The mother's udder for his nighest grass, Which sprouted with fresh verdure where he sat. And yet dull neighboring rustics never guessed A god had been among them till he went, Although with him they acted as he willed, Renouncing shepherds' silly pranks and quips, 10 Because his very presence made them grave. Amphryssius, after their translucent stream, They called him, but Admetus knew his name, — Hyperion, god of sun and song and silver speech, Condemned to serve a mortal for his sin To Zeus in sending violent darts of death, And raising hand irreverent, against The one-eyed forgers of the thunderbolt. For shepherd's crook he held the living rod Of twisted serpents, later Hermes' wand. Him sought the king, discovering soon hard by, Idle, as one in nowise bound to time, Watching the restless grasses blow and wave, The sparkle of the sun upon the stream, Regretting nothing, living with the hour: For him, who had his light and song within, Was naught that did not shine, and all things sang. Admetus prayed for his celestial aid To win Alcestis, which the god vouchsafed, Granting with smiles, as grant all gods, who smite With stern hand, sparing not for piteousness, But give their gifts in gladness. Thus the king Led with loose rein the beasts as tame as kine, And townsfolk thronged within the city streets, As round a god; and mothers showed their babes, And maidens loved the crowned intrepid youth, And men would worship, though the very god Who wrought the wonder dwelled unnoted nigh, Divinely scornful of neglect or praise. Then Pelias, seeing this would be his son, As he had vowed, called for his wife and child. With Anaxibia, Alcestis came, A warm flush spreading o'er her eager face In looking on the rider of the woods, And knowing him her suitor and the king. Admetus won Alcestis thus to wife, And these with mated hearts and mutual love 11 Lived a life blameless, beautiful: the king Ordaining justice in the gates; the queen, With grateful offerings to the household gods, Wise with the wisdom of the pure in heart. One child she bore, — Eumelus, — and he throve. Yet none the less because they sacrificed The firstlings of their flocks and fruits and flowers, Did trouble come; for sickness seized the king. Alcestis watched with many-handed love, But unavailing service, for he lay With languid limbs, despite his ancient strength Of sinew, and his skill with spear and sword. His mother came, Clymene, and with her His father, Pheres: his unconscious child They brought him, while forlorn Alcestis sat Discouraged, with the face of desolation. The jealous gods would bind his mouth from speech, And smite his vigorous frame with impotence; And ruin with bitter ashes, worms, and dust, The beauty of his crowned, exalted head. He knew her presence, — soon he would not know, Nor feel her hand in his lie warm and close, Nor care if she were near him any more. Exhausted with long vigils, thus the queen Held hard and grievous thoughts, till heavy sleep Possessed her weary senses, and she dreamed. And even in her dream her trouble lived, For she was praying in a barren field To all the gods for help, when came across The waste of air and land, from distant skies, A spiritual voice divinely clear, Whose unimaginable sweetness thrilled Her aching heart with tremor of strange joy: 'Arise, Alcestis, cast away white fear. A god dwells with you: seek, and you shall find.' Then quiet satisfaction filled her soul Almost akin to gladness, and she woke. Weak as the dead, Admetus lay there still; But she, superb with confidence, arose, And passed beyond the mourners' curious eyes, Seeking Amphryssius in the meadow-lands. She found him with the godlike mien of one 12 Who, roused, awakens unto deeds divine: 'I come, Hyperion, with incessant tears, To crave the life of my dear lord the king. Pity me, for I see the future years Widowed and laden with disastrous days. And ye, the gods, will miss him when the fires Upon your shrines, unfed, neglected die. Who will pour large libations in your names, And sacrifice with generous piety? Silence and apathy will greet you there Where once a splendid spirit offered praise. Grant me this boon divine, and I will beat With prayer at morning's gates, before they ope Unto thy silver-hoofed and flame-eyed steeds. Answer ere yet the irremeable stream Be crossed: answer, O god, and save!' She ceased, With full throat salt with tears, and looked on him, And with a sudden cry of awe fell prone, For, lo! he was transmuted to a god; The supreme aureole radiant round his brow, Divine refulgence on his face, — his eyes Awful with splendor, and his august head With blinding brilliance crowned by vivid flame. Then in a voice that charmed the listening air: 'Woman, arise! I have no influence On Death, who is the servant of the Fates. Howbeit for thy passion and thy prayer, The grace of thy fair womanhood and youth, Thus godlike will I intercede for thee, And sue the insatiate sisters for this life. Yet hope not blindly: loth are these to change Their purpose; neither will they freely give, But haggling lend or sell: perchance the price Will countervail the boon. Consider this. Now rise and look upon me.' And she rose, But by her stood no godhead bathed in light, But young Amphryssius, herdsman to the king, Benignly smiling. Fleet as thought, the god Fled from the glittering earth to blackest depths Of Tartarus; and none might say he sped 13 On wings ambrosial, or with feet as swift As scouring hail, or airy chariot Borne by flame-breathing steeds ethereal; But with a motion inconceivable Departed and was there. Before the throne Of Ades, first he hailed the long-sought queen, Stolen with violent hands from grassy fields And delicate airs of sunlit Sicily, Pensive, gold-haired, but innocent-eyed no more As when she laughing plucked the daffodils, But grave as one fulfilling a strange doom. And low at Ades' feet, wrapped in grim murk And darkness thick, the three gray women sat, Loose-robed and chapleted with wool and flowers, Purple narcissi round their horrid hair. Intent upon her task, the first one held The slender thread that at a touch would snap; The second weaving it with warp and woof Into strange textures, some stained dark and foul, Some sanguine-colored, and some black as night, And rare ones white, or with a golden thread Running throughout the web: the farthest hag With glistening scissors cut her sisters' work. To these Hyperion, but they never ceased, Nor raised their eyes, till with soft, moderate tones, But by their powerful persuasiveness Commanding all to listen and obey, He spoke, and all hell heard, and these three looked And waited his request: 'I come, a god, At a pure mortal queen's request, who sues For life renewed unto her dying lord, Admetus; and I also pray this prayer.' 'Then cease, for when hath Fate been moved by prayer?' 'But strength and upright heart should serve with you.' 'Nay, these may serve with all but Destiny.' 'I ask ye not forever to forbear, But spare a while, — a moment unto us, A lifetime unto men.' 'The Fates swerve not For supplications, like the pliant gods. Have they not willed a life's thread should be cut? With them the will is changeless as the deed. 14 O men! ye have not learned in all the past, Desires are barren and tears yield no fruit. How long will ye besiege the thrones of gods With lamentations? When lagged Death for all Your timorous shirking? We work not like you, Delaying and relenting, purposeless, With unenduring issues; but our deeds, Forever interchained and interlocked, Complete each other and explain themselves.' 'Ye will a life: then why not any life?' 'What care we for the king? He is not worth These many words; indeed, we love not speech. We care not if he live, or lose such life As men are greedy for, — filled full with hate, Sins beneath scorn, and only lit by dreams, Or one sane moment, or a useless hope, — Lasting how long? — the space between the green And fading yellow of the grass they tread.' But he withdrawing not: 'Will any life Suffice ye for Admetus?' 'Yea,' the crones Three times repeated. 'We know no such names As king or queen or slave: we want but life. Begone, and vex us in our work no more.' With broken blessings, inarticulate joy And tears, Alcestis thanked Hyperion, And worshipped. Then he gently: 'Who will die, So that the king may live?' And she: 'You ask? Nay, who will live when life clasps hands with shame, And death with honor? Lo, you are a god; You cannot know the highest joy of life, — To leave it when 't is worthier to die. His parents, kinsmen, courtiers, subjects, slaves, — For love of him myself would die, were none Found ready; but what Greek would stand to see A woman glorified, and falter? Once, And only once, the gods will do this thing In all the ages: such a man themselves Delight to honor, — holy, temperate, chaste, 15 With reverence for his dæmon and his god.' Thus she triumphant to the very door Of King Admetus' chamber. All there saw Her ill-timed gladness with much wonderment. But she: 'No longer mourn! The king is saved: The Fates will spare him. Lift your voice in praise; Sing pæans to Apollo; crown your brows With laurel; offer thankful sacrifice!' 'O Queen, what mean these foolish words misplaced? And what an hour is this to thank the Fates?' 'Thrice blessed be the gods! — for God himself Has sued for me, — they are not stern and deaf. Cry, and they answer: commune with your soul, And they send counsel: weep with rainy grief, And these will sweeten you your bitterest tears. On one condition King Admetus lives, And ye, on hearing, will lament no more, Each emulous to save.' Then — for she spake Assured, as having heard an oracle — They asked: 'What deed of ours may serve the king?' 'The Fates accept another life for his, And one of you may die.' Smiling, she ceased. But silence answered her. 'What! do ye thrust Your arrows in your hearts beneath your cloaks, Dying like Greeks, too proud to own the pang? This ask I not. In all the populous land But one need suffer for immortal praise. The generous Fates have sent no pestilence, Famine, nor war: it is as though they gave Freely, and only make the boon more rich By such slight payment. Now a people mourns, And ye may change the grief to jubilee, Filling the cities with a pleasant sound. But as for me, what faltering words can tell My joy, in extreme sharpness kin to pain? A monument you have within my heart, Wreathed with kind love and dear remembrances; And I will pray for you before I crave Pardon and pity for myself from God. Your name will he the highest in the land, 16 Oftenest, fondest on my grateful lips, After the name of him you die to save. What! silent still? Since when has virtue grown Less beautiful than indolence and ease? Is death more terrible, more hateworthy, More bitter than dishonor? Will ye live On shame? Chew and find sweet its poisoned fruits? What sons will ye bring forth — mean-souled like you, Or, like your parents, brave — to blush like girls, And say, 'Our fathers were afraid to die!' Ye will not dare to raise heroic eyes Unto the eyes of aliens. In the streets Will women and young children point at you Scornfully, and the sun will find you shamed, And night refuse to shield you. What a life Is this ye spin and fashion for yourselves! And what new tortures of suspense and doubt Will death invent for such as are afraid! Acastus, thou my brother, in the field Foremost, who greeted me with sanguine hands From ruddy battle with a conqueror's face, — These honors wilt thou blot with infamy? Nay, thou hast won no honors: a mere girl Would do as much as thou at such a time, In clamorous battle, 'midst tumultuous sounds, Neighing of war-steeds, shouts of sharp command, Snapping of shivered spears; for all are brave When all men look to them expectantly; But he is truly brave who faces death Within his chamber, at a sudden call, At night, when no man sees, — content to die When life can serve no longer those he loves.' Then thus Acastus: 'Sister, I fear not Death, nor the empty darkness of the grave, And hold my life but as a little thing, Subject unto my people's call, and Fate. But if 't is little, no greater is the king's; And though my heart bleeds sorely, I recall Astydamia, who thus would mourn for me. We are not cowards, we youth of Thessaly, And Thessaly — yea, all Greece — knoweth it; Nor will we brook the name from even you, 17 Albeit a queen, and uttering these wild words Through your unwonted sorrow.' Then she knew That he stood firm, and turning from him, cried To the king's parents: 'Are ye deaf with grief, Pheres, Clymene? Ye can save your son, Yet rather stand and weep with barren tears. O, shame! to think that such gray, reverend hairs Should cover such unvenerable heads! What would ye lose?— a remnant of mere life, A few slight raveled threads, and give him years To fill with glory. Who, when he is gone, Will call you gentlest names this side of heaven, — Father and mother? Knew ye not this man Ere he was royal, — a poor, helpless child, Crownless and kingdomless? One birth alone Sufficeth not, Clymene: once again You must give life with travail and strong pain. Has he not lived to outstrip your swift hopes? What mother can refuse a second birth To such a son? But ye denying him, What after-offering may appease the gods? What joy outweigh the grief of this one day? What clamor drown the hours' myriad tongues, Crying, 'Your son, your son? where is your son, Unnatural mother, timid, foolish man?' Then Pheres gravely: 'These are graceless words From you our daughter. Life is always life, And death comes soon enough to such as we. We twain are old and weak, have served our time, And made our sacrifices. Let the young Arise now in their turn and save the king.' 'O gods! look on your creatures! do ye see? And seeing, have ye patience? Smite them all, Unsparing, with dishonorable death. Vile slaves! a woman teaches you to die. Intrepid, with exalted steadfast soul, Scorn in my heart, and love unutterable, I yield the Fates my life, and like a god Command them to revere that sacred head. Thus kiss I thrice the dear, blind, holy eyes, And bid them see; and thrice I kiss this brow, And thus unfasten I the pale, proud lips 18 With fruitful kissings, bringing love and life, And without fear or any pang, I breathe My soul in him.' 'Alcestis, I awake. I hear, I hear — unspeak thy reckless words! For, lo! thy life-blood tingles in my veins, And streameth through my body like new wine. Behold! thy spirit dedicate revives My pulse, and through thy sacrifice I breathe. Thy lips are bloodless: kiss me not again. Ashen thy cheeks, faded thy flowerlike hands. O woman! perfect in thy womanhood And in thy wifehood, I adjure thee now As mother, by the love thou bearest our child, In this thy hour of passion and of love, Of sacrifice and sorrow, to unsay Thy words sublime!' 'I die that thou mayest live.' 'And deemest thou that I accept the boon, Craven, like these my subjects? Lo, my queen, Is life itself a lovely thing, — bare life? And empty breath a thing desirable? Or is it rather happiness and love That make it precious to its inmost core? When these are lost, are there not swords in Greece, And flame and poison, deadly waves and plagues? No man has ever lacked these things and gone Unsatisfied. It is not these the gods refuse (Nay, never clutch my sleeve and raise thy lip), — Not these I seek; but I will stab myself, Poison my life and burn my flesh, with words, And save or follow thee. Lo! hearken now: I bid the gods take back their loathsome gifts: I spurn them, and I scorn them, and I hate. Will they prove deaf to this as to my prayers? With tongue reviling, blasphemous, I curse, With mouth polluted from deliberate heart. Dishonored be their names, scorned be their priests, Ruined their altars, mocked their oracles! It is Admetus, King of Thessaly, Defaming thus: annihilate him, gods! So that his queen, who worships you, may live.' He paused as one expectant; but no bolt 19 From the insulted heavens answered him, But awful silence followed. Then a hand, A boyish hand, upon his shoulder fell, And turning, he beheld his shepherd boy, Not wrathful, but divinely pitiful, Who spake in tender, thrilling tones: 'The gods Cannot recall their gifts. Blaspheme them not: Bow down and worship rather. Shall he curse Who sees not, and who hears not, — neither knows Nor understands? Nay, thou shalt bless and pray, — Pray, for the pure heart, purged by prayer, divines And seeth when the bolder eyes are blind. Worship and wonder, — these befit a man At every hour; and mayhap will the gods Yet work a miracle for knees that bend And hands that supplicate.' Then all they knew A sudden sense of awe, and bowed their heads Beneath the stripling's gaze: Admetus fell, Crushed by that gentle touch, and cried aloud: 'Pardon and pity! I am hard beset.' There waited at the doorway of the king One grim and ghastly, shadowy, horrible, Bearing the likeness of a king himself, Erect as one who serveth not, — upon His head a crown, within his fleshless hands A sceptre, — monstrous, winged, intolerable. To him a stranger coming 'neath the trees, Which slid down flakes of light, now on his hair, Close-curled, now on his bared and brawny chest, Now on his flexile, vine-like veinéd limbs, With iron network of strong muscle thewed, And godlike brows and proud mouth unrelaxed. Firm was his step; no superfluity Of indolent flesh impeded this man's strength. Slender and supple every perfect limb, Beautiful with the glory of a man. No weapons bare he, neither shield: his hands Folded upon his breast, his movements free Of all incumbrance. When his mighty strides 20 Had brought him nigh the waiting one, he paused: 'Whose palace this? and who art thou, grim shade?' 'The palace of the King of Thessaly, And my name is not strange unto thine ears; For who hath told men that I wait for them, The one sure thing on earth? Yet all they know, Unasking and yet answered. I am Death, The only secret that the gods reveal. But who art thou who darest question me?' 'Alcides; and that thing I dare not do Hath found no name. Whom here awaitest thou?' 'Alcestis, Queen of Thessaly, — a queen Who wooed me as the bridegroom woos the bride, For her life sacrificed will save her lord Admetus, as the Fates decreed. I wait Impatient, eager; and I enter soon, With darkening wing, invisible, a god, And kiss her lips, and kiss her throbbing heart, And then the tenderest hands can do no more Than close her eyes and wipe her cold, white brow, Inurn her ashes and strew flowers above.' 'This woman is a god, a hero, Death. In this her sacrifice I see a soul Luminous, starry: earth can spare her not: It is not rich enough in purity To lose this paragon. Save her, O Death! Thou surely art more gentle than the Fates, Yet these have spared her lord, and never meant That she should suffer, and that this their grace, Beautiful, royal on one side, should turn Sudden and show a fearful, fatal face.' 'Nay, have they not? O fond and foolish man, Naught comes unlooked for, unforeseen by them. Doubt when they favor thee, though thou mayest laugh When they have scourged thee with an iron scourge. Behold, their smile is deadlier than their sting, And every boon of theirs is double-faced. Yea, I am gentler unto ye than these: I slay relentless, but when have I mocked With poisoned gifts, and generous hands that smite Under the flowers? for my name is Truth. Were this fair queen more fair, more pure, more chaste, 21 I would not spare her for your wildest prayer Nor her best virtue. Is the earth's mouth full? Is the grave satisfied? Discrown me then, For life is lord, and men may mock the gods With immortality.' 'I sue no more, But I command thee spare this woman's life, Or wrestle with Alcides.' 'Wrestle with thee, Thou puny boy!' And Death laughed loud, and swelled To monstrous bulk, fierce-eyed, with outstretched wings, And lightnings round his brow; but grave and firm, Strong as a tower, Alcides waited him, And these began to wrestle, and a cloud Impenetrable fell, and all was dark. 'Farewell, Admetus and my little son, Eumelus, — O these clinging baby hands! Thy loss is bitter, for no chance, no fame, No wealth of love, can ever compensate For a dead mother. Thou, O king, fulfill The double duty: love him with my love, And make him bold to wrestle, shiver spears, Noble and manly, Grecian to the bone; And tell him that his mother spake with gods. Farewell, farewell! Mine eyes are growing blind: The darkness gathers. O my heart, my heart!' No sound made answer save the cries of grief From all the mourners, and the suppliance Of strick'n Admetus: ' O have mercy, gods! O gods, have mercy, mercy upon us!' Then from the dying woman's couch again Her voice was heard, but with strange sudden tones: 'Lo, I awake, — the light comes back to me. What miracle is this?' And thunders shook The air, and clouds of mighty darkness fell, And the earth trembled, and weird, horrid sounds Were heard of rushing wings and fleeing feet, And groans; and all were silent, dumb with awe, Saving the king, who paused not in his prayer: 'Have mercy, gods!' and then again, 'O gods, Have mercy!' 22 Through the open casement poured Bright floods of sunny light; the air was soft, Clear, delicate as though a summer storm Had passed away; and those there standing saw, Afar upon the plain, Death fleeing thence, And at the doorway, weary, well-nigh spent, Alcides, flushed with victory. ~ Emma Lazarus

384:The Moat House PART I UNDER the shade of convent towers, Where fast and vigil mark the hours, From childhood into youth there grew A maid as fresh as April dew, And sweet as May's ideal flowers, Brighter than dawn in wind-swept skies, Like children's dreams most pure, unwise, Yet with a slumbering soul-fire too, That sometimes shone a moment through Her wondrous unawakened eyes. The nuns, who loved her coldly, meant The twig should grow as it was bent; That she, like them, should watch youth's bier, Should watch her day-dreams disappear, And go the loveless way they went. The convent walls were high and grey; How could Love hope to find a way Into that citadel forlorn, Where his dear name was put to scorn, Or called a sinful thing to say? Yet Love did come; what need to tell Of flowers downcast, that sometimes fell Across her feet when dreamily She paced, with unused breviary, Down paths made still with August's spell-- Of looks cast through the chapel grate, 331 Of letters helped by Love and Fate, That to cold fingers did not come But lay within a warmer home, Upon her heart inviolate? Somehow he loved her--she loved him: Then filled her soul's cup to the brim, And all her daily life grew bright With such a flood of rosy light As turned the altar candles dim. But love that lights is love that leads, And lives upon the heart it feeds; Soon grew she pale though not less fair, And sighed his name instead of prayer, And told her heart-throbs, not her beads. How could she find the sunlight fair, A sunlight that he did not share? How could a rose smell sweet within The cruel bars that shut her in, And shut him out while she was there? He vowed her fealty firm and fast, Then to the winds her fears she cast; They found a way to cheat the bars, And in free air, beneath free stars, Free, and with him, she stood at last. 'Now to some priest,' he said, 'that he May give thee--blessing us--to me.' 'No priest,' she cried in doubt and fear, 'He would divide, not join us, dear. I am mine--I give myself to thee. 'Since thou and I are mine and thine, 332 What need to swear it at a shrine? Would love last longer if we swore That we would love for evermore? God gives me thee--and thou art mine.' 'God weds us now,' he said, 'yet still Some day shall we all forms fulfil. Eternal truth affords to smile At laws wherewith man marks his guile, Yet law shall join us--when you will. 'So look your last, my love, on these Forbidding walls and wooing trees. Farewell to grief and gloom,' said he; 'Farewell to childhood's joy,' said she; But neither said, 'Farewell to peace.' Song. My sweet, my sweet, She is complete From dainty head to darling feet; So warm and white, So brown and bright, So made for love and love's delight. God could but spare One flower so fair, There is none like her anywhere; Beneath wide skies The whole earth lies, But not two other such brown eyes. The world we're in, If one might win? Not worth that dimple in her chin A heaven to know? I'll let that go 333 But once to see her lids droop low Over her eyes, By love made wise: To see her bosom fall and rise Is more than worth The angels' mirth, And all the heaven-joys of earth. This is the hour Which gives me power To win and wear earth's whitest flower. Oh, Love, give grace, Through all life's ways Keep pure this heart, her dwelling place. II The fields were reaped and the pastures bare, And the nights grown windy and chill, When the lovers passed through the beech woods fair, And climbed the brow of the hill. In the hill's spread arm the Moat House lies With elm and willow tree; 'And is that your home at last?' she sighs. 'Our home at last,' laughs he. Across the bridge and into the hall Where the waiting housefolk were. 'This is my lady,' he said to them all, And she looked so sweet and fair That every maid and serving-boy God-blessed them then and there, And wished them luck, and gave them joy, For a happy, handsome pair. And only the old nurse shook her head: 334 'Too young,' she said, 'too young.' She noted that no prayers were read, No marriage bells were rung; No guests were called, no feast was spread, As was meet for a marriage tide; The young lord in the banquet hall broke bread Alone with his little bride. Yet her old heart warmed to the two, and blessed, They were both so glad and gay, By to-morrow and yesterday unoppressed, Fulfilled of the joy of to-day; Like two young birds in that dull old nest, So careless of coming care, So rapt in the other that each possessed, The two young lovers were. He was heir to a stern hard-natured race, That had held the Moat House long, But the gloom of his formal dwelling place Dissolved at her voice and song; So bright, so sweet, to the house she came, So winning of way and word, The household knew her by one pet name, 'My Lady Ladybird.' First love so rarely gets leave to bring, In our world where money is might, Its tender buds to blossoming With the sun of its own delight. We love at rose or at vintage prime, In the glare and heat of the day, Forgetting the dawn and the violet time, And the wild sweet scent of the may. These loved like children, like children played, The old house laughed with delight At her song of a voice, at the radiance made 335 By her dress's flashing flight. Up the dark oak stair, through the gallery's gloom, She ran like a fairy fleet, And ever her lover from room to room Fast followed her flying feet. They gathered the buds of the late-lived rose In the ordered garden ways, They walked through the sombre yew-walled close And threaded the pine woods maze, They rode through woods where their horses came Knee-deep through the rustling leaves, Through fields forlorn of the poppies' flame And bereft of their golden sheaves. In the mellow hush of October noon They rowed in the flat broad boat, Through the lily leaves so thickly strewn On the sunny side of the moat. They were glad of the fire of the beech-crowned hill, And glad of the pale deep sky, And the shifting shade that the willows made On the boat as she glided by. They roamed each room of the Moat House through And questioned the wraiths of the past, What legends rare the old dresses knew, And the swords, what had wet them last? What faces had looked through the lozenge panes, What shadows darkened the door, What feet had walked in the jewelled stains That the rich glass cast on the floor? She dressed her beauty in old brocade That breathed of loss and regret, In laces that broken hearts had swayed, In the days when the swords were wet; And the rubies and pearls laughed out and said, 336 'Though the lovers for whom we were set, And the women who loved us, have long been dead, Yet beauty and we live yet.' When the wild white winter's spectral hand Effaced the green and the red, And crushed the fingers brown of the land Till they grew death-white instead, The two found cheer in their dark oak room, And their dreams of a coming spring, For a brighter sun shone through winter's gloom Than ever a summer could bring. They sat where the great fires blazed in the hall, Where the wolf-skins lay outspread, The pictured faces looked down from the wall To hear his praise of the dead. He told her ghostly tales of the past, And legends rare of his house, Till she held her breath at the shade fire-cast, And the scamper-rush of the mouse, Till she dared not turn her head to see What shape might stand by her chair-Till she cried his name, and fled to his knee, And safely nestled there. Then they talked of their journey, the city's crowd, Of the convent's faint joy and pain, Till the ghosts of the past were laid in the shroud Of commonplace things again. So the winter died, and the baby spring, With hardly voice for a cry, And hands too weak the signs to bring That all men might know her by, Yet woke, and breathed through the soft wet air The promise of all things dear, And poets and lovers knew she was there, 337 And sang to their hearts, 'She is here.' Song. Soft is the ground underfoot, Soft are the skies overhead, Green is the ivy round brown hedge root, Green is the moss where we tread. Purple the woods are, and brown; The blackbird is glossy and sleek, He knows that the worms are no more kept down By frost out of reach of his beak. Grey are the sheep in the fold, Tired of their turnip and beet, Dreaming of meadow and pasture and wold, And turf the warm rain will make sweet. Leaves sleep, no bud wakens yet, But we know by the song of the sun, And the happy way that the world smiles, wet, That the spring--oh, be glad!--is begun. What stirs the heart of the tree? What stirs the seed the earth bears? What is it stirring in you and in me Longing for summer, like theirs?-Longing you cannot explain, Yearning that baffles me still! Ah! that each spring should bring longings again No summer can ever fulfil! III When all the world had echoed the song 338 That the poet and lover sang, When 'Glory to spring,' sweet, soft, and strong, From the ferny woods outrang, In wet green meadow, in hollow green, The primrose stars outshone, And the bluebells balanced their drooping sheen In copses lovely and lone. The green earth laughed, full of leaf and flower, The sky laughed too, full of sun; Was this the hour for a parting hour, With the heaven of spring just won? The woods and fields were echoing To a chorus of life and bliss. Oh, hard to sting the face of the spring With the smart of a parting kiss! A kinsman ailing, a summons sent To haste to his dying bed. 'Oh, cruel sentence of banishment! For my heart says 'Go'!' he said. 'So now good-bye to my home, my dear, To the spring we watched from its birth; There is no spring, oh, my sweet, but here, 'Tis winter all over the earth. 'But I come again, oh, spring of my life, You hold the cord in your hand That will draw me back, oh, my sweetheart wife, To the place where your dear feet stand; But a few short days, and my arms shall be Once more round your little head, And you will be weeping glad tears with me On the grave of our parting, dead! 'I leave you my heart for a short short while, It will ache if 'tis wrapped in fears; Keep it safe and warm in the sun of your smile, 339 Not wet with the rain of your tears. Be glad of the joy that shall soon be won, Be glad to-day, though we part; You shall weep for our parting when parting is done, And drop your tears on my heart.' Song. Good-bye, my love, my only dear, I know your heart is true And that it lingers here with me while mine fares forth with you. We part? Our hearts are almost one, and are so closely tied 'Tis yours that stirs my bosom-lace, mine beats against your side. So not at losing you I grieve, since heart and soul stay here, But all the gladness of my life, I cry to lose it, dear; Warmth of the sun, sweet of the rose, night's rest and light of day, I mourn for these, for if you go, you take them all away. You are sad too--not at leaving me, whose heart must with you go, But at the heaven you leave behind--ah, yes--you told me so, You said wherever you might go you could not ever find A spring so sweet, love so complete, as these you leave behind. No future joy will ever pay this moment's bitter ache, Yet I am glad to be so sad, since it is for your sake. You take so much, I do but wish that you could take the whole, Could take me, since you take my rest, my light, my joy, my soul. Song. Oh, love, I leave This springtide eve, When woods in sunset shine blood-red; The long road lies Before my eyes, My horse goes on with even tread. 340 I dare not turn These eyes that burn Back to the terrace where you lean; If I should see Your tears for me, I must turn back to dry them, O my queen! Yet I must go, Fate has it so, Duty spoke once, and I obey; Sadly I rise, Leave paradise, And turn my face the other way. Nothing is dear On earth but here, There is no joy away from you; What though there be New things to see, New friends, new faces, and adventures new? Yet since I may Not with you stay, Hey for the outer world of life! Brace limbs, shake rein, And seek again The hurry, jostle, jar and strife. Hey for the new! Yet, love, for you-I have loved you so--the last hand-kiss. How vast a world Lies here unfurled! How small, if sweet, home's inner round of bliss! The road bends right, 341 Leads out of sight, Here I may turn, nor fear to see; So far away, One could not say If you are weeping now for me. Behind this eve My love I leave, The big bright world spreads out before; Yet will I come, To you and home, Oh, love, and rest beneath your yoke once more. IV She stood upon the terrace, gazing still Down the long road to watch him out of sight, Dry-eyed at first, until the swelling hill Hid him. Then turned she to the garden bright, Whose ways held memories of lover's laughter, And lover's sadness that had followed after, Both born of passion's too intense delight. The garden knew her secrets, and its bowers Threw her her secrets back in mocking wise; ''Twas here he buried you in lilac flowers. Here while he slept you covered up his eyes With primroses. They died; and by that token Love, like a flower whose stalk has once been broken, Will live no more for all your tears and sighs.' The sundial that had marked their happy hours Cried out to her, 'I know that he is gone; So many twos have wreathed me round with flowers, And always one came afterwards alone, And always wept--even as you are weeping. The flowers while they lived were cold, shade keeping, But always through the tears the sun still shone.' 342 She left the garden; but the house still more Whispered, 'You love him--he has gone away.' Where fell her single footstep sighed the floor, 'Another foot than yours fell here to-day.' The very hound she stroked looked round and past her, Then in her face, and whined, 'Where is our master?' The whole house had the same one thing to say. Empty, without its soul, disconsolate, The great house was: through all the rooms went she, And every room was dark and desolate, Nothing seemed good to do or good to see. At last, upon the wolf-skins, worn with weeping, The old nurse found her, like a tired child, sleeping With face tear-stained, and sobbing brokenly. Wearily went the days, all sad the same, Yet each brought its own added heaviness. Why was it that no letter from him came To ease the burden of her loneliness? Why did he send no message, word, or greeting, To help her forward to their day of meeting, No written love--no black and white caress? At last there came a letter, sweet but brief, 'He was so busy--had no time for more.' No time! She had had time enough for grief, There never had been so much time before; And yet the letter lay within her bosom, Pressed closely to her breathing beauty's blossom, Worn for a balm, because her heart was sore. She knew not where he stayed, and so could send, Of all the letters that she wrote, not one; Hour after soft spring hour the child would spend In pouring out her soul, for, once begun, 343 The tale of all her love and grief flowed over Upon the letters that she wrote her lover, And that the fire read when the tale was done. And yet she never doubted he would come, If not before, yet when a baby's eyes Should look for him, when his deserted home Should waken to a baby's laughs and cries. 'He judges best--perhaps he comes to-morrow, But come he will, and we shall laugh at sorrow When in my arms our little baby lies.' And in the August days a soft hush fell Upon the house--the old nurse kept her place Beside the little wife--and all was well; After rapt anguish came a breathing space, And she, mid tears and smiles, white-faced, glad-eyed, Felt her wee baby move against her side, Kissed its small hands, worshipped its tiny face. Song. Oh, baby, baby, baby dear, We lie alone together here; The snowy gown and cap and sheet With lavender are fresh and sweet; Through half-closed blinds the roses peer To see and love you, baby dear. We are so tired, we like to lie Just doing nothing, you and I, Within the darkened quiet room. The sun sends dusk rays through the gloom, Which is no gloom since you are here, My little life, my baby dear. Soft sleepy mouth so vaguely pressed Against your new-made mother's breast, 344 Soft little hands in mine I fold, Soft little feet I kiss and hold, Round soft smooth head and tiny ear, All mine, my own, my baby dear. And he we love is far away! But he will come some happy day. You need but me, and I can rest At peace with you beside me pressed. There are no questions, longings vain, No murmuring, nor doubt, nor pain, Only content and we are here, My baby dear. PART II While winged Love his pinions folded in the Moat House by the hill, In the city there was anger, doubt, distrust, and thoughts of ill; For his kinsmen, hearing rumours of the life the lovers led, Wept, and wrung their hands, and sorrowed--'Better that the lad were dead Than to live thus--he, the son of proudest man and noblest earl-Thus in open sin with her, a nameless, shameless, foreign girl.' (Ever when they thus lamented, 'twas the open sin they named, Till one wondered whether sinning, if less frank, had been less blamed.) ''Tis our duty to reclaim him--mate him to a noble bride Who shall fitly grace his station, and walk stately by his side-Gently loose him from the fetters of this siren fair and frail (In such cases time and absence nearly always will prevail). He shall meet the Duke's fair daughter--perfect, saintly Lady May-Beauty is the surest beacon to a young man gone astray! Not at all precipitately, but with judgment sure and fine, We will rescue and redeem him from his shameful husks and swine. So--his uncle's long been ailing (gout and dropsy for his sins)-Let that serve for pretext; hither bring the youth--his cure begins.' So they summoned him and welcomed, and their utmost efforts bent 345 To snatch back a brand from burning and a soul from punishment-Sought to charm him with their feastings, each more sumptuous than the last, From his yearning recollections of his very sinful past-Strove to wipe his wicked doings from his memory's blotted By the chaster, purer interests of the ball-room and the stage. And for Lady May--they hinted to the girl, child-innocent, That her hand to save the sinner by her Saviour had been sent, That her voice might bring his voice her Master's triumph choir to swell, And might save a man from sorrow and a human soul from hell. So she used her maiden graces, maiden glances, maiden smiles, To protect the erring pilgrim from the devil's subtle wiles-Saw him daily, sent him letters, pious verses by the score, Every angel's trap she baited with her sweet religious lore-Ventured all she knew, not knowing that her beauty and her youth Were far better to bait traps with than her odds and ends of truth. First he listened, vain and flattered that a girl as fair as she Should be so distinctly anxious for his lost humanity, Yet determined no attentions, even from the Lady May, Should delay his home-returning one unnecessary day. But as she--heart-wrung with pity for his erring soul--grew kind, Fainter, fainter grew the image of his sweetheart left behind; Till one day May spoke of sorrow--prayed him to reform--repent, Urged the festival in heaven over every penitent; Bold in ignorance, spoke vaguely and low-toned of sin and shame, And at last her voice, half breathless, faltered, broke upon his name, And two tears fell from her lashes on the roses at her breast, Far more potent in their silence than her preaching at its best. And his weak soul thrilled and trembled at her beauty, and he cried, 'Not for me those priceless tears: I am your slave--you shall decide.' 'Save your soul,' she sighed. 'Was ever man so tempted, tried, before? It is yours!' and at the word his soul was lost for evermore. Never woman pure and saintly did the devil's work so well! Never soul ensnared for heaven took a surer road to hell! Lady May had gained her convert, loved him, and was satisfied, And before the last leaves yellowed she would kneel down as his bride. She was happy, and he struggled to believe that perfidy Was repentance--reformation was not one with cruelty, 346 Yet through all congratulations, friends' smiles, lovers' flatteries, Lived a gnawing recollection of the lost love harmonies. In the day he crushed it fiercely, kept it covered out of sight, But it held him by the heart-strings and came boldly out at night: In the solemn truthful night his soul shrank shuddering from its lies, And his base self knew its baseness, and looked full in its false eyes. In the August nights, when all the sky was deep and toneless blue, And the gold star-points seemed letting the remembered sunlight through, When the world was hushed and peaceful in the moonlight's searching white, He would toss and cast his arms out through the silence and the night To those eyes that through the night and through the silence came again, Haunting him with the persistence and the passion of their pain. 'Oh, my little love--my sweetheart--oh, our past--our sweet love-day-Oh, if I were only true--or you were only Lady May!' But the sunshine scared the vision, and he rose once more love-warm To the Lady May's perfections and his own proposed reform. Coward that he was! he could not write and break that loving heart: To the worn-out gouty kinsman was assigned that pleasing part. 'Say it kindly,' said her lover, 'always friends--I can't forget-We must meet no more--but give her tenderest thought and all regret; Bid her go back to the convent--she and I can't meet as friends-Offer her a good allowance--any terms to make amends For what nought could make amends for--for my baseness and my sin. Oh, I know which side the scale this deed of mine will figure in! Curse reform!--she may forget me--'tis on me the burdens fall, For I love her only, solely--not the Lady May at all!' 'Patience,' said the uncle, 'patience, this is but the natural pain When a young man turns from sinning to the paths of grace again. Your wild oats are sown--you're plighted to the noble Lady May (Whose estates adjoin your manor in a providential way). Do your duty, sir, for surely pangs like these are such as win Pardon and the heavenly blessing on the sinner weaned from sin.' Song. Day is fair, and so is she Whom so soon I wed; 347 But the night, when memory Guards my sleepless bed, And with cold hands brings once more Thorns from rose-sweet days of yore-Night I curse and dread. Day is sweet, as sweet as her Girlish tenderness; But the night, when near me stir Rustlings of a dress, Echoes of a loving tone Now renounced, forsworn, foregone, Night is bitterness. Day can stir my blood like wine Or her beauty's fire, But at night I burn and pine, Torture, turn and tire, With a longing that is pain, Just to kiss and clasp again Love's one lost desire. Day is glad and pure and bright, Pure, glad, bright as she; But the sad and guilty night Outlives day--for me. Oh, for days when day and night Equal balance of delight Were alike to me! In the day I see my feet Walk in steadfast wise, Following my lady sweet To her Paradise, Like some stray-recovered lamb; But I see the beast I am When the night stars rise. 348 Yet in wedding day there lies Magic--so they say; Ghosts will have no chance to rise Near my Lady May. Vain the hope! In good or ill Those lost eyes will haunt me still Till my dying day. II Quickly died the August roses, and the kin of Lady May Dowered her richly, blessed her freely, and announced her wedding day; And his yearnings and remorses fainter grew as days went on 'Neath the magic of the beauty of the woman he had won; And less often and less strongly was his fancy caught and crossed By remembrance of the dearness of the woman he had lost. Long sweet mornings in the boudoir where the flowers stood about, Whisperings in the balcony when stars and London lamps came out, Concerts, flower shows, garden parties, balls and dinners, rides and drives, All the time-killing distractions of these fashionable lives; Dreary, joyless as a desert, pleasure's everlasting way, But enchantment can make lovely even deserts, so they say, Sandy waste, or waste of London season, where no green leaf grows, Shone on but by love or passion, each will blossom like the rose! Came no answer to the letter that announced his marriage day; But his people wrote that Lady Ladybird had gone away. So he sent to bid get ready to receive his noble wife. Two such loving women granted to one man, and in one life! Though he shuddered to remember with what ghosts the Moat House swarmed-Ghosts of lovely days and dreamings ere the time when he reformed-Yet he said, 'She cannot surely greatly care, or I had heard Some impulsive, passionate pleading, had some sorrowing written word; She has journeyed to her convent--will be glad as ere I came, Through her beauty's dear enchantment, to a life of shameless shame; And the memories of her dearness passion's flaming sword shall slay, When the Moat House sees the bridal of myself and Lady May!' III 349 Bright the mellow autumn sunshine glows upon the wedding day; Lawns are swept from leaves, and doorways are wreathed round with garlands gay, Flowery arches span the carriage drive from grass again to grass, Flowers are ready for the flinging when the wedded pair shall pass; Bells are ringing, clanging, clamouring from the belfry 'mid the trees, And the sound rings out o'er woodlands, parks and gardens, lawns and leas; All the village gay with banners waits the signal, 'Here they come!' To strew flowers, wave hats, drop curtseys, and hurra its 'Welcome home!' At the gates the very griffins on the posts are wreathed with green. In their ordered lines wait servants for the pair to pass between; But among them there is missing more than one familiar face, And new faces, blank expectant, fill up each vacated place, And the other servants whisper, 'Nurse would wail to see this day, It was well she left the service when 'my Lady' ran away.' Louder, clearer ring the joy-bells through the shaken, shattered air, Till the echoes of them waken in the hillside far and fair; Level shine the golden sunbeams in the golden afternoon. In the east the wan ghost rises of the silver harvest moon. Hark! wheels was it? No, but fancy. Listen! No--yes--can you hear? Yes, it is the coming carriage rolling nearer and more near! Till the horse-hoofs strike the roadway, unmistakable and clear! They are coming! shout your welcome to my lord and lady fair: May God shower his choicest blessings on the happy wedded pair! Here they are! the open carriage and surrounding dusty cloud, Whence he smiles his proud acceptance of the homage of the crowd; And my lady's sweet face! Bless her! there's a one will help the poor, Eyes like those could never turn a beggar helpless from her door! Welcome, welcome! scatter flowers: see, they smile--bow left and right, Reach the lodge gates--God of heaven! what was that, the flash of white? Shehas sprung out from the ambush of the smiling, cheering crowd: 'Fling your flowers--here's my welcome!' sharp the cry rings out and loud. Sudden sight of wild white face, and haggard eyes, and outstretched hands-Just one heart-beat's space before the bridal pair that figure stands, Then the horses, past controlling, forward bound, their hoofs down thrust-And the carriage wheels jolt over something bloody in the dust. 'Stop her! Stop her! Stop the horses!' cry the people all too late, 350 For my lord and Lady May have had their welcome at their gate. 'Twas the old nurse who sprang to her, raised the brown-haired, dust-soiled head, Looked a moment, closed the eyelids--then turned to my lord and said, Kneeling still upon the roadway, with her arm flung round the dead, While the carriage waited near her, blood and dust upon its wheels (Ask my lord within to tell you how a happy bridegroom feels): 'Now, my lord, you are contented; you have chosen for your bride This same fine and dainty lady who is sitting by your side. Did ye tell her ere this bridal of the girl who bore your shame, Bore your love-vows--bore your baby--everything except your name? When they strewed the flowers to greet you, and the banners were unfurled, She has flung before your feet the sweetest flower in all the world! Woe's the day I ever nursed you--loved your lisping baby word, For you grew to name of manhood, and to title of my lord; Woe's the day you ever saw her, brought her home to wreck her life, Throwing by your human plaything, to seek out another wife. God will judge, and I would rather be the lost child lying there, With your babe's milk in her bosom, your horse-hoof marks on her hair, Than be you when God shall thunder, when your days on earth are filled, 'Where is she I gave, who loved you, whom you ruined, left and killed?' Murderer, liar, coward, traitor, look upon your work and say That your heart is glad within you on your happy wedding day! And for you, my noble lady, take my blessing on your head, Though it is not like the blessing maidens look for when they wed. Never bride had such a welcome, such a flower laid on her way, As was given you when your carriage crushed her out of life to-day. Take my blessing--see her body, see what you and he have done-And I wish you joy, my lady, of the bridegroom you have won.' Like a beaten cur, that trembles at the whistling of the lash, He stands listening, hands a-tremble, face as pale as white wood ash; But the Lady May springs down, her soul shines glorious in her eyes, Moving through the angry silence comes to where the other lies, Gazes long upon her silent, but at last she turns her gaze On the nurse, and lips a-tremble, hands outstretched, she slowly says, 'She is dead--but, but her baby--' all her woman's heart is wild 351 With an infinite compassion for the little helpless child. Then she turns to snatch the baby from the arms of one near by, Holds it fast and looks towards him with a voiceless bitter cry, As imploring him to loose her from some nightmare's deadly bands. Dogged looks he down and past her, and she sees and understands, Then she speaks--'I keep your baby--that's my right in sight of men, But by God I vow I'll never see your dastard face again.' So she turned with no word further towards the purple-clouded west, And passed thither with his baby clasped against her maiden breast. Little Ladybird was buried in the old ancestral tomb. From that grave there streams a shadow that wraps up his life in gloom, And he drags the withered life on, longs for death that will not come, The interminable night hours riven by that 'Welcome home!' And he dares not leave this earthly hell of sharp remorse behind, Lest through death not rest but hotter fire of anguish he should find. Coward to the last, he will not risk so little for so much, So he burns, convicted traitor, in the hell self-made of such: And at night he wakes and shivers with unvanquishable dread At the ghosts that press each other for a place beside his bed, And he shudders to remember all the dearness that is dead. Song. I had a soul, Not strong, but following good if good but led. I might have kept it clean and pure and whole, And given it up at last, grown strong with days Of steadfast striving in truth's stern sweet ways; Instead, I soiled and smutched and smothered it With poison-flowers it valued not one whit-Now it is dead. I had a heart Most true, most sweet, that on my loving fed. I might have kept her all my life, a part Of all my life--I let her starve and pine, Ruined her life and desolated mine. Sin brushed my lips--I yielded at a touch, 352 Tempted so little, and I sinned so much, And she is dead. There was a life That in my sin I took and chained and wed, And made--perpetual remorse!--my wife. In my sin's harvest she must reap her share, That makes its sheaves less light for me to bear. Oh, life I might have left to bloom and grow! I struck its root of happiness one blow, And it is dead. Once joy I had, Now I have only agony instead, That maddens, yet will never send me mad. The best that comes is numbed half-sick despair, Remembering how sweet the dear dead were. My whole life might have been one clear joy song! Now--oh, my heart, how still life is, how long, For joy is dead. Yet there is this: I chose the thorns not grapes, the stones not bread; I had my chance, they say, to gain or miss. And yet I feel it was predestinate From the first hour, from the first dawn of fate, That I, thus placed, when that hour should arise, Must act thus, and could not act otherwise. This is the worst of all that can be said; For hope is dead. ~ Edith Nesbit

385:Tannhauser The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours, At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight, Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard, Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed With apprehension and rare utterance Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light, And large repose, the peaceful valley lay, In the late splendor of the afternoon, And level sunbeams lit the serious face Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west, Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs, Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms, That in the distance loomed as soft and fair And purple as their shadows on the grass. The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air, Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in, Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light. The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home, In the near meadow, reverently knelt, And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast, Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heard The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight, Unmindful of the sacred hour announced, Disdainful or unconscious, held his course. 'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight, Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!' He murmured bitterly beneath his breath. 'Were I a pagan, riding to contend For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal, What fire of inspiration, would I sing The praises of the gods! How may my lyre Glorify these whose very life I doubt? The world is governed by one cruel God, Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ, Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold, They give us for a heaven of living gods, Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song; 207 A creed of suffering and despair, walled in On every side by brazen boundaries, That limit the soul's vision and her hope To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven. Yea, I am lost already,-even now Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts. O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?' He raised his wan face to the faded skies, Now shadowing into twilight; no response Came from their sunless heights; no miracle, As in the ancient days of answering gods. With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth, Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs. Gray, sullen, gaunt, they towered on either side; Scant shrubs sucked meagre life between the rifts Of their huge crags, and made small darker spots Upon their wrinkled sides; the jaded horse Stumbled upon loose, rattling, fallen stones, Amidst the gathering dusk, and blindly fared Through the weird, perilous pass. As darkness waxed, And an oppressive mystery enwrapped The roadstead and the rocks, Sir Tannhauser Fancied he saw upon the mountain-side The fluttering of white raiment. With a sense Of wild joy and horror, he gave pause, For his sagacious horse that reeked of sweat, Trembling in every limb, confirmed his thought, That nothing human scaled that haunted cliff. The white thing seemed descending,-now a cloud It looked, and now a rag of drifted mist, Torn in the jagged gorge precipitous, And now an apparition clad in white, Shapely and real,-then he lost it quite, Gazing on nothing with blank, foolish face. As with wide eyes he stood, he was aware Of a strange splendor at his very side, A presence and a majesty so great, That ere he saw, he felt it was divine. He turned, and, leaping from his horse, fell prone, In speechless adoration, on the earth, Before the matchless goddess, who appeared With no less freshness of immortal youth 208 Than when first risen from foam of Paphian seas. He heard delicious strains of melody, Such as his highest muse had ne'er attained, Float in the air, while in the distance rang, Harsh and discordant, jarring with those tones, The gallop of his frightened horse's hoofs, Clattering in sudden freedom down the pass. A voice that made all music dissonance Then thrilled through heart and flesh of that prone knight, Triumphantly: 'The gods need but appear, And their usurped thrones are theirs again!' Then tenderly: 'Sweet knight, I pray thee, rise; Worship me not, for I desire thy love. Look on me, follow me, for I am fain Of thy fair, human face.' He rose and looked, Stirred by that heavenly flattery to the soul. Her hair, unbraided and unfilleted, Rained in a glittering shower to the ground, And cast forth lustre. Round her zone was clasped The scintillant cestus, stiff with flaming gold, Thicker with restless gems than heaven with stars. She might have flung the enchanted wonder forth; Her eyes, her slightest gesture would suffice To bind all men in blissful slavery. She sprang upon the mountain's dangerous side, With feet that left their print in flowers divine,Flushed amaryllis and blue hyacinth, Impurpled amaranth and asphodel, Dewy with nectar, and exhaling scents Richer than all the roses of mid-June. The knight sped after her, with wild eyes fixed Upon her brightness, as she lightly leapt From crag to crag, with flying auburn hair, Like a gold cloud, that lured him ever on, Higher and higher up the haunted cliff. At last amidst a grove of pines she paused, Until he reached her, breathing hard with haste, Delight, and wonder. Then upon his hand She placed her own, and all his blood at once Tingled and hotly rushed to brow and cheek, At the supreme caress; but the mere touch Infused fresh life, and when she looked at him 209 With gracious tenderness, he felt himself Strong suddenly to bear the blinding light Of those great eyes. 'Dear knight,' she murmured low, 'For love of me, wilt thou accord this boon,To grace my weary home in banishment?' His hungry eyes gave answer ere he spoke, In tones abrupt that startled his own ears With their strange harshness; but with thanks profuse She guided him, still holding his cold hand In her warm, dainty palm, unto a cave, Whence a rare glory issued, and a smell Of spice and roses, frankincense and balm. They entering stood within a marble hall, With straight, slim pillars, at whose farther end The goddess led him to a spiral flight Of stairs, descending always 'midst black gloom Into the very bowels of the earth. Down these, with fearful swiftness, they made way, The knight's feet touching not the solid stair, But sliding down as in a vexing dream, Blind, feeling but that hand divine that still Empowered him to walk on empty air. Then he was dazzled by a sudden blaze, In vast palace filled with reveling folk. Cunningly pictured on the ivory walls Were rolling hills, cool lakes, and boscage green, And all the summer landscape's various pomp. The precious canopy aloft was carved In semblance of the pleached forest trees, Enameled with the liveliest green, wherethrough A light pierced, more resplendent than the day. O'er the pale, polished jasper of the floor Of burnished metal, fretted and embossed With all the marvelous story of her birth Painted in prodigal splendor of rich tincts, And carved by heavenly artists,-crystal seas, And long-haired Nereids in their pearly shells, And all the wonder of her lucent limbs Sphered in a vermeil mist. Upon the throne She took her seat, the knight beside her still, Singing on couches of fresh asphodel, And the dance ceased, and the flushed revelers came 210 In glittering phalanx to adore their queen. Beautiful girls, with shining delicate heads, Crested with living jewels, fanned the air With flickering wings from naked shoulders soft. Then with preluding low, a thousand harps, And citherns, and strange nameless instruments, Sent through the fragrant air sweet symphonies, And the winged dancers waved in mazy rounds, With changing lustres like a summer sea. Fair boys, with charming yellow hair crisp-curled, And frail, effeminate beauty, the knight saw, But of strong, stalwart men like him were none. He gazed thereon bewitched, until the hand Of Venus, erst withdrawn, now fell again Upon his own, and roused him from his trance. He looked on her, and as he looked, a cloud Auroral, flaming as at sunrising, Arose from nothing, floating over them In luminous folds, like that vermilion mist Penciled upon the throne, and as it waxed In density and brightness, all the throng Of festal dancers, less and less distinct, Grew like pale spirits in a vague, dim dream, And vanished altogether; and these twain, Shut from the world in that ambrosial cloud, Now with a glory inconceivable, Vivid and conflagrant, looked each on each. All hours came laden with their own delights In that enchanted place, wherein Time Knew no divisions harsh of night and day, But light was always, and desire of sleep Was satisfied at once with slumber soft, Desire of food with magical repast, By unseen hands on golden tables spread. But these the knight accepted like a god, All less was lost in that excess of joy, The crowning marvel of her love for him, Assuring him of his divinity. Meanwhile remembrance of the earth appeared Like the vague trouble of a transient dream,The doubt, the scruples, the remorse for thoughts 211 Beyond his own control, the constant thirst For something fairer than his life, more real Than airy revelations of his Muse. Here was his soul's desire satisfied. All nobler passions died; his lyre he flung Recklessly forth, with vows to dedicate His being to herself. She knew and seized The moment of her mastery, and conveyed The lyre beyond his sight and memory. With blandishment divine she changed for him, Each hour, her mood; a very woman now, Fantastic, voluble, affectionate, And jealous of the vague, unbodied air, Exacting, penitent, and pacified, All in a breath. And often she appeared Majestic with celestial wrath, with eyes That shot forth fire, and a heavy brow, Portentous as the lowering front of heaven, When the reverberant, sullen thunder rolls Among the echoing clouds. Thus she denounced Her ancient, fickle worshippers, who left Her altars desecrate, her fires unfed, Her name forgotten. 'But I reign, I reign!' She would shrill forth, triumphant; 'yea, I reign. Men name me not, but worship me unnamed, Beauty and Love within their heart of hearts; Not with bent knees and empty breath of words, But with devoted sacrifice of lives.' Then melting in a moment, she would weep Ambrosial tears, pathetic, full of guile, Accusing her own base ingratitude, In craving worship, when she had his heart, Her priceless knight, her peerless paladin, Her Tannhauser; then, with an artful glance Of lovely helplessness, entreated him Not to desert her, like the faithless world, For these unbeautiful and barbarous gods, Or she would never cease her prayers to Jove, Until he took from her the heavy curse Of immortality. With closer vows, The knight then sealed his worship and forswore All other aims and deeds to serve her cause. 212 Thus passed unnoted seven barren years Of reckless passion and voluptuous sloth, Undignified by any lofty thought In his degraded mind, that sometime was Endowed with noble capability. From revelry to revelry he passed, Craving more pungent pleasure momently, And new intoxications, and each hour The siren goddess answered his desires. Once when she left him with a weary sense Of utter lassitude, he sat alone, And, raising listless eyes, he saw himself In a great burnished mirror, wrought about With cunning imagery of twisted vines. He scarcely knew those sunken, red-rimmed eyes, For his who in the flush of manhood rode Among the cliffs, and followed up the crags The flying temptress; and there fell on him A horror of her beauty, a disgust For his degenerate and corrupted life, With irresistible, intense desire, To feel the breath of heaven on his face. Then as Fate willed, who rules above the gods, He saw, within the glass, behind him glide The form of Venus. Certain of her power, She had laid by, in fond security, The enchanted cestus, and Sir Tannhauser, With surfeited regard, beheld her now, No fairer than the women of the earth, Whom with serenity and health he left, Duped by a lovely witch. Before he moved, She knew her destiny; and when he turned, He seemed to drop a mask, disclosing thus An alien face, and eyes with vision true, That for long time with glamour had been blind. Hiding the hideous rage within her breast, With girlish simpleness of folded hands, Auroral blushes, and sweet, shamefast mien, She spoke: 'Behold, my love, I have cast forth All magic, blandishments and sorcery, For I have dreamed a dream so terrible, That I awoke to find my pillow stained 213 With tears as of real woe. I thought my belt, By Vulcan wrought with matchless skill and power, Was the sole bond between us; this being doffed, I seemed to thee an old, unlovely crone, Wrinkled by every year that I have seen. Thou turnedst from me with a brutal sneer, So that I woke with weeping. Then I rose, And drew the glittering girdle from my zone, Jealous thereof, yet full of fears, and said, 'If it be this he loves, then let him go! I have no solace as a mortal hath, No hope of change or death to comfort me Through all eternity; yet he is free, Though I could hold him fast with heavy chains, Bound in perpetual imprisonment.' Tell me my vision was a baseless dream; See, I am kneeling, and kiss thy hands,In pity, look on me, before thy word Condemns me to immortal misery!' As she looked down, the infernal influence Worked on his soul again; for she was fair Beyond imagination, and her brow Seemed luminous with high self-sacrifice. He bent and kissed her head, warm, shining, soft, With its close-curling gold, and love revived. But ere he spoke, he heard the distant sound Of one sweet, smitten lyre, and a gleam Of violent anger flashed across the face Upraised to his in feigned simplicity And singleness of purpose. Then he sprang, Well-nigh a god himself, with sudden strength to vanquish and resist, beyond her reach, Crying, 'My old Muse calls me, and I hear! Thy fateful vision is no baseless dream; I will be gone from this accursed hall!' Then she, too, rose, dilating over him, And sullen clouds veiled all her rosy limbs, Unto her girdle, and her head appeared Refulgent, and her voice rang wrathfully: 'Have I cajoled and flattered thee till now, To lose thee thus! How wilt thou make escape? 214 ONCE BEING MINE THOU ART FOREVER MINE: Yea, not my love, but my poor slave and fool.' But he, with both hands pressed upon his eyes, Against that blinding lustre, heeded not Her thundered words, and cried in sharp despair, 'Help me, O Virgin Mary! and thereat, The very bases of the hall gave way, The roof was rived, the goddess disappeared, And Tannhauser stood free upon the cliff, Amidst the morning sunshine and fresh air. Around him were the tumbled blocks and crags, Huge ridges and sharp juts of flinty peaks, Black caves, and masses of the grim, bald rock. The ethereal, unfathomable sky, Hung over him, the valley lay beneath, Dotted with yellow hayricks, that exhaled Sweet, healthy odors to the mountain-top. He breathed intoxicate the infinite air, And plucked the heather blossoms where they blew, Reckless with light and dew, in crannies green, And scarcely saw their darling bells for tears. No sounds of labor reached him from the farms And hamlets trim, nor from the furrowed glebe; But a serene and sabbath stillness reigned, Till broken by the faint, melodious chimes Of the small village church that called to prayer. He hurried down the rugged, scarped cliff, And swung himself from shelving granite slopes To narrow foot-holds, near wide-throated chasms, Tearing against the sharp stones his bleeding hands, With long hair flying from his dripping brow, Uncovered head, and white, exalted face. No memory had he of his smooth ascent, No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills; He only heard the bell, inviting him To satisfy the craving of his heart, For worship 'midst his fellow men. He reached The beaten, dusty road, and passed thereon The pious peasants faring towards the church, And scarce refrained from greeting them like friends Dearly beloved, after long absence met. 215 How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked, In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs demure, After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs, And odorous, loose hair! He noted not Suspicious glances on his garb uncouth, His air extravagant and face distraught, With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys, And prudent crossings of the women's breasts. He passed the flowering close about the church, And trod the well worn-path, with throbbing heart, The little heather-bell between his lips, And his eyes fastened on the good green grass. Thus entered he the sanctuary, lit With frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stained Through painted glass. How pure and innocent The waiting congregation seemed to him, Kneeling, or seated with calm brows upraised! With faltering strength, he cowered down alone, And held sincere communion with the Lord, For one brief moment, in a sudden gush Of blessed tears. The minister of God Rose to invoke a blessing on his flock, And then began the service,-not in words To raise the lowly, and to heal the sick, But an alien tongue, with phrases formed, And meaningless observances. The knight, Unmoved, yet thirsting for the simple word That might have moved him, held his bitter thoughts, But when in his own speech a new priest spake, Looked up with hope revived, and heard the text: 'Go, preach the Gospel unto all the world. He that believes and is baptized, is saved. He that believeth not, is damned in hell!' He sat with neck thrust forth and staring eyes; The crowded congregation disappeared; He felt alone in some black sea of hell, While a great light smote one exalted face, Vivid already with prophetic fire, Whose fatal mouth now thundered forth his doom. He longed in that void circle to cry out, With one clear shriek, but sense and voice seemed bound, And his parched tongue clave useless to his mouth. 216 As the last words resounded through the church, And once again the pastor blessed his flock, Who, serious and subdued, passed slowly down The arrow aisle, none noted, near the wall, A fallen man with face upon his knees, A heap of huddled garments and loose hair, Unconscious 'mid the rustling, murmurous stir, 'Midst light and rural smell of grass and flowers, Let in athwart the doorway. One lone priest, Darkening the altar lights, moved noiselessly, Now with the yellow glow upon his face, Now a black shadow gliding farther on, Amidst the smooth, slim pillars of hewn ash. But from the vacant aisles he heard at once A hollow sigh, heaved from a depth profound. Upholding his last light above his head, And peering eagerly amidst the stalls, He cried, 'Be blest who cometh in God's name.' Then the gaunt form of Tannhauser arose. 'Father, I am a sinner, and I seek Forgiveness and help, by whatso means I can regain the joy of peace with God.' 'The Lord hath mercy on the penitent. 'Although thy sins be scarlet,' He hath said, 'Will I not make them white as wool?' Confess, And I will shrive you.' Thus the good priest moved Towards the remorseful knight and pressed his hand. But shrinking down, he drew his fingers back From the kind palm, and kissed the friar's feet. 'Thy pure hand is anointed, and can heal. The cool, calm pressure brings back sanity, And what serene, past joys! yet touch me not, My contact is pollution,-hear, O hear, While I disburden my charged soul.' He lay, Casting about for words and strength to speak. 'O father, is there help for such a one,' In tones of deep abasement he began, 'Who hath rebelled against the laws of God, With pride no less presumptuous than his Who lost thereby his rank in heaven?' 'My son, There is atonement for all sins,-or slight Or difficult, proportioned to the crime. 217 Though this may be the staining of thy hands With blood of kinsmen or of fellow-men.' 'My hands are white,-my crime hath found no name, This side of hell; yet though my heart-strings snap To live it over, let me make the attempt. I was a knight and bard, with such a gift Of revelation that no hour of life Lacked beauty and adornment, in myself The seat and centre of all happiness. What inspiration could my lofty Muse Draw from those common and familiar themes, Painted upon the windows and the walls Of every church,-the mother and her child, The miracle and mystery of the birth, The death, the resurrection? Fool and blind! That saw not symbols of eternal truth In that grand tragedy and victory, Significant and infinite as life. What tortures did my skeptic soul endure, At war against herself and all mankind! The restless nights of feverish sleeplessness, With balancing of reasons nicely weighed; The dawn that brought no hope nor energy, The blasphemous arraignment of the Lord, Taxing His glorious divinity With all the grief and folly of the world. Then came relapses into abject fear, And hollow prayer and praise from craven heart. Before a sculptured Venus I would kneel, Crown her with flowers, worship her, and cry, 'O large and noble type of our ideal, At least my heart and prayer return to thee, Amidst a faithless world of proselytes. Madonna Mary, with her virgin lips, And eyes that look perpetual reproach, Insults and is a blasphemy on youth. Is she to claim the worship of a man Hot with the first rich flush of ripened life?' Realities, like phantoms, glided by, Unnoted 'midst the torment and delights Of my conflicting spirit, and I doffed the modest Christian weeds of charity 218 And fit humility, and steeled myself In pagan panoply of stoicism And self-sufficing pride. Yet constantly I gained men's charmed attention and applause, With the wild strains I smote from out my lyre, To me the native language of my soul, To them attractive and miraculous, As all things whose solution and whose source Remain a mystery. Then came suddenly The summons to attend the gathering Of minstrels at the Landgrave Hermann's court. Resolved to publish there my pagan creed In harmonies so high and beautiful That all the world would share my zeal and faith, I journeyed towards the haunted Horsel cliffs. O God! how may I tell you how SHE came, The temptress of a hundred centuries, Yet fresh as April? She bewitched my sense, Poisoned my judgment with sweet flatteries, And for I may not guess how many years Held me a captive in degrading bonds. There is no sin of lust so lewd and foul, Which I learned not in that alluring hell, Until this morn, I snapped the ignoble tie, By calling on the Mother of our Lord. O for the power to stand again erect, And look men in the eyes! What penitence, What scourging of the flesh, what rigid fasts, What terrible privations may suffice To cleanse me in the sight of God and man?' Ill-omened silence followed his appeal. Patient and motionless he lay awhile, Then sprang unto his feet with sudden force, Confronting in his breathless vehemence, With palpitating heart, the timid priest. 'Answer me, as you hope for a response, One day, at the great judgment seat yourself.' 'I cannot answer,' said the timid priest, 'I have not understood.' 'Just God! is this The curse Thou layest upon me? I outstrip The sympathy and brotherhood of men, So far removed is my experience 219 From their clean innocence. Inspire me, Prompt me to words that bring me near to them! Father,' in gentler accents he resumed, 'Thank Heaven at your every orison That sin like mine you cannot apprehend. More than the truth perchance I have confessed, But I have sinned, and darkly,-this is true; And I have suffered, and am suffering now. Is there no help in your great Christian creed Of liberal charity, for such a one?' 'My son,' the priest replied, 'your speech distraught Hath quite bewildered me. I fain would hope That Christ's large charity can reach your sin, But I know naught. I cannot but believe That the enchantress who first tempted you Must be the Evil one,-your early doubt Was the possession of your soul by him. Travel across the mountain to the town, The first cathedral town upon the road That leads to Rome,-a sage and reverend priest, The Bishop Adrian, bides there. Say you have come From his leal servant, Friar Lodovick; He hath vast lore and great authority, And may absolve you freely of your sin.' Over the rolling hills, through summer fields, By noisy villages and lonely lanes, Through glowing days, when all the landscape stretched Shimmering in the heat, a pilgrim fared Towards the cathedral town. Sir Tannhauser Had donned the mournful sackcloth, girt his loins With a coarse rope that ate into his flesh, Muffled a cowl about his shaven head, Hung a great leaden cross around his neck; And bearing in his hands a knotty staff, With swollen, sandaled feet he held his course. He snatched scant rest at twilight or at dawn, When his forced travel was least difficult. But most he journeyed when the sky, o'ercast, Uprolled its threatening clouds of dusky blue, And angry thunder grumbled through the hills, And earth grew dark at noonday, till the flash 220 Of the thin lightning through the wide sky leapt. And tumbling showers scoured along the plain. Then folk who saw the pilgrim penitent, Drenched, weird, and hastening as as to some strange doom, Swore that the wandering Jew had crossed their land, And the Lord Christ had sent the deadly bolt Harmless upon his cursed, immortal head. At length the hill-side city's spires and roofs, With all its western windows smitten red By a rich sunset, and with massive towers Of its cathedral overtopping all, greeted his sight. Some weary paces more, And as the twilight deepened in the streets, He stood within the minster. How serene, In sculptured calm of centuries, it seemed! How cool and spacious all the dim-lit aisles, Still hazy with fumes of frankincense! The vesper had been said, yet here and there A wrinkled beldam, or mourner veiled, Or burly burgher on the cold floor knelt, And still the organist, with wandering hands, Drew from the keys mysterious melodies, And filled the church with flying waifs of song, That with ethereal beauty moved the soul To a more tender prayer and gentler faith Than choral anthems and the solemn mass. A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness, Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears; Youth's blamelessness and faith forever lost, The love of his neglected lyre, his art, Revived by these aerial harmonies. He was unworthy now to touch the strings, Too base to stir men's soul to ecstasy And high resolves, as in the days agone; And yet, with all his spirit's earnestness, He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands, To utter all the trouble of his life Unto the Muse who understands and helps. Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsiness By dying music and sweet-scented air, His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame. Auroral light the eastern oriels touched, 221 When with delicious sense of rest he woke, Amidst the cast and silent empty aisles. 'God's peace hath fallen upon me in this place; This is my Bethel; here I feel again A holy calm, if not of innocence, Yet purest after that, the calm serene Of expiation and forgiveness.' He spake, and passed with staff and wallet forth Through the tall portal to the open square, And turning, paused to look upon the pile. The northern front against the crystal sky Loomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade, With each projecting buttress, carven cross, Gable and mullion, tipped with laughing light By the slant sunbeams of the risen morn. The noisy swallows wheeled above their nests, Builded in hidden nooks about the porch. No human life was stirring in the square, Save now and then a rumbling market-team, Fresh from the fields and farms without the town. He knelt upon the broad cathedral steps, And kissed the moistened stone, while overhead The circling swallows sang, and all around The mighty city lay asleep and still. To stranger's ears must yet again be made The terrible confession; yet again A deathly chill, with something worse than fear, Seized the knight's heart, who knew his every word Widened the gulf between his kind and him. The Bishop sat with pomp of mitred head, In pride of proven virtue, hearkening to all With cold, official apathy, nor made A sign of pity nor encouragement. The friar understood the pilgrim's grief, The language of his eyes; his speech alone Was alien to these kind, untutored ears. But this was truly to be misconstrued, To tear each palpitating word alive From out the depths of his remorseful soul, And have it weighed with the precision cool And the nice logic of a reasoning mind. 222 This spiritual Father judged his crime As the mad mischief of a reckless boy, That call for strict, immediate punishment. But Tannhauser, who felt himself a man, Though base, yet fallen through passions and rare gifts Of an exuberant nature rankly rich, And knew his weary head was growing gray With a life's terrible experience, Found his old sense of proper worth revive; But modestly he ended: 'Yet I felt, O holy Father, in the church, this morn, A strange security, a peace serene, As though e'en yet the Lord regarded me With merciful compassion; yea, as though Even so vile a worm as I might work Mine own salvation, through repentant prayers.' 'Presumptuous man, it is no easy task To expiate such sin; a space of prayer That deprecates the anger of the Lord, A pilgrimage through pleasant summer lands, May not atone for years of impious lust; Thy heart hath lied to thee in offering hope.' 'Is there no hope on earth?' the pilgrim sighed. 'None through thy penance,' said the saintly man. 'Yet there may be through mediation, help. There is a man who by a blameless life Hath won the right to intercede with God. No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,The Cardinal Filippo,-he abides, Within the Holy City. Seek him out; This is my only counsel,-through thyself Can be no help and no forgiveness.' How different from the buoyant joy of morn Was this discouraged sense of lassitude, The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears, Measured and pitiless, and blent with these, The memory of the goddess' last wild cry,'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE.' Was it the truth, despite his penitence, And the dedication of his thought to God, That still some portion of himself was hers, 223 Some lust survived, some criminal regret, For her corrupted love? He searched his heart: All was remorse, religious and sincere, And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him; For all men shunned him, and denied him help, Knowing at once in looking on his face, Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old, That he had struggled with some deadly fiend, And that he was no longer kin to them. Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped, To strengthen will and courage to proceed. The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets, But now the lessening clouds were flying east, And though the gentle shower still wet his face, The west was cloudless while the sun went down, And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth, Against the opposite dull gray. There was A beauty in the mingled storm and peace, Beyond clear sunshine, as the vast, green fields Basked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain. The roar of all the town was now a buzz Less than the insects' drowsy murmuring That whirred their gauzy wings around his head. The breeze that follows on the sunsetting Was blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping grass Into the heated city. But he stood, Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin, Still wrestling with his soul to win it back From her who claimed it to eternity. Then on the delicate air there came to him The intonation of the minster bells, Chiming the vespers, musical and faint. He knew not what of dear and beautiful There was in those familiar peals, that spake Of his first boyhood and his innocence, Leading him back, with gracious influence, To pleasant thoughts and tender memories, And last, recalling the fair hour of hope He passed that morning in the church. Again, The glad assurance of God's boundless love Filled all his being, and he rose serene, And journeyed forward with a calm content. 224 Southward he wended, and the landscape took A warmer tone, the sky a richer light. The gardens of the graceful, festooned with hops, With their slight tendrils binding pole to pole, Gave place to orchards and the trellised grape, The hedges were enwreathed with trailing vines, With clustering, shapely bunches, 'midst the growth Of tangled greenery. The elm and ash Less frequent grew than cactus, cypresses, And golden-fruited or large-blossomed trees. The far hills took the hue of the dove's breast, Veiled in gray mist of olive groves. No more He passed dark, moated strongholds of grim knights, But terraces with marble-paven steps, With fountains leaping in the sunny air, And hanging gardens full of sumptuous bloom. Then cloisters guarded by their dead gray walls, Where now and then a golden globe of fruit Or full-flushed flower peered out upon the road, Nodding against the stone, and where he heard Sometimes the voices of the chanting monks, Sometimes the laugh of children at their play, Amidst the quaint, old gardens. But these sights Were in the suburbs of the wealthy towns. For many a day through wildernesses rank, Or marshy, feverous meadow-lands he fared, The fierce sun smiting his close-muffled head; Or 'midst the Alpine gorges faced the storm, That drave adown the gullies melted snow And clattering boulders from the mountain-tops. At times, between the mountains and the sea Fair prospects opened, with the boundless stretch Of restless, tideless water by his side, And their long wash upon the yellow sand. Beneath this generous sky the country-folk Could lead a freer life,-the fat, green fields Offered rich pasturage, athwart the air Rang tinkling cow-bells and the shepherds' pipes. The knight met many a strolling troubadour, Bearing his cithern, flute, or dulcimer; And oft beneath some castle's balcony, 225 At night, he heard their mellow voices rise, Blent with stringed instruments or tambourines, Chanting some lay as natural as a bird's. Then Nature stole with healthy influence Into his thoughts; his love of beauty woke, His Muse inspired dreams as in the past. But after this came crueler remorse, And he would tighten round his loins the rope, And lie for hours beside some wayside cross, And feel himself unworthy to enjoy The splendid gift and privilege of life. Then forth he hurried, spurred by his desire To reach the City of the Seven Hills, And gain his absolution. Some leagues more Would bring him to the vast Campagna land, When by a roadside well he paused to rest. 'T was noon, and reapers in the field hard by Lay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched grass. But from their midst one came towards the well, Not trudging like a man forespent with toil, But frisking like a child at holiday, With light steps. The pilgrim watched him come, And found him scarcely older than a child, A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand, And a guitar upon his shoulder slung. A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade, But doffing this, to catch whatever breeze Might stir among the branches, he disclosed A charming head of rippled, auburn hair, A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girls, With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine's. Above his head he slipped the instrument, And laid it with his hat upon the turf, Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool, And drew it dripping upward, ere he saw The watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought) The precious draught. 'Your pardon, holy sir, Drink first,' he cried, 'before I take the jar Unto my father in the reaping-field.' Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad, The pilgrim answered,-'Thanks, my thirst is quenched From mine own palm.' The stranger deftly poised 226 The brimming pitcher on his head, and turned Back to the reaping-folk, while Tannhauser Looked after him across the sunny fields, Clasping each hand about his waist to bear The balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, found The lad's guitar near by, and fell at once To striking its tuned string with wandering hands, And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams. 'Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing, And yet I love it, for I make it speak.' The boy again stood by him and dispelled His train of fantasies half sweet, half sad. 'That was not in my thought,' the knight replied. 'Its worth is more than rubies; whoso hath The art to make this speak is raised thereby Above all loneliness or grief or fear.' More to himself than to the lad he spake, Who, understanding not, stood doubtfully At a loss for answer; but the knight went on: 'How came it in your hands, and who hath tuned your voice to follow it.' 'I am unskilled, Good father, but my mother smote its strings To music rare.' Diverted from one theme, Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy, The knight encouraged him to confidence; Then his own gift of minstrelsy revealed, And told bright tales of his first wanderings, When in lords' castles and kings' palaces Men still made place for him, for in his land The gift was rare and valued at its worth, And brought great victory and sounding fame. Thus, in retracing all his pleasant youth, His suffering passed as though it had not been. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed the boy gave ear, His fair face flushing with the sudden thoughts That went and came,-then, as the pilgrim ceased, Drew breath and spake: 'And where now is your lyre?' The knight with both hands hid his changed, white face, Crying aloud, 'Lost! lost! forever lost!' Then, gathering strength, he bared his face again Unto the frightened, wondering boy, and rose With hasty fear. 'Ah, child, you bring me back 227 Unwitting to remembrance of my grief, For which I donned eternal garb of woe; And yet I owe you thanks for one sweet hour Of healthy human intercourse and peace. 'T is not for me to tarry by the way. Farewell!' The impetuous, remorseful boy, Seeing sharp pain on that kind countenance, Fell at his feet and cried, 'Forgive my words, Witless but innocent, and leave me not Without a blessing.' Moved unutterably, The pilgrim kissed with trembling lips his head, And muttered, 'At this moment would to God That I were worthy!' Then waved wasted hands Over the youth in act of blessing him, But faltered, 'Cleanse me through his innocence, O heavenly Father!' and with quickening steps Hastened away upon the road to Rome. The noon was past, the reapers drew broad swaths With scythes sun-smitten 'midst the ripened crop. Thin shadows of the afternoon slept soft On the green meadows as the knight passed forth. He trudged amidst the sea of poisonous flowers On the Campagna's undulating plain, With Rome, the many-steepled, many-towered, Before him regnant on her throne of hills. A thick blue cloud of haze o'erhung the town, But the fast-sinking sun struck fiery light From shining crosses, roofs, and flashing domes. Across his path an arching bridge of stone Was raised above a shrunken yellow stream, Hurrying with the light on every wave Towards the great town and outward to the sea. Upon the bridge's crest he paused, and leaned Against the barrier, throwing back his cowl, And gazed upon the dull, unlovely flood That was the Tiber. Quaggy banks lay bare, Muddy and miry, glittering in the sun, And myriad insects hovered o'er the reeds, Whose lithe, moist tips by listless airs were stirred. When the low sun had dropped behind the hills, He found himself within the streets of Rome, 228 Walking as in a sleep, where naught seemed real. The chattering hubbub of the market-place Was over now; but voices smote his ear Of garrulous citizens who jostled past. Loud cries, gay laughter, snatches of sweet song, The tinkling fountains set in gardens cool About the pillared palaces, and blent With trickling of the conduits in the squares, The noisy teams within the narrow streets,All these the stranger heard and did not hear, While ringing bells pealed out above the town, And calm gray twilight skies stretched over it. Wide open stood the doors of every church, And through the porches pressed a streaming throng. Vague wonderment perplexed him, at the sight Of broken columns raised to Jupiter Beside the cross, immense cathedrals reared Upon a dead faith's ruins; all the whirl And eager bustle of the living town Filling the storied streets, whose very stones Were solemn monuments, and spake of death. Although he wrestled with himself, the thought Of that poor, past religion smote his heart With a huge pity and deep sympathy, Beyond the fervor which the Church inspired. Where was the noble race who ruled the world, Moulded of purest elements, and stuffed With sternest virtues, every man a king, Wearing the purple native in his heart? These lounging beggars, stealthy monks and priests, And womanish patricians filled their place. Thus Tannhauser, still half an infidel, Pagan through mind and Christian through the heart, Fared thoughtfully with wandering, aimless steps, Till in the dying glimmer of the day He raised his eyes and found himself alone Amid the ruined arches, broken shafts, And huge arena of the Coliseum. He did not see it as it was, dim-lit By something less than day and more than night, With wan reflections of the rising moon Rather divined than seen on ivied walls, 229 And crumbled battlements, and topless columnsBut by the light of all the ancient days, Ringed with keen eager faces, living eyes, Fixed on the circus with a savage joy, Where brandished swords flashed white, and human blood Streamed o'er the thirsty dust, and Death was king. He started, shuddering, and drew breath to see The foul pit choked with weeds and tumbled stones, The cross raised midmost, and the peaceful moon Shining o'er all; and fell upon his knees, Restored to faith in one wise, loving God. Day followed day, and still he bode in Rome, Waiting his audience with the Cardinal, And from the gates, on pretext frivolous, Passed daily forth,-his Eminency slept,Again, his Eminency was fatigued By tedious sessions of the Papal court, And thus the patient pilgrim was referred Unto a later hour. At last the page Bore him a missive with Filippo's seal, That in his name commended Tannhauser Unto the Pope. The worn, discouraged knight Read the brief scroll, then sadly forth again, Along the bosky alleys of the park, Passed to the glare and noise of summer streets. 'Good God!' he muttered, 'Thou hast ears for all, And sendest help and comfort; yet these men, Thy saintly ministers, must deck themselves With arrogance, and from their large delight In all the beauty of the beauteous earth, And peace of indolent, untempted souls, Deny the hungry outcast a bare word.' Yet even as he nourished bitter thoughts, He felt a depth of clear serenity, Unruffled in his heart beneath it all. No outward object now had farther power To wound him there, for the brooding o'er those deeps Of vast contrition was boundless hope. Yet not to leave a human chance untried, He sought the absolution of the Pope. In a great hall with airy galleries, 230 Thronged with high dignitaries of the Church, He took his seat amidst the humblest friars. Through open windows came sweet garden smells, Bright morning light, and twittered song of birds. Around the hall flashed gold and sunlit gems, And splendid wealth of color,-white-stoled priests, And scarlet cardinals, and bishops clad In violet vestments,-while beneath the shade Of the high gallery huddled dusky shapes, With faded, travel-tattered, sombre smocks, And shaven heads, and girdles of coarse hemp; Some, pilgrims penitent like Tannhauser; Some, devotees to kiss the sacred feet. The brassy blare of trumpets smote the air, Shrill pipes and horns with swelling clamor came, And through the doorway's wide-stretched tapestries Passed the Pope's trumpeters and mace-bearers, His vergers bearing slender silver wands, Then mitred bishops, red-clad cardinals, The stalwart Papal Guard with halberds raised, And then, with white head crowned with gold ingemmed, The vicar of the lowly Galilean, Holding his pastoral rod of smooth-hewn wood, With censer swung before and peacock fans Waved constantly by pages, either side. Attended thus, they bore him to his throne, And priests and laymen fell upon their knees. Then, after pause of brief and silent prayer, The pilgrims singly through the hall defiled, To kiss the borders of the papal skirts, Smiting their foreheads on the paven stone; Some silent, abject, some accusing them Of venial sins in accents of remorse, Craving his grace, and passing pardoned forth. Sir Tannhauser came last, no need for him To cry 'Peccavi,' and crook suppliant knees. His gray head rather crushed than bowed, his face Livid and wasted, his deep thoughtful eyes, His tall gaunt form in those unseemly weeds, Spake more than eloquence. His hollow voice Brake silence, saying, 'I am Tannhauser. For seven years I lived apart from men, 231 Within the Venusberg.' A horror seized The assembled folk; some turbulently rose; Some clamored, 'From the presence cast him forth!' But the knight never ceased his steady gaze Upon the Pope. At last,-'I have not spoken To be condemned,' he said, 'by such as these. Thou, spiritual Father, answer me. Look thou upon me with the eyes of Christ. Can I through expiation gain my shrift, And work mine own redemption?' 'Insolent man!' Thundered the outraged Pope, 'is this the tone Wherewith thou dost parade thy loathsome sin? Down on thy knees, and wallow on the earth! Nay, rather go! there is no ray of hope, No gleam, through cycles of eternity, For the redemption of a soul like thine. Yea, sooner shall my pastoral rod branch forth In leaf and blossom, and green shoots of spring, Than Christ will pardon thee.' And as he spoke, He struck the rod upon the floor with force That gave it entrance 'twixt two loosened tiles, So that it stood, fast-rooted and alone. The knight saw naught, he only heard his judge Ring forth his curses, and the court cry out 'Anathema!' and loud, and blent therewith, Derisive laughter in the very hall, And a wild voice that thrilled through flesh and heart: 'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE!' Half-mad he clasped both hands upon his brow, Amidst the storm of voices, till they died, And all was silence, save the reckless song Of a young bird upon a twig without. Then a defiant, ghastly face he raised, And shrieked, ''T is false! I am no longer thine!' And through the windows open to the park, Rushed forth, beyond the sight and sound of men. By church nor palace paused he, till he passed All squares and streets, and crossed the bridge of stone, And stood alone amidst the broad expanse Of the Campagna, twinkling in the heat. He knelt upon a knoll of turf, and snapped 232 The cord that held the cross about his neck, And far from him the leaden burden flung. 'O God! I thank Thee, that my faith in Thee Subsists at last, through all discouragements. Between us must no type nor symbol stand, No mediator, were he more divine Than the incarnate Christ. All forms, all priests, I part aside, and hold communion free Beneath the empty sky of noon, with naught Between my nothingness and thy high heavensSpirit with spirit. O, have mercy, God! Cleanse me from lust and bitterness and pride, Have mercy in accordance with my faith.' Long time he lay upon the scorching grass, With his face buried in the tangled weeds. Ah! who can tell the struggles of his soul Against its demons in that sacred hour, The solitude, the anguish, the remorse? When shadows long and thin lay on the ground, Shivering with fever, helpless he arose, But with a face divine, ineffable, Such as we dream the face of Israel, When the Lord's wrestling angel, at gray dawn, Blessed him, and disappeared. Upon the marsh, All night, he wandered, striving to emerge From the wild, pathless plain,-now limitless And colorless beneath the risen moon; Outstretching like a sea, with landmarks none, Save broken aqueducts and parapets, And ruined columns glinting 'neath the moon. His dress was dank and clinging with the dew; A thousand insects fluttered o'er his head, With buzz and drone; unseen cicadas chirped Among the long, rank grass, and far and near The fire-flies flickered through the summer air. Vague thoughts and gleams prophetic filled his brain. 'Ah, fool!' he mused, 'to look for help from men. Had they the will to aid, they lack the power. In mine own flesh and soul the sin had birth, Through mine own anguish it must be atoned. Our saviours are not saints and ministers, 233 But tear-strung women, children soft of heart, Or fellow-sufferers, who, by some chance word, Some glance of comfort, save us from despair. These I have found, thank heaven! to strengthen trust In mine own kind, when all the world grew dark. Make me not proud in spirit, O my God! Yea, in thy sight I am one mass of sin, One black and foul corruption, yet I know My frailty is exceeded by thy love. Neither is this the slender straw of hope, Whereto I, drowning, cling, but firm belief, That fills my inmost soul with vast content. As surely as the hollow faiths of old Shriveled to dust before one ray of Truth, So will these modern temples pass away, Piled upon rotten doctrines, baseless forms, And man will look in his own breast for help, Yea, search for comfort his own inward reins, Revere himself, and find the God within. Patience and patience!' Through the sleepless night He held such thoughts; at times before his eyes Flashed glimpses of the Church that was to be, Sublimely simple in the light serene Of future ages; then the vision changed To the Pope's hall, thronged with high priests, who hurled Their curses on him. Staggering, he awoke Unto the truth, and found himself alone, Beneath the awful stars. When dawn's first chill Crept though the shivering grass and heavy leaves, Giddy and overcome, he fell and slept Upon the dripping weeds, nor dreamed nor stirred, Until the wide plain basked in noon's broad light. He dragged his weary frame some paces more, Unto a solitary herdsman's hut, Which, in the vagueness of the moonlit night, Was touched with lines of beauty, till it grew Fair as the ruined works of ancient art, Now squat and hideous with its wattled roof, Decaying timbers, and loose door wide oped, Half-fallen from the hinge. A drowsy man, Bearded and burnt, in shepherd habit lay, Stretched on the floor, slow-munching, half asleep, 234 His frugal fare; for thus, at blaze of noon, The shepherds sought a shelter from the sun, Leaving their vigilant dogs beside their flock. The knight craved drink and bread, and with respect For pilgrim weeds, the Roman herdsman stirred His lazy length, and shared with him his meal. Refreshed and calm, Sir Tannhauser passed forth, Yearning with morbid fancy once again To see the kind face of the minstrel boy He met beside the well. At set of sun He reached the place; the reaping-folk were gone, The day's toil over, yet he took his seat. A milking-girl with laden buckets full, Came slowly from the pasture, paused and drank. From a near cottage ran a ragged boy, And filled his wooden pail, and to his home Returned across the fields. A herdsman came, And drank and gave his dog to drink, and passed, Greeting the holy man who sat there still, Awaiting. But his feeble pulse beat high When he descried at last a youthful form, Crossing the field, a pitcher on his head, Advancing towards the well. Yea, this was he, The same grave eyes, and open, girlish face. But he saw not, amidst the landscape brown, The knight's brown figure, who, to win his ear, Asked the lad's name. 'My name is Salvator, To serve you, sir,' he carelessly replied, With eyes and hands intent upon his jar, Brimming and bubbling. Then he cast one glance Upon his questioner, and left the well, Crying with keen and sudden sympathy, 'Good Father, pardon me, I knew you not. Ah! you have travelled overmuch: your feet Are grimed with mud and wet, your face is changed, Your hands are dry with fever.' But the knight: 'Nay, as I look on thee, I think the Lord Wills not that I should suffer any more.' 'Then you have suffered much,' sighed Salvator, With wondering pity. 'You must come with me; My father knows of you, I told him all. A knight and minstrel who cast by his lyre, 235 His health and fame, to give himself to God,Yours is a life indeed to be desired! If you will lie with us this night, our home Will verily be blessed.' By kindness crushed, Wandering in sense and words, the broken knight Resisted naught, and let himself be led To the boy's home. The outcast and accursed Was welcomed now by kindly human hands; Once more his blighted spirit was revived By contact with refreshing innocence. There, when the morning broke upon the world, The humble hosts no longer knew their guest. His fleshly weeds of sin forever doffed, Tannhauser lay and smiled, for in the night The angel came who brings eternal peace. __________ Far into Wartburg, through all Italy, In every town the Pope sent messengers, Riding in furious haste; among them, one Who bore a branch of dry wood burst in bloom; The pastoral rod had borne green shoots of spring, And leaf and blossom. God is merciful. ~ Emma Lazarus

386:The Ghost - Book Iv Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence To something of exalted sense 'Bove other men, and, gravely wise, Affect those pleasures to despise, Which, merely to the eye confined, Bring no improvement to the mind, Rail at all pomp; they would not go For millions to a puppet-show, Nor can forgive the mighty crime Of countenancing pantomime; No, not at Covent Garden, where, Without a head for play or player, Or, could a head be found most fit, Without one player to second it, They must, obeying Folly's call, Thrive by mere show, or not at all With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!) Most cruel to themselves, take pains For wretchedness, and would be thought Much wiser than a wise man ought, For his own happiness, to be; Who what they hear, and what they see, And what they smell, and taste, and feel, Distrust, till Reason sets her seal, And, by long trains of consequences Insured, gives sanction to the senses; Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste One hour in what the world calls Taste, Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry, Unless they know some reason why; With these grave fops, whose system seems To give up certainty for dreams, The eye of man is understood As for no other purpose good Than as a door, through which, of course, Their passage crowding, objects force, A downright usher, to admit New-comers to the court of Wit: (Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen; 190 When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean) Where (such the practice of the court, Which legal precedents support) Not one idea is allow'd To pass unquestion'd in the crowd, But ere it can obtain the grace Of holding in the brain a place, Before the chief in congregation Must stand a strict examination. Not such as those, who physic twirl, Full fraught with death, from every curl; Who prove, with all becoming state, Their voice to be the voice of Fate; Prepared with essence, drop, and pill, To be another Ward or Hill, Before they can obtain their ends, To sign death-warrants for their friends, And talents vast as theirs employ, _Secundum artem_ to destroy, Must pass (or laws their rage restrain) Before the chiefs of Warwick Lane: Thrice happy Lane! where, uncontroll'd, In power and lethargy grown old, Most fit to take, in this bless'd land, The reins--which fell from Wyndham's hand, Her lawful throne great Dulness rears, Still more herself, as more in years; Where she, (and who shall dare deny Her right, when Reeves and Chauncy's by?) Calling to mind, in ancient time, One Garth, who err'd in wit and rhyme, Ordains, from henceforth, to admit None of the rebel sons of Wit, And makes it her peculiar care That Schomberg never shall be there. Not such as those, whom Polly trains To letters, though unbless'd with brains, Who, destitute of power and will To learn, are kept to learning still; Whose heads, when other methods fail, Receive instruction from the tail, Because their sires,--a common case 191 Which brings the children to disgrace,-Imagine it a certain rule They never could beget a fool, Must pass, or must compound for, ere The chaplain, full of beef and prayer, Will give his reverend permit, Announcing them for orders fit; So that the prelate (what's a name? All prelates now are much the same) May, with a conscience safe and quiet, With holy hands lay on that fiat Which doth all faculties dispense, All sanctity, all faith, all sense; Makes Madan quite a saint appear, And makes an oracle of Cheere. Not such as in that solemn seat, Where the Nine Ladies hold retreat,-The Ladies Nine, who, as we're told, Scorning those haunts they loved of old, The banks of Isis now prefer, Nor will one hour from Oxford stir,-Are held for form, which Balaam's ass As well as Balaam's self might pass, And with his master take degrees, Could he contrive to pay the fees. Men of sound parts, who, deeply read, O'erload the storehouse of the head With furniture they ne'er can use, Cannot forgive our rambling Muse This wild excursion; cannot see Why Physic and Divinity, To the surprise of all beholders, Are lugg'd in by the head and shoulders; Or how, in any point of view, Oxford hath any thing to do. But men of nice and subtle learning, Remarkable for quick discerning, Through spectacles of critic mould, Without instruction, will behold That we a method here have got To show what is, by what is not; And that our drift (parenthesis 192 For once apart) is briefly this: Within the brain's most secret cells A certain Lord Chief-Justice dwells, Of sovereign power, whom, one and all, With common voice, we Reason call; Though, for the purposes of satire, A name, in truth, is no great matter; Jefferies or Mansfield, which you will-It means a Lord Chief-Justice still. Here, so our great projectors say, The Senses all must homage pay; Hither they all must tribute bring, And prostrate fall before their king; Whatever unto them is brought, Is carried on the wings of Thought Before his throne, where, in full state, He on their merits holds debate, Examines, cross-examines, weighs Their right to censure or to praise: Nor doth his equal voice depend On narrow views of foe and friend, Nor can, or flattery, or force Divert him from his steady course; The channel of Inquiry's clear, No sham examination's here. He, upright justicer, no doubt, _Ad libitum_ puts in and out, Adjusts and settles in a trice What virtue is, and what is vice; What is perfection, what defect; What we must choose, and what reject; He takes upon him to explain What pleasure is, and what is pain; Whilst we, obedient to the whim, And resting all our faith on him, True members of the Stoic Weal, Must learn to think, and cease to feel. This glorious system, form'd for man To practise when and how he can, If the five Senses, in alliance, To Reason hurl a proud defiance, And, though oft conquer'd, yet unbroke, 193 Endeavour to throw off that yoke, Which they a greater slavery hold Than Jewish bondage was of old; Or if they, something touch'd with shame, Allow him to retain the name Of Royalty, and, as in sport, To hold a mimic formal court; Permitted--no uncommon thing-To be a kind of puppet king, And suffer'd, by the way of toy, To hold a globe, but not employ; Our system-mongers, struck with fear, Prognosticate destruction near; All things to anarchy must run; The little world of man's undone. Nay, should the Eye, that nicest sense, Neglect to send intelligence Unto the Brain, distinct and clear, Of all that passes in her sphere; Should she, presumptuous, joy receive Without the Understanding's leave, They deem it rank and daring treason Against the monarchy of Reason, Not thinking, though they're wondrous wise, That few have reason, most have eyes; So that the pleasures of the mind To a small circle are confined, Whilst those which to the senses fall Become the property of all. Besides, (and this is sure a case Not much at present out of place) Where Nature reason doth deny, No art can that defect supply; But if (for it is our intent Fairly to state the argument) A man should want an eye or two, The remedy is sure, though new: The cure's at hand--no need of fear-For proof--behold the Chevalier!-As well prepared, beyond all doubt, To put eyes in, as put them out. But, argument apart, which tends 194 To embitter foes and separate friends, (Nor, turn'd apostate from the Nine, Would I, though bred up a divine, And foe, of course, to Reason's Weal, Widen that breach I cannot heal) By his own sense and feelings taught, In speech as liberal as in thought, Let every man enjoy his whim; What's he to me, or I to him? Might I, though never robed in ermine, A matter of this weight determine, No penalties should settled be To force men to hypocrisy, To make them ape an awkward zeal, And, feeling not, pretend to feel. I would not have, might sentence rest Finally fix'd within my breast, E'en Annet censured and confined, Because we're of a different mind. Nature, who, in her act most free, Herself delights in liberty, Profuse in love, and without bound, Pours joy on every creature round; Whom yet, was every bounty shed In double portions on our head, We could not truly bounteous call, If Freedom did not crown them all. By Providence forbid to stray, Brutes never can mistake their way; Determined still, they plod along By instinct, neither right nor wrong; But man, had he the heart to use His freedom, hath a right to choose; Whether he acts, or well, or ill, Depends entirely on his will. To her last work, her favourite Man, Is given, on Nature's better plan, A privilege in power to err. Nor let this phrase resentment stir Amongst the grave ones, since indeed The little merit man can plead In doing well, dependeth still 195 Upon his power of doing ill. Opinions should be free as air; No man, whate'er his rank, whate'er His qualities, a claim can found That my opinion must be bound, And square with his; such slavish chains From foes the liberal soul disdains; Nor can, though true to friendship, bend To wear them even from a friend. Let those, who rigid judgment own, Submissive bow at Judgment's throne, And if they of no value hold Pleasure, till pleasure is grown cold, Pall'd and insipid, forced to wait For Judgment's regular debate To give it warrant, let them find Dull subjects suited to their mind. Theirs be slow wisdom; be my plan, To live as merry as I can, Regardless, as the fashions go, Whether there's reason for't or no: Be my employment here on earth To give a liberal scope to mirth, Life's barren vale with flowers to adorn, And pluck a rose from every thorn. But if, by Error led astray, I chance to wander from my way, Let no blind guide observe, in spite, I'm wrong, who cannot set me right. That doctor could I ne'er endure Who found disease, and not a cure; Nor can I hold that man a friend Whose zeal a helping hand shall lend To open happy Folly's eyes, And, making wretched, make me wise: For next (a truth which can't admit Reproof from Wisdom or from Wit) To being happy here below, Is to believe that we are so. Some few in knowledge find relief; I place my comfort in belief. Some for reality may call; 196 Fancy to me is all in all. Imagination, through the trick Of doctors, often makes us sick; And why, let any sophist tell, May it not likewise make us well? This I am sure, whate'er our view, Whatever shadows we pursue, For our pursuits, be what they will, Are little more than shadows still; Too swift they fly, too swift and strong, For man to catch or hold them long; But joys which in the fancy live, Each moment to each man may give: True to himself, and true to ease, He softens Fate's severe decrees, And (can a mortal wish for more?) Creates, and makes himself new o'er, Mocks boasted vain reality, And is, whate'er he wants to be. Hail, Fancy!--to thy power I owe Deliverance from the gripe of Woe; To thee I owe a mighty debt, Which Gratitude shall ne'er forget, Whilst Memory can her force employ, A large increase of every joy. When at my doors, too strongly barr'd, Authority had placed a guard, A knavish guard, ordain'd by law To keep poor Honesty in awe; Authority, severe and stern, To intercept my wish'd return; When foes grew proud, and friends grew cool, And laughter seized each sober fool; When Candour started in amaze, And, meaning censure, hinted praise; When Prudence, lifting up her eyes And hands, thank'd Heaven that she was wise; When all around me, with an air Of hopeless sorrow, look'd despair; When they, or said, or seem'd to say, There is but one, one only way Better, and be advised by us, 197 Not be at all, than to be thus; When Virtue shunn'd the shock, and Pride, Disabled, lay by Virtue's side, Too weak my ruffled soul to cheer, Which could not hope, yet would not fear; Health in her motion, the wild grace Of pleasure speaking in her face, Dull regularity thrown by, And comfort beaming from her eye, Fancy, in richest robes array'd, Came smiling forth, and brought me aid; Came smiling o'er that dreadful time, And, more to bless me, came in rhyme. Nor is her power to me confined; It spreads, it comprehends mankind. When (to the spirit-stirring sound Of trumpets breathing courage round, And fifes well-mingled, to restrain And bring that courage down again; Or to the melancholy knell Of the dull, deep, and doleful bell, Such as of late the good Saint Bride Muffled, to mortify the pride Of those who, England quite forgot, Paid their vile homage to the Scot; Where Asgill held the foremost place, Whilst my lord figured at a race) Processions ('tis not worth debate Whether they are of stage or state) Move on, so very, very slow, Tis doubtful if they move, or no; When the performers all the while Mechanically frown or smile, Or, with a dull and stupid stare, A vacancy of sense declare, Or, with down-bending eye, seem wrought Into a labyrinth of thought, Where Reason wanders still in doubt, And, once got in, cannot get out; What cause sufficient can we find, To satisfy a thinking mind, Why, duped by such vain farces, man 198 Descends to act on such a plan? Why they, who hold themselves divine, Can in such wretched follies join, Strutting like peacocks, or like crows, Themselves and Nature to expose? What cause, but that (you'll understand We have our remedy at hand, That if perchance we start a doubt, Ere it is fix'd, we wipe it out; As surgeons, when they lop a limb, Whether for profit, fame, or whim, Or mere experiment to try, Must always have a styptic by) Fancy steps in, and stamps that real, Which, _ipso facto_, is ideal. Can none remember?--yes, I know, All must remember that rare show When to the country Sense went down, And fools came flocking up to town; When knights (a work which all admit To be for knighthood much unfit) Built booths for hire; when parsons play'd, In robes canonical array'd, And, fiddling, join'd the Smithfield dance, The price of tickets to advance: Or, unto tapsters turn'd, dealt out, Running from booth to booth about, To every scoundrel, by retail, True pennyworths of beef and ale, Then first prepared, by bringing beer in, For present grand electioneering; When heralds, running all about To bring in Order, turn'd it out; When, by the prudent Marshal's care, Lest the rude populace should stare, And with unhallow'd eyes profane Gay puppets of Patrician strain, The whole procession, as in spite, Unheard, unseen, stole off by night; When our loved monarch, nothing both, Solemnly took that sacred oath, Whence mutual firm agreements spring 199 Betwixt the subject and the king, By which, in usual manner crown'd, His head, his heart, his hands, he bound, Against himself, should passion stir The least propensity to err, Against all slaves, who might prepare, Or open force, or hidden snare, That glorious Charter to maintain, By which we serve, and he must reign; Then Fancy, with unbounded sway, Revell'd sole mistress of the day, And wrought such wonders, as might make Egyptian sorcerers forsake Their baffled mockeries, and own The palm of magic hers alone. A knight, (who, in the silken lap Of lazy Peace, had lived on pap; Who never yet had dared to roam 'Bove ten or twenty miles from home, Nor even that, unless a guide Was placed to amble by his side, And troops of slaves were spread around To keep his Honour safe and sound; Who could not suffer, for his life, A point to sword, or edge to knife; And always fainted at the sight Of blood, though 'twas not shed in fight; Who disinherited one son For firing off an alder gun, And whipt another, six years old, Because the boy, presumptuous, bold To madness, likely to become A very Swiss, had beat a drum, Though it appear'd an instrument Most peaceable and innocent, Having, from first, been in the hands And service of the City bands) Graced with those ensigns, which were meant To further Honour's dread intent, The minds of warriors to inflame, And spur them on to deeds of fame; With little sword, large spurs, high feather, 200 Fearless of every thing but weather, (And all must own, who pay regard To charity, it had been hard That in his very first campaign His honours should be soil'd with rain) A hero all at once became, And (seeing others much the same In point of valour as himself, Who leave their courage on a shelf From year to year, till some such rout In proper season calls it out) Strutted, look'd big, and swagger'd more Than ever hero did before; Look'd up, look'd down, look'd all around, Like Mavors, grimly smiled and frown'd; Seem'd Heaven, and Earth, and Hell to call To fight, that he might rout them all, And personated Valour's style So long, spectators to beguile, That, passing strange, and wondrous true, Himself at last believed it too; Nor for a time could he discern, Till Truth and Darkness took their turn, So well did Fancy play her part, That coward still was at the heart. Whiffle (who knows not Whiffle's name, By the impartial voice of Fame Recorded first through all this land In Vanity's illustrious band?) Who, by all-bounteous Nature meant For offices of hardiment, A modern Hercules at least, To rid the world of each wild beast, Of each wild beast which came in view, Whether on four legs or on two, Degenerate, delights to prove His force on the parade of Love, Disclaims the joys which camps afford, And for the distaff quits the sword; Who fond of women would appear To public eye and public ear, But, when in private, lets them know 201 How little they can trust to show; Who sports a woman, as of course, Just as a jockey shows a horse, And then returns her to the stable, Or vainly plants her at his table, Where he would rather Venus find (So pall'd, and so depraved his mind) Than, by some great occasion led, To seize her panting in her bed, Burning with more than mortal fires, And melting in her own desires; Who, ripe in years, is yet a child, Through fashion, not through feeling, wild; Whate'er in others, who proceed As Sense and Nature have decreed, From real passion flows, in him Is mere effect of mode and whim; Who laughs, a very common way, Because he nothing has to say, As your choice spirits oaths dispense To fill up vacancies of sense; Who, having some small sense, defies it, Or, using, always misapplies it; Who now and then brings something forth Which seems indeed of sterling worth; Something, by sudden start and fit, Which at a distance looks like wit, But, on examination near, To his confusion will appear, By Truth's fair glass, to be at best A threadbare jester's threadbare jest; Who frisks and dances through the street, Sings without voice, rides without seat, Plays o'er his tricks, like Aesop's ass, A gratis fool to all who pass; Who riots, though he loves not waste, Whores without lust, drinks without taste, Acts without sense, talks without thought, Does every thing but what he ought; Who, led by forms, without the power Of vice, is vicious; who one hour, Proud without pride, the next will be 202 Humble without humility: Whose vanity we all discern, The spring on which his actions turn; Whose aim in erring, is to err, So that he may be singular, And all his utmost wishes mean Is, though he's laugh'd at, to be seen: Such, (for when Flattery's soothing strain Had robb'd the Muse of her disdain, And found a method to persuade Her art to soften every shade, Justice, enraged, the pencil snatch'd From her degenerate hand, and scratch'd Out every trace; then, quick as thought, From life this striking likeness caught) In mind, in manners, and in mien, Such Whiffle came, and such was seen In the world's eye; but (strange to tell!) Misled by Fancy's magic spell, Deceived, not dreaming of deceit, Cheated, but happy in the cheat, Was more than human in his own. Oh, bow, bow all at Fancy's throne, Whose power could make so vile an elf With patience bear that thing, himself. But, mistress of each art to please, Creative Fancy, what are these, These pageants of a trifler's pen, To what thy power effected then? Familiar with the human mind, And swift and subtle as the wind, Which we all feel, yet no one knows, Or whence it comes, or where it goes, Fancy at once in every part Possess'd the eye, the head, the heart, And in a thousand forms array'd, A thousand various gambols play'd. Here, in a face which well might ask The privilege to wear a mask In spite of law, and Justice teach For public good to excuse the breach, Within the furrow of a wrinkle 203 'Twixt eyes, which could not shine but twinkle, Like sentinels i' th' starry way, Who wait for the return of day, Almost burnt out, and seem to keep Their watch, like soldiers, in their sleep; Or like those lamps, which, by the power Of law, must burn from hour to hour, (Else they, without redemption, fall Under the terrors of that Hall, Which, once notorious for a hop, Is now become a justice shop) Which are so managed, to go out Just when the time comes round about, Which yet, through emulation, strive To keep their dying light alive, And (not uncommon, as we find, Amongst the children of mankind) As they grow weaker, would seem stronger, And burn a little, little longer: Fancy, betwixt such eyes enshrined, No brush to daub, no mill to grind, Thrice waved her wand around, whose force Changed in an instant Nature's course, And, hardly credible in rhyme, Not only stopp'd, but call'd back Time; The face of every wrinkle clear'd, Smooth as the floating stream appear'd, Down the neck ringlets spread their flame, The neck admiring whence they came; On the arch'd brow the Graces play'd; On the full bosom Cupid laid; Suns, from their proper orbits sent, Became for eyes a supplement; Teeth, white as ever teeth were seen, Deliver'd from the hand of Green, Started, in regular array, Like train-bands on a grand field day, Into the gums, which would have fled, But, wondering, turn'd from white to red; Quite alter'd was the whole machine, And Lady ---- ---- was fifteen. Here she made lordly temples rise 204 Before the pious Dashwood's eyes, Temples which, built aloft in air, May serve for show, if not for prayer; In solemn form herself, before, Array'd like Faith, the Bible bore. There over Melcombe's feather'd head-Who, quite a man of gingerbread, Savour'd in talk, in dress, and phiz, More of another world than this, To a dwarf Muse a giant page, The last grave fop of the last age-In a superb and feather'd hearse, Bescutcheon'd and betagg'd with verse, Which, to beholders from afar, Appear'd like a triumphal car, She rode, in a cast rainbow clad; There, throwing off the hallow'd plaid, Naked, as when (in those drear cells Where, self-bless'd, self-cursed, Madness dwells) Pleasure, on whom, in Laughter's shape, Frenzy had perfected a rape, First brought her forth, before her time, Wild witness of her shame and crime, Driving before an idol band Of drivelling Stuarts, hand in hand; Some who, to curse mankind, had wore A crown they ne'er must think of more; Others, whose baby brows were graced With paper crowns, and toys of paste, She jigg'd, and, playing on the flute, Spread raptures o'er the soul of Bute. Big with vast hopes, some mighty plan, Which wrought the busy soul of man To her full bent; the Civil Law, Fit code to keep a world in awe, Bound o'er his brows, fair to behold, As Jewish frontlets were of old; The famous Charter of our land Defaced, and mangled in his hand; As one whom deepest thoughts employ, But deepest thoughts of truest joy, Serious and slow he strode, he stalk'd; 205 Before him troops of heroes walk'd, Whom best he loved, of heroes crown'd, By Tories guarded all around; Dull solemn pleasure in his face, He saw the honours of his race, He saw their lineal glories rise, And touch'd, or seem'd to touch, the skies: Not the most distant mark of fear, No sign of axe or scaffold near, Not one cursed thought to cross his will Of such a place as Tower Hill. Curse on this Muse, a flippant jade, A shrew, like every other maid Who turns the corner of nineteen, Devour'd with peevishness and spleen; Her tongue (for as, when bound for life, The husband suffers for the wife, So if in any works of rhyme Perchance there blunders out a crime, Poor culprit bards must always rue it, Although 'tis plain the Muses do it) Sooner or later cannot fail To send me headlong to a jail. Whate'er my theme, (our themes we choose, In modern days, without a Muse; Just as a father will provide To join a bridegroom and a bride, As if, though they must be the players, The game was wholly his, not theirs) Whate'er my theme, the Muse, who still Owns no direction but her will, Plies off, and ere I could expect, By ways oblique and indirect, At once quite over head and ears In fatal politics appears. Time was, and, if I aught discern Of fate, that time shall soon return, When, decent and demure at least, As grave and dull as any priest, I could see Vice in robes array'd, Could see the game of Folly play'd Successfully in Fortune's school, 206 Without exclaiming rogue or fool. Time was, when, nothing both or proud, I lackey'd with the fawning crowd, Scoundrels in office, and would bow To cyphers great in place; but now Upright I stand, as if wise Fate, To compliment a shatter'd state, Had me, like Atlas, hither sent To shoulder up the firmament, And if I stoop'd, with general crack, The heavens would tumble from my back. Time was, when rank and situation Secured the great ones of the nation From all control; satire and law Kept only little knaves in awe; But now, Decorum lost, I stand Bemused, a pencil in my hand, And, dead to every sense of shame, Careless of safety and of fame, The names of scoundrels minute down, And libel more than half the town. How can a statesman be secure In all his villanies, if poor And dirty authors thus shall dare To lay his rotten bosom bare? Muses should pass away their time In dressing out the poet's rhyme With bills, and ribands, and array Each line in harmless taste, though gay; When the hot burning fit is on, They should regale their restless son With something to allay his rage, Some cool Castalian beverage, Or some such draught (though they, 'tis plain, Taking the Muse's name in vain, Know nothing of their real court, And only fable from report) As makes a Whitehead's Ode go down, Or slakes the Feverette of Brown: But who would in his senses think, Of Muses giving gall to drink, Or that their folly should afford 207 To raving poets gun or sword? Poets were ne'er designed by Fate To meddle with affairs of state, Nor should (if we may speak our thought Truly as men of honour ought) Sound policy their rage admit, To launch the thunderbolts of Wit About those heads, which, when they're shot, Can't tell if 'twas by Wit or not. These things well known, what devil, in spite, Can have seduced me thus to write Out of that road, which must have led To riches, without heart or head, Into that road, which, had I more Than ever poet had before Of wit and virtue, in disgrace Would keep me still, and out of place; Which, if some judge (you'll understand One famous, famous through the land For making law) should stand my friend, At last may in a pillory end; And all this, I myself admit, Without one cause to lead to it? For instance, now--this book--the Ghost-Methinks I hear some critic Post Remark most gravely--'The first word Which we about the Ghost have heard.' Peace, my good sir!--not quite so fast-What is the first, may be the last, Which is a point, all must agree, Cannot depend on you or me. Fanny, no ghost of common mould, Is not by forms to be controll'd; To keep her state, and show her skill, She never comes but when she will. I wrote and wrote, (perhaps you doubt, And shrewdly, what I wrote about; Believe me, much to my disgrace, I, too, am in the self-same case But still I wrote, till Fanny came Impatient, nor could any shame On me with equal justice fall 208 If she had never come at all. An underling, I could not stir Without the cue thrown out by her, Nor from the subject aid receive Until she came and gave me leave. So that, (ye sons of Erudition Mark, this is but a supposition, Nor would I to so wise a nation Suggest it as a revelation) If henceforth, dully turning o'er Page after page, ye read no more Of Fanny, who, in sea or air, May be departed God knows where, Rail at jilt Fortune; but agree No censure can be laid on me; For sure (the cause let Mansfield try) Fanny is in the fault, not I. But, to return--and this I hold A secret worth its weight in gold To those who write, as I write now, Not to mind where they go, or how, Through ditch, through bog, o'er hedge and stile, Make it but worth the reader's while, And keep a passage fair and plain Always to bring him back again. Through dirt, who scruples to approach, At Pleasure's call, to take a coach? But we should think the man a clown, Who in the dirt should set us down. But to return--if Wit, who ne'er The shackles of restraint could bear, In wayward humour should refuse Her timely succour to the Muse, And, to no rules and orders tied, Roughly deny to be her guide, She must renounce Decorum's plan, And get back when, and how she can; As parsons, who, without pretext, As soon as mention'd, quit their text, And, to promote sleep's genial power, Grope in the dark for half an hour, Give no more reason (for we know 209 Reason is vulgar, mean, and low) Why they come back (should it befall That ever they come back at all) Into the road, to end their rout, Than they can give why they went out. But to return--this book--the Ghost-A mere amusement at the most; A trifle, fit to wear away The horrors of a rainy day; A slight shot-silk, for summer wear, Just as our modern statesmen are, If rigid honesty permit That I for once purloin the wit Of him, who, were we all to steal, Is much too rich the theft to feel: Yet in this book, where Base should join With Mirth to sugar every line; Where it should all be mere chit-chat, Lively, good-humour'd, and all that; Where honest Satire, in disgrace, Should not so much as show her face, The shrew, o'erleaping all due bounds, Breaks into Laughter's sacred grounds, And, in contempt, plays o'er her tricks In science, trade, and politics. By why should the distemper'd scold Attempt to blacken men enroll'd In Power's dread book, whose mighty skill Can twist an empire to their will; Whose voice is fate, and on their tongue Law, liberty, and life are hung; Whom, on inquiry, Truth shall find With Stuarts link'd, time out of mind, Superior to their country's laws, Defenders of a tyrant's cause; Men, who the same damn'd maxims hold Darkly, which they avow'd of old; Who, though by different means, pursue The end which they had first in view, And, force found vain, now play their part With much less honour, much more art? Why, at the corners of the streets, 210 To every patriot drudge she meets, Known or unknown, with furious cry Should she wild clamours vent? or why, The minds of groundlings to inflame, A Dashwood, Bute, and Wyndham name? Why, having not, to our surprise, The fear of death before her eyes, Bearing, and that but now and then, No other weapon but her pen, Should she an argument afford For blood to men who wear a sword? Men, who can nicely trim and pare A point of honour to a hair-(Honour!--a word of nice import, A pretty trinket in a court, Which my lord, quite in rapture, feels Dangling and rattling with his seals-Honour!--a word which all the Nine Would be much puzzled to define-Honour!--a word which torture mocks, And might confound a thousand Lockes-Which--for I leave to wiser heads, Who fields of death prefer to beds Of down, to find out, if they can, What honour is, on their wild plan-Is not, to take it in their way, And this we sure may dare to say Without incurring an offence, Courage, law, honesty, or sense): Men, who, all spirit, life, and soul Neat butchers of a button-hole, Having more skill, believe it true That they must have more courage too: Men who, without a place or name, Their fortunes speechless as their fame, Would by the sword new fortunes carve, And rather die in fight than starve At coronations, a vast field, Which food of every kind might yield; Of good sound food, at once most fit For purposes of health and wit, Could not ambitious Satire rest, 211 Content with what she might digest? Could she not feast on things of course, A champion, or a champion's horse? A champion's horse--no, better say, Though better figured on that day, A horse, which might appear to us, Who deal in rhyme, a Pegasus; A rider, who, when once got on, Might pass for a Bellerophon, Dropt on a sudden from the skies, To catch and fix our wondering eyes, To witch, with wand instead of whip, The world with noble horsemanship, To twist and twine, both horse and man, On such a well-concerted plan, That, Centaur-like, when all was done, We scarce could think they were not one? Could she not to our itching ears Bring the new names of new-coin'd peers, Who walk'd, nobility forgot, With shoulders fitter for a knot Than robes of honour; for whose sake Heralds in form were forced to make, To make, because they could not find, Great predecessors to their mind? Could she not (though 'tis doubtful since Whether he plumber is, or prince) Tell of a simple knight's advance To be a doughty peer of France? Tell how he did a dukedom gain, And Robinson was Aquitain? Tell how her city chiefs, disgraced, Were at an empty table placed,-A gross neglect, which, whilst they live, They can't forget, and won't forgive; A gross neglect of all those rights Which march with city appetites, Of all those canons, which we find By Gluttony, time out of mind, Established, which they ever hold Dearer than any thing but gold? Thanks to my stars--I now see shore-- 212 Of courtiers, and of courts no more-Thus stumbling on my city friends, Blind Chance my guide, my purpose bends In line direct, and shall pursue The point which I had first in view, Nor more shall with the reader sport Till I have seen him safe in port. Hush'd be each fear--no more I bear Through the wide regions of the air The reader terrified, no more Wild ocean's horrid paths explore. Be the plain track from henceforth mine-Cross roads to Allen I resign; Allen, the honor of this nation; Allen, himself a corporation; Allen, of late notorious grown For writings, none, or all, his own; Allen, the first of letter'd men, Since the good Bishop holds his pen, And at his elbow takes his stand, To mend his head, and guide his hand. But hold--once more, Digression hence-Let us return to Common Sense; The car of Phoebus I discharge, My carriage now a Lord Mayor's barge. Suppose we now--we may suppose In verse, what would be sin in prose-The sky with darkness overspread, And every star retired to bed; The gewgaw robes of Pomp and Pride In some dark corner thrown aside; Great lords and ladies giving way To what they seem to scorn by day, The real feelings of the heart, And Nature taking place of Art; Desire triumphant through the night, And Beauty panting with delight; Chastity, woman's fairest crown, Till the return of morn laid down. Then to be worn again as bright As if not sullied in the night; Dull Ceremony, business o'er, 213 Dreaming in form at Cottrell's door; Precaution trudging all about To see the candles safely out, Bearing a mighty master-key, Habited like Economy, Stamping each lock with triple seals; Mean Avarice creeping at her heels. Suppose we too, like sheep in pen, The Mayor and Court of Aldermen Within their barge, which through the deep, The rowers more than half asleep, Moved slow, as overcharged with state; Thames groan'd beneath the mighty weight, And felt that bauble heavier far Than a whole fleet of men of war. Sleep o'er each well-known faithful head With liberal hand his poppies shed; Each head, by Dulness render'd fit Sleep and his empire to admit. Through the whole passage not a word, Not one faint, weak half-sound was heard; Sleep had prevail'd to overwhelm The steersman nodding o'er the helm; The rowers, without force or skill, Left the dull barge to drive at will; The sluggish oars suspended hung, And even Beardmore held his tongue. Commerce, regardful of a freight On which depended half her state, Stepp'd to the helm; with ready hand She safely clear'd that bank of sand, Where, stranded, our west-country fleet Delay and danger often meet, Till Neptune, anxious for the trade, Comes in full tides, and brings them aid. Next (for the Muses can survey Objects by night as well as day; Nothing prevents their taking aim, Darkness and light to them the same) They pass'd that building which of old Queen-mothers was design'd to hold; At present a mere lodging-pen, 214 A palace turn'd into a den; To barracks turn'd, and soldiers tread Where dowagers have laid their head. Why should we mention Surrey Street, Where every week grave judges meet All fitted out with hum and ha, In proper form to drawl out law, To see all causes duly tried 'Twixt knaves who drive, and fools who ride? Why at the Temple should we stay? What of the Temple dare we say? A dangerous ground we tread on there, And words perhaps may actions bear; Where, as the brethren of the seas For fares, the lawyers ply for fees. What of that Bridge, most wisely made To serve the purposes of trade, In the great mart of all this nation, By stopping up the navigation, And to that sand bank adding weight, Which is already much too great? What of that Bridge, which, void of sense But well supplied with impudence, Englishmen, knowing not the Guild, Thought they might have a claim to build, Till Paterson, as white as milk, As smooth as oil, as soft as silk, In solemn manner had decreed That on the other side the Tweed Art, born and bred, and fully grown, Was with one Mylne, a man unknown, But grace, preferment, and renown Deserving, just arrived in town: One Mylne, an artist perfect quite Both in his own and country's right, As fit to make a bridge as he, With glorious Patavinity, To build inscriptions worthy found To lie for ever under ground. Much more worth observation too, Was this a season to pursue The theme, our Muse might tell in rhyme: 215 The will she hath, but not the time; For, swift as shaft from Indian bow, (And when a goddess comes, we know, Surpassing Nature acts prevail. And boats want neither oar nor sail) The vessel pass'd, and reach'd the shore So quick, that Thought was scarce before. Suppose we now our City court Safely delivered at the port. And, of their state regardless quite, Landed, like smuggled goods, by night, The solemn magistrate laid down, The dignity of robe and gown, With every other ensign gone, Suppose the woollen nightcap on; The flesh-brush used, with decent state, To make the spirits circulate, (A form which, to the senses true, The lickerish chaplain uses too, Though, something to improve the plan, He takes the maid instead of man) Swathed, and with flannel cover'd o'er, To show the vigour of threescore, The vigour of threescore and ten, Above the proof of younger men, Suppose, the mighty Dulman led Betwixt two slaves, and put to bed; Suppose, the moment he lies down, No miracle in this great town, The drone as fast asleep as he Must in the course of nature be, Who, truth for our foundation take, When up, is never half awake. There let him sleep, whilst we survey The preparations for the day; That day on which was to be shown Court pride by City pride outdone. The jealous mother sends away, As only fit for childish play, That daughter who, to gall her pride, Shoots up too forward by her side. The wretch, of God and man accursed, 216 Of all Hell's instruments the worst, Draws forth his pawns, and for the day Struts in some spendthrift's vain array; Around his awkward doxy shine The treasures of Golconda's mine; Each neighbour, with a jealous glare, Beholds her folly publish'd there. Garments well saved, (an anecdote Which we can prove, or would not quote) Garments well saved, which first were made When tailors, to promote their trade, Against the Picts in arms arose, And drove them out, or made them clothes; Garments immortal, without end, Like names and titles, which descend Successively from sire to son; Garments, unless some work is done Of note, not suffer'd to appear 'Bove once at most in every year, Were now, in solemn form, laid bare, To take the benefit of air, And, ere they came to be employ'd On this solemnity, to void That scent which Russia's leather gave, From vile and impious moth to save. Each head was busy, and each heart In preparation bore a part; Running together all about The servants put each other out, Till the grave master had decreed, The more haste ever the worse speed. Miss, with her little eyes half-closed, Over a smuggled toilette dosed; The waiting-maid, whom story notes A very Scrub in petticoats, Hired for one work, but doing all, In slumbers lean'd against the wall. Milliners, summon'd from afar, Arrived in shoals at Temple Bar, Strictly commanded to import Cart loads of foppery from Court; With labour'd visible design, 217 Art strove to be superbly fine; Nature, more pleasing, though more wild, Taught otherwise her darling child, And cried, with spirited disdain, Be Hunter elegant and plain! Lo! from the chambers of the East, A welcome prelude to the feast, In saffron-colour'd robe array'd, High in a car, by Vulcan made, Who work'd for Jove himself, each steed, High-mettled, of celestial breed, Pawing and pacing all the way, Aurora brought the wish'd-for day, And held her empire, till out-run By that brave jolly groom, the Sun. The trumpet--hark! it speaks--it swells The loud full harmony; it tells The time at hand when Dulman, led By Form, his citizens must head, And march those troops, which at his call Were now assembled, to Guildhall, On matters of importance great, To court and city, church and state. From end to end the sound makes way, All hear the signal and obey; But Dulman, who, his charge forgot, By Morpheus fetter'd, heard it not; Nor could, so sound he slept and fast, Hear any trumpet, but the last. Crape, ever true and trusty known, Stole from the maid's bed to his own, Then in the spirituals of pride, Planted himself at Dulman's side. Thrice did the ever-faithful slave, With voice which might have reach'd the grave, And broke Death's adamantine chain, On Dulman call, but call'd in vain. Thrice with an arm, which might have made The Theban boxer curse his trade, The drone he shook, who rear'd the head, And thrice fell backward on his bed. What could be done? Where force hath fail'd, 218 Policy often hath prevail'd; And what--an inference most plain-Had been, Crape thought might be again. Under his pillow (still in mind The proverb kept, 'fast bind, fast find') Each blessed night the keys were laid, Which Crape to draw away assay'd. What not the power of voice or arm Could do, this did, and broke the charm; Quick started he with stupid stare, For all his little soul was there. Behold him, taken up, rubb'd down, In elbow-chair, and morning-gown; Behold him, in his latter bloom, Stripp'd, wash'd, and sprinkled with perfume; Behold him bending with the weight Of robes, and trumpery of state; Behold him (for the maxim's true, Whate'er we by another do, We do ourselves; and chaplain paid, Like slaves in every other trade, Had mutter'd over God knows what, Something which he by heart had got) Having, as usual, said his prayers, Go titter, totter to the stairs: Behold him for descent prepare, With one foot trembling in the air; He starts, he pauses on the brink, And, hard to credit, seems to think; Through his whole train (the chaplain gave The proper cue to every slave) At once, as with infection caught, Each started, paused, and aim'd at thought; He turns, and they turn; big with care, He waddles to his elbow-chair, Squats down, and, silent for a season, At last with Crape begins to reason: But first of all he made a sign, That every soul, but the divine, Should quit the room; in him, he knows, He may all confidence repose. 'Crape--though I'm yet not quite awake-- 219 Before this awful step I take, On which my future all depends, I ought to know my foes and friends. My foes and friends--observe me still-I mean not those who well or ill Perhaps may wish me, but those who Have't in their power to do it too. Now if, attentive to the state, In too much hurry to be great, Or through much zeal,--a motive, Crape, Deserving praise,--into a scrape I, like a fool, am got, no doubt I, like a wise man, should get out: Note that remark without replies; I say that to get out is wise, Or, by the very self-same rule, That to get in was like a fool. The marrow of this argument Must wholly rest on the event, And therefore, which is really hard, Against events too I must guard. Should things continue as they stand, And Bute prevail through all the land Without a rival, by his aid My fortunes in a trice are made; Nay, honours on my zeal may smile, And stamp me Earl of some great Isle: But if, a matter of much doubt, The present minister goes out, Fain would I know on what pretext I can stand fairly with the next? For as my aim, at every hour, Is to be well with those in power, And my material point of view, Whoever's in, to be in too, I should not, like a blockhead, choose To gain these, so as those to lose: 'Tis good in every case, you know, To have two strings unto our bow.' As one in wonder lost, Crape view'd His lord, who thus his speech pursued: 'This, my good Crape, is my grand point; 220 And as the times are out of joint, The greater caution is required To bring about the point desired. What I would wish to bring about Cannot admit a moment's doubt; The matter in dispute, you know, Is what we call the _Quomodo_. That be thy task.'--The reverend slave, Becoming in a moment grave, Fix'd to the ground and rooted stood, Just like a man cut out out of wood, Such as we see (without the least Reflection glancing on the priest) One or more, planted up and down, Almost in every church in town; He stood some minutes, then, like one Who wish'd the matter might be done, But could not do it, shook his head, And thus the man of sorrow said: 'Hard is this task, too hard I swear, By much too hard for me to bear; Beyond expression hard my part, Could mighty Dulman see my heart, When he, alas! makes known a will Which Crape's not able to fulfil. Was ever my obedience barr'd By any trifling nice regard To sense and honour? Could I reach Thy meaning without help of speech, At the first motion of thy eye Did not thy faithful creature fly? Have I not said, not what I ought, But what my earthly master taught? Did I e'er weigh, through duty strong, In thy great biddings, right and wrong? Did ever Interest, to whom thou Canst not with more devotion bow, Warp my sound faith, or will of mine In contradiction run to thine? Have I not, at thy table placed, When business call'd aloud for haste, Torn myself thence, yet never heard 221 To utter one complaining word, And had, till thy great work was done, All appetites, as having none? Hard is it, this great plan pursued Of voluntary servitude; Pursued without or shame, or fear, Through the great circle of the year, Now to receive, in this grand hour, Commands which lie beyond my power, Commands which baffle all my skill, And leave me nothing but my will: Be that accepted; let my lord Indulgence to his slave afford: This task, for my poor strength unfit, Will yield to none but Dulman's wit.' With such gross incense gratified, And turning up the lip of pride, 'Poor Crape'--and shook his empty head-'Poor puzzled Crape!' wise Dulman said, 'Of judgment weak, of sense confined, For things of lower note design'd; For things within the vulgar reach, To run of errands, and to preach; Well hast thou judged, that heads like mine Cannot want help from heads like thine; Well hast thou judged thyself unmeet Of such high argument to treat; Twas but to try thee that I spoke, And all I said was but a joke. Nor think a joke, Crape, a disgrace, Or to my person, or my place; The wisest of the sons of men Have deign'd to use them now and then. The only caution, do you see, Demanded by our dignity, From common use and men exempt, Is that they may not breed contempt. Great use they have, when in the hands Of one like me, who understands, Who understands the time and place, The person, manner, and the grace, Which fools neglect; so that we find, 222 If all the requisites are join'd, From whence a perfect joke must spring, A joke's a very serious thing. But to our business--my design, Which gave so rough a shock to thine, To my capacity is made As ready as a fraud in trade; Which, like broad-cloth, I can, with ease, Cut out in any shape I please. Some, in my circumstance, some few, Aye, and those men of genius too, Good men, who, without love or hate, Whether they early rise or late, With names uncrack'd, and credit sound, Rise worth a hundred thousand pound, By threadbare ways and means would try To bear their point--so will not I. New methods shall my wisdom find To suit these matters to my mind; So that the infidels at court, Who make our city wits their sport, Shall hail the honours of my reign, And own that Dulman bears a brain. Some, in my place, to gain their ends, Would give relations up, and friends; Would lend a wife, who, they might swear Safely, was none the worse for wear; Would see a daughter, yet a maid, Into a statesman's arms betray'd; Nay, should the girl prove coy, nor know What daughters to a father owe, Sooner than schemes so nobly plann'd Should fail, themselves would lend a hand; Would vote on one side, whilst a brother, Properly taught, would vote on t'other; Would every petty band forget; To public eye be with one set, In private with a second herd, And be by proxy with a third; Would, (like a queen, of whom I read, The other day--her name is fled-In a book,--where, together bound, 223 'Whittington and his Cat' I found-A tale most true, and free from art, Which all Lord Mayors should have by heart; A queen oh!--might those days begin Afresh, when queens would learn to spin-Who wrought, and wrought, but for some plot, The cause of which I've now forgot, During the absence of the sun Undid what she by day had done) Whilst they a double visage wear, What's sworn by day, by night unswear. Such be their arts, and such, perchance, May happily their ends advance; Prom a new system mine shall spring, A _locum tenens_ is the thing. That's your true plan. To obligate The present ministers of state, My shadow shall our court approach, And bear my power, and have my coach; My fine state-coach, superb to view, A fine state-coach, and paid for too. To curry favour, and the grace Obtain of those who're out of place; In the mean time I--that's to say, I proper, I myself--here stay. But hold--perhaps unto the nation, Who hate the Scot's administration, To lend my coach may seem to be Declaring for the ministry, For where the city-coach is, there Is the true essence of the Mayor: Therefore (for wise men are intent Evils at distance to prevent, Whilst fools the evils first endure, And then are plagued to seek a cure) No coach--a horse--and free from fear, To make our Deputy appear, Fast on his back shall he be tied, With two grooms marching by his side; Then for a horse--through all the land, To head our solemn city-band, Can any one so fit be found 224 As he who in Artillery-ground, Without a rider, (noble sight!) Led on our bravest troops to fight? But first, Crape, for my honour's sake-A tender point--inquiry make About that horse, if the dispute Is ended, or is still in suit: For whilst a cause, (observe this plan Of justice) whether horse or man The parties be, remains in doubt, Till 'tis determined out and out, That power must tyranny appear Which should, prejudging, interfere, And weak, faint judges overawe, To bias the free course of law. You have my will--now quickly run, And take care that my will be done. In public, Crape, you must appear, Whilst I in privacy sit here; Here shall great Dulman sit alone, Making this elbow-chair my throne, And you, performing what I bid, Do all, as if I nothing did.' Crape heard, and speeded on his way; With him to hear was to obey; Not without trouble, be assured, A proper proxy was procured To serve such infamous intent, And such a lord to represent; Nor could one have been found at all On t'other side of London Wall. The trumpet sounds--solemn and slow Behold the grand procession go, All moving on, cat after kind, As if for motion ne'er design'd. Constables, whom the laws admit To keep the peace by breaking it; Beadles, who hold the second place By virtue of a silver mace, Which every Saturday is drawn, For use of Sunday, out of pawn; Treasurers, who with empty key 225 Secure an empty treasury; Churchwardens, who their course pursue In the same state, as to their pew Churchwardens of St Margaret's go, Since Peirson taught them pride and show, Who in short transient pomp appear, Like almanacs changed every year; Behind whom, with unbroken locks, Charity carries the poor's box, Not knowing that with private keys They ope and shut it when they please: Overseers, who by frauds ensure The heavy curses of the poor; Unclean came flocking, bulls and bears, Like beasts into the ark, by pairs. Portentous, flaming in the van, Stalk'd the professor, Sheridan, A man of wire, a mere pantine, A downright animal machine; He knows alone, in proper mode, How to take vengeance on an ode, And how to butcher Ammon's son And poor Jack Dryden both in one: On all occasions next the chair He stands, for service of the Mayor, And to instruct him how to use His A's and B's, and P's and Q's: O'er letters, into tatters worn, O'er syllables, defaced and torn, O'er words disjointed, and o'er sense, Left destitute of all defence, He strides, and all the way he goes Wades, deep in blood, o'er Criss-cross-rows: Before him every consonant In agonies is seen to pant; Behind, in forms not to be known, The ghosts of tortured vowels groan. Next Hart and Duke, well worthy grace And city favour, came in place; No children can their toils engage, Their toils are turn'd to reverend age; When a court dame, to grace his brows 226 Resolved, is wed to city-spouse, Their aid with madam's aid must join, The awkward dotard to refine, And teach, whence truest glory flows, Grave sixty to turn out his toes. Each bore in hand a kit; and each To show how fit he was to teach A cit, an alderman, a mayor, Led in a string a dancing bear. Since the revival of Fingal, Custom, and custom's all in all, Commands that we should have regard, On all high seasons, to the bard. Great acts like these, by vulgar tongue Profaned, should not be said, but sung. This place to fill, renown'd in fame, The high and mighty Lockman came, And, ne'er forgot in Dulman's reign, With proper order to maintain The uniformity of pride, Brought Brother Whitehead by his side. On horse, who proudly paw'd the ground, And cast his fiery eyeballs round, Snorting, and champing the rude bit, As if, for warlike purpose fit, His high and generous blood disdain'd, To be for sports and pastimes rein'd, Great Dymock, in his glorious station, Paraded at the coronation. Not so our city Dymock came, Heavy, dispirited, and tame; No mark of sense, his eyes half-closed, He on a mighty dray-horse dozed: Fate never could a horse provide So fit for such a man to ride, Nor find a man with strictest care, So fit for such a horse to bear. Hung round with instruments of death, The sight of him would stop the breath Of braggart Cowardice, and make The very court Drawcansir quake; With dirks, which, in the hands of Spite, 227 Do their damn'd business in the night, From Scotland sent, but here display'd Only to fill up the parade; With swords, unflesh'd, of maiden hue, Which rage or valour never drew; With blunderbusses, taught to ride Like pocket-pistols, by his side, In girdle stuck, he seem'd to be A little moving armoury. One thing much wanting to complete The sight, and make a perfect treat, Was, that the horse, (a courtesy In horses found of high degree) Instead of going forward on, All the way backward should have gone. Horses, unless they breeding lack, Some scruple make to turn their back, Though riders, which plain truth declares, No scruple make of turning theirs. Far, far apart from all the rest, Fit only for a standing jest, The independent, (can you get A better suited epithet?) The independent Amyand came, All burning with the sacred flame Of Liberty, which well he knows On the great stock of Slavery grows; Like sparrow, who, deprived of mate, Snatch'd by the cruel hand of Fate, From spray to spray no more will hop, But sits alone on the house-top; Or like himself, when all alone At Croydon he was heard to groan, Lifting both hands in the defence Of interest, and common sense; Both hands, for as no other man Adopted and pursued his plan, The left hand had been lonesome quite, If he had not held up the right; Apart he came, and fix'd his eyes With rapture on a distant prize, On which, in letters worthy note, 228 There 'twenty thousand pounds' was wrote. False trap, for credit sapp'd is found By getting twenty thousand pound: Nay, look not thus on me, and stare, Doubting the certainty--to swear In such a case I should be loth-But Perry Cust may take his oath. In plain and decent garb array'd, With the prim Quaker, Fraud, came Trade; Connivance, to improve the plan, Habited like a juryman, Judging as interest prevails, Came next, with measures, weights, and scales; Extortion next, of hellish race A cub most damn'd, to show his face Forbid by fear, but not by shame, Turn'd to a Jew, like Gideon came; Corruption, Midas-like, behold Turning whate'er she touch'd to gold; Impotence, led by Lust, and Pride, Strutting with Ponton by her side; Hypocrisy, demure and sad, In garments of the priesthood clad, So well disguised, that you might swear, Deceived, a very priest was there; Bankruptcy, full of ease and health, And wallowing in well-saved wealth, Came sneering through a ruin'd band, And bringing B---- in her hand; Victory, hanging down her head, Was by a Highland stallion led; Peace, clothed in sables, with a face Which witness'd sense of huge disgrace, Which spake a deep and rooted shame Both of herself and of her name, Mourning creeps on, and, blushing, feels War, grim War, treading on her heels; Pale Credit, shaken by the arts Of men with bad heads and worse hearts, Taking no notice of a band Which near her were ordain'd to stand, Well-nigh destroyed by sickly fit, 229 Look'd wistful all around for Pitt; Freedom--at that most hallow'd name My spirits mount into a flame, Each pulse beats high, and each nerve strains, Even to the cracking; through my veins The tides of life more rapid run, And tell me I am Freedom's son-Freedom came next, but scarce was seen, When the sky, which appear'd serene And gay before, was overcast; Horror bestrode a foreign blast, And from the prison of the North, To Freedom deadly, storms burst forth. A car like those, in which, we're told, Our wild forefathers warr'd of old, Loaded with death, six horses bear Through the blank region of the air. Too fierce for time or art to tame, They pour'd forth mingled smoke and flame From their wide nostrils; every steed Was of that ancient savage breed Which fell Geryon nursed; their food The flesh of man, their drink his blood. On the first horses, ill-match'd pair, This fat and sleek, that lean and bare, Came ill-match'd riders side by side, And Poverty was yoked with Pride; Union most strange it must appear, Till other unions make it clear. Next, in the gall of bitterness, With rage which words can ill express, With unforgiving rage, which springs From a false zeal for holy things, Wearing such robes as prophets wear, False prophets placed in Peter's chair, On which, in characters of fire, Shapes antic, horrible, and dire Inwoven flamed, where, to the view, In groups appear'd a rabble crew Of sainted devils; where, all round, Vile relics of vile men were found, Who, worse than devils, from the birth 230 Perform'd the work of hell on earth, Jugglers, Inquisitors, and Popes, Pointing at axes, wheels, and ropes, And engines, framed on horrid plan, Which none but the destroyer, Man, Could, to promote his selfish views, Have head to make or heart to use, Bearing, to consecrate her tricks, In her left hand a crucifix, 'Remembrance of our dying Lord,' And in her right a two-edged sword, Having her brows, in impious sport, Adorn'd with words of high import, 'On earth peace, amongst men good will, Love bearing and forbearing still,' All wrote in the hearts' blood of those Who rather death than falsehood chose: On her breast, (where, in days of yore, When God loved Jews, the High Priest wore Those oracles which were decreed To instruct and guide the chosen seed) Having with glory clad and strength, The Virgin pictured at full length, Whilst at her feet, in small pourtray'd, As scarce worth notice, Christ was laid,-Came Superstition, fierce and fell, An imp detested, e'en in hell; Her eye inflamed, her face all o'er Foully besmear'd with human gore, O'er heaps of mangled saints she rode; Fast at her heels Death proudly strode, And grimly smiled, well pleased to see Such havoc of mortality; Close by her side, on mischief bent, And urging on each bad intent To its full bearing, savage, wild, The mother fit of such a child, Striving the empire to advance Of Sin and Death, came Ignorance. With looks, where dread command was placed, And sovereign power by pride disgraced, Where, loudly witnessing a mind 231 Of savage, more than human kind, Not choosing to be loved, but fear'd, Mocking at right, Misrule appear'd. With eyeballs glaring fiery red, Enough to strike beholders dead, Gnashing his teeth, and in a flood Pouring corruption forth and blood From his chafed jaws; without remorse Whipping and spurring on his horse, Whose sides, in their own blood embay'd, E'en to the bone were open laid, Came Tyranny, disdaining awe, And trampling over Sense and Law; One thing, and only one, he knew, One object only would pursue; Though less (so low doth passion bring) Than man, he would be more than king. With every argument and art Which might corrupt the head and heart, Soothing the frenzy of his mind, Companion meet, was Flattery join'd; Winning his carriage, every look Employed, whilst it conceal'd a hook; When simple most, most to be fear'd; Most crafty, when no craft appear'd; His tales, no man like him could tell; His words, which melted as they fell, Might even a hypocrite deceive, And make an infidel believe, Wantonly cheating o'er and o'er Those who had cheated been before:-Such Flattery came, in evil hour, Poisoning the royal ear of Power, And, grown by prostitution great, Would be first minister of state. Within the chariot, all alone, High seated on a kind of throne, With pebbles graced, a figure came, Whom Justice would, but dare not name. Hard times when Justice, without fear, Dare not bring forth to public ear The names of those who dare offend 232 'Gainst Justice, and pervert her end! But, if the Muse afford me grace, Description shall supply the place. In foreign garments he was clad; Sage ermine o'er the glossy plaid Cast reverend honour; on his heart, Wrought by the curious hand of Art, In silver wrought, and brighter far Than heavenly or than earthly star, Shone a White Rose, the emblem dear Of him he ever must revere; Of that dread lord, who, with his host Of faithful native rebels lost, Like those black spirits doom'd to hell, At once from power and virtue fell: Around his clouded brows was placed A bonnet, most superbly graced With mighty thistles, nor forgot The sacred motto--'Touch me not.' In the right hand a sword he bore Harder than adamant, and more Fatal than winds, which from the mouth Of the rough North invade the South; The reeking blade to view presents The blood of helpless innocents, And on the hilt, as meek become As lamb before the shearers dumb, With downcast eye, and solemn show Of deep, unutterable woe, Mourning the time when Freedom reign'd, Fast to a rock was Justice chain'd. In his left hand, in wax impress'd, With bells and gewgaws idly dress'd, An image, cast in baby mould, He held, and seem'd o'erjoy'd to hold On this he fix'd his eyes; to this, Bowing, he gave the loyal kiss, And, for rebellion fully ripe, Seem'd to desire the antitype. What if to that Pretender's foes His greatness, nay, his life, he owes; Shall common obligations bind, 233 And shake his constancy of mind? Scorning such weak and petty chains, Faithful to James he still remains, Though he the friend of George appear: Dissimulation's virtue here. Jealous and mean, he with a frown Would awe, and keep all merit down, Nor would to Truth and Justice bend, Unless out-bullied by his friend: Brave with the coward, with the brave He is himself a coward slave: Awed by his fears, he has no heart To take a great and open part: Mines in a subtle train he springs, And, secret, saps the ears of kings; But not e'en there continues firm 'Gainst the resistance of a worm: Born in a country, where the will Of one is law to all, he still Retain'd the infection, with full aim To spread it wheresoe'er he came; Freedom he hated, Law defied, The prostitute of Power and Pride; Law he with ease explains away, And leads bewilder'd Sense astray; Much to the credit of his brain, Puzzles the cause he can't maintain; Proceeds on most familiar grounds, And where he can't convince, confounds; Talents of rarest stamp and size, To Nature false, he misapplies, And turns to poison what was sent For purposes of nourishment. Paleness, not such as on his wings The messenger of Sickness brings, But such as takes its coward rise From conscious baseness, conscious vice, O'erspread his cheeks; Disdain and Pride, To upstart fortunes ever tied, Scowl'd on his brow; within his eye, Insidious, lurking like a spy, To Caution principled by Fear, 234 Not daring open to appear, Lodged covert Mischief; Passion hung On his lip quivering; on his tongue Fraud dwelt at large; within his breast All that makes villain found a nest; All that, on Hell's completest plan, E'er join'd to damn the heart of man. Soon as the car reach'd land, he rose, And, with a look which might have froze The heart's best blood, which was enough Had hearts been made of sterner stuff In cities than elsewhere, to make The very stoutest quail and quake, He cast his baleful eyes around: Fix'd without motion to the ground, Fear waiting on Surprise, all stood, And horror chill'd their curdled blood; No more they thought of pomp, no more (For they had seen his face before) Of law they thought; the cause forgot, Whether it was or ghost, or plot, Which drew them there: they all stood more Like statues than they were before. What could be done? Could Art, could Force. Or both, direct a proper course To make this savage monster tame, Or send him back the way he came? What neither art, nor force, nor both, Could do, a Lord of foreign growth, A Lord to that base wretch allied In country, not in vice and pride, Effected; from the self-same land, (Bad news for our blaspheming band Of scribblers, but deserving note) The poison came and antidote. Abash'd, the monster hung his head, And like an empty vision fled; His train, like virgin snows, which run, Kiss'd by the burning bawdy sun, To love-sick streams, dissolved in air; Joy, who from absence seem'd more fair, Came smiling, freed from slavish Awe; 235 Loyalty, Liberty, and Law, Impatient of the galling chain, And yoke of Power, resumed their reign; And, burning with the glorious flame Of public virtue, Mansfield came. ~ Charles Churchill