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Tshangs dbyangs rgya mtsho. (Tsangyang Gyatso) (1683-1706). The sixth DALAI LAMA, and among the most famous and beloved of the Dalai Lamas, but not for the same qualities of sanctity and scholarship for which several other members of the lineage are known. He was born into a RNYING MA family near the border with Bhutan. The fifth Dalai Lama had died in 1682 but his death was concealed until 1697 by his minister, SDE SRID SANGS RGYAS RGYA MTSHO, so that the construction of the PO TA LA palace could continue unabated. The sixth Dalai Lama was identified at the age of two, but his identification was kept secret; he and his family lived in seclusion in Mtsho na (Tsona) for twelve years. The death of the fifth Dalai Lama and the identity of the sixth were finally disclosed in 1697. In that year, the sixth Dalai Lama was brought to LHA SA, where he received the vows of a novice from the PAn CHEN LAMA. He received instructions in Buddhist doctrine and practice from the Pan chen Lama and other scholars for the next four years. In 1701, he was urged to take the percepts of a fully ordained monk (BHIKsU). However, he refused to do so and also asked to give up his novice vows (which included the vow of celibacy), threatening to commit suicide if he were not permitted to do so. He gave up his vows and lived as a layman, with long hair, although he still remained in the position of Dalai Lama. He had liaisons with women in Lha sa; the houses he visited were said to have been painted yellow in his honor. He is credited with a series of famous love songs, some of which contain Buddhist references. In 1705, the Qoshot Mongol leader Lha bzang Khan declared himself king of Tibet and executed Sde srid Sang rgyas rgya mtsho. In 1706, Lha bzang Khan declared, with the support of the Manchu Kangxi emperor, that Tshangs dbyangs rgya mtsho was not the true Dalai Lama and sent him into exile in Beijing. He died en route, although a legend developed that he escaped death and lived in disguise for another forty years.
KEYS (10k)
NEW FULL DB (2.4M)
3 Nicola Yoon
3 Erica Jong
3 Charles Bukowski
2 Viet Thanh Nguyen
2 Tom Hiddleston
2 Stephin Merritt
2 Stacey Jay
2 Sharon M Draper
2 Randy Newman
2 Rabindranath Tagore
2 Mokokoma Mokhonoana
2 Matt Berninger
2 Kabir
2 Johann Hari
2 Jenny Han
2 Jay Michaelson
*** WISDOM TROVE ***
1:I have a face like a washrag. I sing love songs and carry steel. I would rather die than cry. I can't stand hounds can't live without them. I hang my head against the white refrigerator and want to scream like the last weeping of life forever but I am bigger than the mountains. ~ charles-bukowski, @wisdomtrove *** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***
1:I like to sing love songs. ~ Doris Day, #NFDB
2:I think I drift toward sad love songs. ~ Benmont Tench, #NFDB
3:I've always been into writing love songs. ~ Sammy Hagar, #NFDB
4:I love songs. Songs are my favorite things. ~ Terry Gross, #NFDB
5:Love songs sweet enough to rot your teeth. ~ Haruki Murakami, #NFDB
6:Your new CD is a weed plate, nothin' but love songs, ~ Jadakiss, #NFDB
7:I love songs that are very autobiographical. ~ Alanis Morissette, #NFDB
8:Love songs are nothing without exaggeration. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana, #NFDB
9:Me + Love Songs on KOST=embarrassing car jam sesh. ~ Joanna Garcia, #NFDB
10:Politics are always involved, even in my love songs. ~ Lydia Lunch, #NFDB
11:I love songs that have a rocking and grooving feeling. ~ Joe Cocker, #NFDB
12:Love Songs Now: Fewer broken hearts, more sexual misery. ~ Mason Cooley, #NFDB
13:Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs ~ Paul McCartney, #NFDB
14:I have pit bulls barking at me on half of the love songs. ~ Matt Berninger, #NFDB
15:Love songs last because they are about feelings that don't change. ~ Diana Krall, #NFDB
16:Though most love songs are protest songs, when you think about it. ~ Graham Joyce, #NFDB
17:I love songs that people can dance to and enjoy at the same time. ~ LaToya Jackson, #NFDB
18:I wanna thank you for making all the love songs mean something again ~ Neil Hilborn, #NFDB
19:The mute grain turns to love songs when swallowed by the nightingale. ~ Khalil Gibran, #NFDB
20:He treated the stars as though they were love songs written to him by God. ~ Pat Conroy, #NFDB
21:No, we fought to the tunes of love songs, for we were the Italians of Asia. ~ Viet Thanh Nguyen, #NFDB
22:Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs. ~ Roman Payne, #NFDB
23:She does look beautiful, though, doesn't she?'
'The stuff of love songs,' Cam said. ~ Lauren Kate,#NFDB
24:The moon is my fear.
The sun is my heart afire.
The stars, my love songs. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,#NFDB
25:I didn't want my last chapter to be the guy who sits at the piano and sings love songs. ~ Richard Marx, #NFDB
26:I think when I was younger I was not very good at writing love songs that didn't have a twist. ~ Elvis Costello, #NFDB
27:Most love songs were inspired, not by love, but by loneliness, regretfulness, or horniness. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana, #NFDB
28:we were never children like your children. We do not understand love songs like your inamorata. ~ Charles Bukowski, #NFDB
29:I've written good love songs when I have been in love and I've written good love songs when I haven't. ~ John Legend, #NFDB
30:I had made all these rules for myself: I'm not writing social commentary, I'm not writing love songs. ~ Joni Mitchell, #NFDB
31:I am going to sing lesbian love songs and support gay rights no matter what. The rest is public relations. ~ Jasmine Guy, #NFDB
32:I'm really a singer, so I love songs and I love singing. I like rap music, but I didn't grow up freestyling. ~ Billy Idol, #NFDB
33:There are more love songs than anything else. If songs could make you do something we'd all love one another. ~ Frank Zappa, #NFDB
34:People will remember a good comedy song a lot longer than they would some of the so-called straight love songs. ~ Ray Stevens, #NFDB
35:We tap our toes to chaste love songs about the silvery moon without recognizing them as hymns to copulation. ~ Barbara Kingsolver, #NFDB
36:When I write love songs, people think they're really soppy - but I see love as a consolation for the boredom of life. ~ Martin Gore, #NFDB
37:I still like to keep all the love songs for the Grobanites, I like to make sure that they know those are just for them. ~ Josh Groban, #NFDB
38:I said to [Lionel] Richie, "Man, my wife says you must really respect women because you write such beautiful love songs." ~ Miles Davis, #NFDB
39:The only thing that would make her jealous would be if I led a parade riding a unicorn while ballerinas sang love songs. ~ Brandon Mull, #NFDB
40:Love songs or poetry?
Ambrose: Love songs–you get the best of both, poetry set to music.
And you can't dance to poetry. ~ Amy Harmon,#NFDB
41:I can speak for most songwriters - those breakup love songs are so easy to write, as far as the inspiration and all that. ~ Lucinda Williams, #NFDB
42:Typically, the theme of my albums, if there is a theme, is, 'How does it feel?' And that always leads to love songs. It just does. ~ Anita Baker, #NFDB
43:This is what all the love songs are about, the moment when
you find your own way forward with someone and there is no turning back. ~ Caroline Kepnes,#NFDB
44:All comics want to be musicians. There's a part of me that wants to be a serious musician. I love songs about heartache and heartbreak. ~ Sarah Silverman, #NFDB
45:I love songs because by nature they are concise; they sum up. I try to use as few words as possible. It's usually funnier that way, anyway. ~ Cass McCombs, #NFDB
46:I wanted to do a set of love songs for Valentine's Day so I went through my old material. I found myself scraping around the edges of good taste. ~ Tom Rush, #NFDB
47:Listen closely. Even the trees exhale sweet love songs that roll off their boughs and echo out to all of creation. Love is always in the air. ~ Cristen Rodgers, #NFDB
48:I am not much of a hand at love songs, you see I mingle metaphysics with even this, but perhaps in this age of Philosophy that may be excused. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, #NFDB
49:The romantic stuff comes a lot easier when you're experiencing true love. It feels better, it feels more natural to record love songs when you're in love. ~ Aaron Tippin, #NFDB
50:I would go to jail with only boys. Just to prove I was as tough as you. And when I get out for good behavior, I'll be writing love songs. Silly banging knee songs. ~ Sara Quin, #NFDB
51:We were not a people who charged into war at the beck and call of bugle or trumpet. No, we fought to the tunes of love songs, for we were the Italians of Asia. ~ Viet Thanh Nguyen, #NFDB
52:Some of Eminem's rap songs kind of have the teenage love songs like the fifties love songs. It's kind of like domestic drama set to music. He is really good storyteller. ~ Bruce Dickinson, #NFDB
53:The war also made its way into love songs, including such kitsch classics as “Your Lips Are No Man’s Land but Mine” and “If He Can Fight Like He Can Love, Good Night Germany! ~ Ben Yagoda, #NFDB
54:Did we not look out together upon the dark waters of the lake
And behold there the constellations
Of both hemispheres at once?
-Love Songs of the Cinnamon Wastes ~ Ian C Esslemont,#NFDB
55:In the meantime [1965-67], [Bob] Dylan was again writing some of the best love songs in the genre, like "Visions of Johanna," "Just Like a Woman," and "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands." ~ Bob Dylan, #NFDB
56:Love songs in particular are so compelling because love is probably the strongest emotion you can have, and I think it's relatable to absolutely everyone, whether it's unrequited love or love. ~ Sam Smith, #NFDB
57:In the meantime [1963-65], [Bob] Dylan was writing some of the best love songs in the genre, like "Girl From the North Country," "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright," and "It Ain't Me, Babe." ~ Jay Michaelson, #NFDB
58:You said I was like a bird of prey, caged by my captors and made to sing love songs to the sky. You said my sadness was like the sun, beautiful from a distance but it hurt you too much to come closer. ~ Lang Leav, #NFDB
59:High above the last rags of scurrying clouds hung the Moon in all her wildness-not the voluptuous moon of a thousand southern love songs, but the huntress, the untamable virgin, the spearhead of madness. ~ C S Lewis, #NFDB
60:I think all the boys that write the screaming stuff would write the best love songs... because they have the most to hide. The guys that are in the most pain are usually the ones with the biggest hearts. ~ Tori Amos, #NFDB
61:I did not write love songs as a sixteen-year-old. I did not write about crushes or about mean girls. I wrote about my life—about the injustices and inequities and the search for answers and self-responsibility. ~ Jewel, #NFDB
62:I'm extremely happy, but I don't do love songs for the most part. It feels weird; that's such a personal thing to me. I'd rather live that in my real life and play a different character outside of that. ~ Carrie Underwood, #NFDB
63:A lot of the album is made of love songs I've written over the past three or four years that have lasted the test of time. It's probably the thing that connects the songs together other than the sound of my vocals. ~ Vance Joy, #NFDB
64:I think that I write about stuff that others don't write about. I don't have a bunch of love songs cuz I don't really have much boy experience. I just write about what I am actually going through in my real life. ~ Brie Larson, #NFDB
65:Weirdly, by the way,[Bob] Dylan also managed to write several beautiful love songs, like "To Make You Feel My Love" (covered by Adele, Garth Brooks, Billy Joel, and who knows who else) and "Most of the Time." Go figure. ~ Jay Michaelson, #NFDB
66:My granddaddy on my momma's side, he was a romantic. He loved love songs. Every Valentine's Day, I remember him buying a red carnation for my grandmomma, my momma and my sister. That was something you could count on every year. ~ Josh Turner, #NFDB
67:Love means never having to say you're sorry (on the contrary, it frequently means doing just precisely that). Then there were all those love lines from all those love songs, with the swooning delusions of lyricist, singer, band. ~ Julian Barnes, #NFDB
68:I'm interested in geography and weather and things like that, and if you don't write love songs, you've gotta go somewhere. I wrote a lot about places because that's what else there was. I had to stop myself from writing more of them. ~ Randy Newman, #NFDB
69:That's how it is with relationships, it's a part of life, and all the great love songs and poems and films have been written by people who were standing where I was that morning as Simon shut the door. Doesn't make it any easier though. ~ Jane Green, #NFDB
70:have been taught to love it and never does it cross their minds that this incessant emphasis upon the Negro with his repulsive love songs and vulgar rhythms is but the psychological preliminary to close body contact between the races. ~ Peter Bebergal, #NFDB
71:I've written about a lot of different things, but the whole idea of writing for another character is unusual for pop music... Most of the repertory is love songs, and most of mine isn't. I don't know if that's a mental defect, or shyness, or what. ~ Randy Newman, #NFDB
72:I think either you're creative or you're not. In general, I don't think you need to be in pain to actually be creative unless you're writing love songs. Then you might need to have some ups and downs within your emotions to start to capture that. ~ Curtis Jackson, #NFDB
73:People love music, they love songs and they love movies. I just don't understand how, along the way, a musical become something that was less than both of those, instead of being something that is an incredible merge of two things that people love. ~ Jeremy Jordan, #NFDB
74:In India, just so you know, May 3 is National Broken Hearts Day. And in Papua New Guinea, there exists a tribe whose men write mournful love songs called namai, which tell the tragic stories of marriages which never came to pass but should have. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert, #NFDB
75:Despite the love songs humankind churns out like butter, true lovers don't come together every day. As the Mercenaries ply their trade--destroying hope, crushing compassion, inciting war and violence--soul-mated pairs are becoming an endangered species. ~ Stacey Jay, #NFDB
76:Despite the love songs humankind churns out like butter, true lovers don't come together every day. As the Mercinaries ply their trade - destroying hope, crushing compassion, inciting war and violence - soul-mated pairs are becoming an endangered species. ~ Stacey Jay, #NFDB
77:Love is fine for singing about and love songs are good to listen to, sometimes even to dance to. But when we need food for our stomachs and clothes for our backs, love is nothing. Ah my lady, the last man any woman should think of marrying is the man she loves. ~ Ama Ata Aidoo, #NFDB
78:You know, most love songs are not cheesy and corny. Most love songs are complaints, I think. Or about unrequited love, coming at it from some oblique angle. Only the ones that say "I love you" over and over are the cheesy, corny ones that people complain about ~ Stephin Merritt, #NFDB
79:Words. I'm surrounding by thousands of words. Maybe millions...Deep within me, words pile up in huge drifts. Mountains of phrases and sentences and connected ideas. Clever expressions. Jokes. Love songs...I have never spoken one single word. I am almost eleven years old. ~ Sharon M Draper, #NFDB
80:He, in his love songs, and his tales in prose,
was without peer--and if fools claim Limoges
produced a better, there are always those
who measure worth by popular acclaim,
ignoring principles of art and reason
to base their judgments on the author's name. ~ Dante Alighieri,#NFDB
81:I have a face like a washrag. I sing love songs and carry steel. I would rather die than cry. I can't stand hounds can't live without them. I hang my head against the white refrigerator and want to scream like the last weeping of life forever but I am bigger than the mountains. ~ Charles Bukowski, #NFDB
82:Rather would I have the love songs of romantic ages, rather Don Juan and Madame Venus, rather an elopement by ladder and rope on a moonlight night, followed by the father's curse, mother's moans, and the moral comments of neighbors, than correctness and propriety measured by yardsticks. ~ Emma Goldman, #NFDB
83:I should attempt to write a love song, I have written lots of poetry about love so I could turn those into lyrics. I'm a sucker for romance - always have been, always will be. I love walking down the beach and listening to my iPod and belting them out. What would we do without love songs? ~ Drew Barrymore, #NFDB
84:It was a time of chaos, of bombs and floods, when love songs streamed from the radios and wept down the streets. Music sustained weddings, births, rituals, work, marching, boredom, confrontation and death; music and stories, even in times like these, were a refuge, a passport, everywhere. ~ Madeleine Thien, #NFDB
85:Growing up female in America. What a liability! You grew up with your ears full of cosmetic ads, love songs, advice columns, whoreoscopes, Hollywood gossip, and moral dilemmas on the level of TV soap operas. What litanies the advertisers of the good life chanted at you! What curious catechisms! ~ Erica Jong, #NFDB
86:All of the guys love to take serious topics and go for it; we're not writing a whole lot of love songs. With 'Sacrificed Sons,' we had some sensitivity there about how we'd present it. I remember there was a lot of discussion about the kind of words that would be used and how direct we wanted to be. ~ Jordan Rudess, #NFDB
87:Straightening, I asked, "What do you believe in?"
"Old love songs, best friends, the collected works of J.R.R.Tolkien, crispy pork egg rolls with just the right amount of grease, the Big Boss and eternity."
"The Big Boss?"
Zachary pointed up, as if to heaven.
"Pious,"I teased. ~ Cynthia Leitich Smith,#NFDB
88:I had a long distance relationship going while we were writing the album so a lot of it is about that constant struggle— you look up at the moon and wonder if that person is looking at it too. I was trying to write love songs that weren’t sappy Ben Affleck movie songs, but kind of a … man’s love songs ~ Caleb Followill, #NFDB
89:That's what is so great about being able to record a 13-song album. You can do a very eclectic group of songs. You do have some almost pop songs in there, but you do have your traditional country, story songs. You have your ballads, your happy songs, your sad songs, your love songs, and your feisty songs. ~ Reba McEntire, #NFDB
90:Love Song--Heine
Many a beauteous flower doth spring
From the tears that flood my eyes,
And the nightingale doth sing
In the burthen of my sighs.
If, O child, thou lovest me,
Take these flowerets fair and frail,
And my soul shall waft to thee
Love songs of the nightingale.
~ Eugene Field,#NFDB
91:I
have a face like a washrag. I sing
love songs and carry steel.
I would rather die than cry. I can't
stand hounds can't live without them.
I hang my head against the white
refrigerator and want to scream like
the last weeping of life forever but
I am bigger than the mountains. ~ Charles Bukowski,#NFDB
92:Love songs come in many guises and are seemingly written for many reasons – as declarations or to wound – I have written songs for all of these reasons – but ultimately the love songs exist to fill, with language, the silence between ourselves and God, to decrease the distance between the temporal and the divine. ~ Nick Cave, #NFDB
93:We never fit in completely to [the punk] scene because we were writing love songs that were heartfelt and endearing. Some of the punks didn't know what to make of us, but I finally realized that was what made us punk. We sang what we meant, from the heart, and didn't worry about what anyone was going to think. ~ Billie Joe Armstrong, #NFDB
94:There's a song for every feeling, Bee. Every tear, every smile, every heartbreak and every victory. Music ignites the soul and strips us bare. It's our very essence. Even if you have no one else to turn to and you feel all alone, remember that you can always find comfort in ballads and melodies, serenades and love songs. ~ Julie Johnson, #NFDB
95:I love songs about horses, railroads, land, Judgment Day, family, hard times, whiskey, courtship, marriage, adultery, separation, murder, war, prison, rambling, damnation, home, salvation, death, pride, humor, piety, rebellion, patriotism, larceny, determination, tragedy, rowdiness, heartbreak and love. And Mother. And God. ~ Johnny Cash, #NFDB
96:The opposite of addiction isn’t sobriety. It’s connection. It’s all I can offer. It’s all that will help him in the end. If you are alone, you cannot escape addiction. If you are loved, you have a chance. For a hundred years we have been singing war songs about addicts. All along, we should have been singing love songs to them. ~ Johann Hari, #NFDB
97:The opposite of addiction isn't sobriety. It's connection. It's all I can offer. It's all that will help [you] in the end. If you are alone, you cannot escape addiction. If you are loved, you have a chance. For a hundred years we have been singing war songs about addicts. All along, we should have been singing love songs to them. ~ Johann Hari, #NFDB
98:This generation has lost the true meaning of romance. There are so many songs that disrespect women. You can’t treat the woman you love as a piece of meat. You should treat your love like a princess. Give her love songs, something with real meaning. Maybe I’m old fashioned but to respect the woman you love should be a priority. ~ Tom Hiddleston, #NFDB
99:I've never quite felt totally comfortable up on stage. I've gotten more comfortable, but drinking wine is a crutch that gives me a little courage. It helps me lose a little bit of the self-consciousness and the awareness of how awkward it is standing on a stage with lights and a bunch of people looking at you while you sing love songs. ~ Matt Berninger, #NFDB
100:I hadn't played any music since freshman year of college, more than thirty years ago, so I had to relearn everything. I started writing songs. Some were dance and trance songs (I listen to them a lot while I'm writing), and some were love songs, because that after all is what music is about - dancing and trancing and love and love's setbacks. ~ Nicholson Baker, #NFDB
101:Yeah, except that when I write pop songs I have pretty strict constraints that I impose on myself. 69 Love Songs is a constraint. That the titles have to begin with "I'"s is a relatively strict constraint. Charm of the Highway Strip is all travel songs. And I am free to change the plot slightly to accommodate something that happens to rhyme conveniently. ~ Stephin Merritt, #NFDB
102:it's about a love song to myself, and a love song to the universe, kind of like the way that Song of Solomon consists of love songs to God or like the way Sufi poems are erotic love songs to God, I kind of wanted something like that. Because I was getting to know myself more deeply at this point. I've always been on this track where I wanted to be enlightened. ~ Larkin Grimm, #NFDB
103:I've been working to define my individual style and vision and I believe it is reflected in the music. I feel better mentally, physically and spiritually so I've brought that to the music. I still make love songs so there are some messages in the music about men appreciating their women. I'm also still bringing party and club hits but with more substance in the music. ~ Chingy, #NFDB
104:I wanted the gift of forgetting. Boozy love songs and brokenhearted ballads know the torture of remembering. If drinking don't kill me, her memory will, George Jones sang, and I got it. The blackouts were horrible. It was hideous to let those nights slide into a crack in the ground. But even scarier was to take responsibility for the mess I'd made. Even scarier was to remember your own life. ~ Sarah Hepola, #NFDB
105:He was always part of her thoughts, and now that he was real, he was inescapably part of her life, but it was as she had told her mother: saying he was part of her or that they were more than friends sounded like love, but it seemed like loss as well. All the words she knew to describe what he was to her were from love stories and love songs, but those were not words anyone truly meant. ~ Sarah Rees Brennan, #NFDB
106:The Anatomy Of Angels
Angels inhabit love songs. But they’re sprites
not seraphim. The angel that up-ended
Jacob had sturdy calves, moist hairy armpits,
stout loins to serve the god whom she befriended,
and was adept at wrestling. She wore
a cobra like a girdle. Yet his bone
mending he spent some several tedious weeks
marking the bed they’d shared, with a great stone.
~ Alden Nowlan,#NFDB
107:You are the opposite of romantic. Did anyone ever tell you that?"
"I am full of romance. I like sunsets and the ocean and beaches and flowers and love songs and Shakespeare in the park and all that kind of shit." Eli's cheeks flushed. It was adorable on him. "I don't get what any of that has to do with sex."
"I'm not talking about sex, Eli. I'm talking about a kiss."
"Fine. I'll kiss the romantic fuck out of you. ~ K A Mitchell,#NFDB
108:And they beat. The women for having known them and no more, no more; the children for having been them but never again. They killed a boss so often and so completely they had to bring him back to life to pulp him one more time. Tasting hot mealcake among pine trees, they beat it away. Singing love songs to Mr. Death, they smashed his head. More than the rest, they killed the flirt whom folks called Life for leading them on. ~ Toni Morrison, #NFDB
109:Every touch of her skin sent shivers through his body. He breathed her in, the smell of her seeping into his bones. He held her so tight she must have struggled to breathe, but she didn’t complain. A compilation of love songs played from a battered Walkman and speakers. Tony rolled off of her. They were both out of breath and covered in a thin film of sweat. “That was great,” Becky said, nuzzling his chest. “Great for all of ten ~ Perrin Briar, #NFDB
110:How sweet is the assurance, how comforting is the peace that come from the knowledge that if we marry right and live right, our relationship will continue, notwithstanding the certainty of death and the passage of time. Men may write love songs and sing them. They may yearn and hope and dream. But all of this will be only a romantic longing unless there is an exercise of authority that transcends the powers of time and death. ~ Gordon B Hinckley, #NFDB
111:I made myself listen to the birds singing squabbles and love songs. Occasionally I heard a war. Sharp mechanical sounds clashed with the nature music. Bells and whistles mashed together in nagging bursts. My new life was calling. I had to get on with it. Body historians, griots of the galaxy, we didn’t diddle ourselves in jungle paradises, we inhabited flesh to gather a genealogy of life. We sought the story behind all the stories. ~ Nalo Hopkinson, #NFDB
112:Stories had a way of doing that, in Grillo’s experience. It was his belief that nothing, but nothing, could stay secret, however powerful the forces with interests vested in silence. Conspirators might conspire and thugs attempt to gag but the truth, or an approximation of same, would show itself sooner or later, very often in the unlikeliest form. It was seldom hard facts that revealed the life behind the life. It was rumour, graffiti, strip cartoons and love songs. ~ Clive Barker, #NFDB
113:A collection of bad love songs, tattered from overuse, has to touch us like a cemetery or a village. So what if the houses have no style, if the graves are vanishing under tasteless ornaments and inscriptions? Before an imagination sympathetic and respectful enough to conceal momentarily its aesthetic disdain, that dust may release a flock of souls, their beaks holding the still verdant dreams that gave them an inkling of the next world and let them rejoice or weep in this world. ~ Marcel Proust, #NFDB
114:Hauk laughed unexpectedly. “You know, Ryn, I keep thinking back to what my father used to say to me. There are two kinds of people in this world. Those like my mother who can walk into the most backwater dive hole with the worst riffraff in the universe and in ten minutes, she’ll have them baking cookies and singing love songs together. Then you have those like my father. The kind of man who could walk into an antiwar monastery and in ten minutes have the monks at each other’s throats.” - Dancer Hauk ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon, #NFDB
115:Abdul’s deepest affection was for his two-year-old brother, Lallu, a fact that had begun
to concern him. Listening to Bollywood love songs, he could only conclude that his own
heart had been made too small. He’d never longed with extravagance for a girl, and
while he felt certain he loved his mother, the feeling didn’t come in any big gush. But he
could get tearful just looking at Lallu, who was as fearless as Abdul was flinchy. All
those swollen rat bites on his cheeks, on the back of his head. ~ Katherine Boo,#NFDB
116:He [Benny Carter] is all that every jazz musician the world over wants to be. He's performed 20,000 nights. How many shoes have been shined? How much mascara put on? Rouge? How many of those impossible bowties have been tied? How many love songs have been sung? How many dances have been danced? How many have passed to the sound of his music? It's been said that a man should not be forced to live up to his art. Benny Carter is one of the rare instances when we wonder whether the great art that a man has created can live up to him. ~ Wynton Marsalis, #NFDB
117:If you're a boy, any display of sensitivity is gay. Compassion is gay. Crying is supergay. Reading is usually gay. Certain songs and types of music are gay. 'Enola Gay' would certainly be thought gay. Love songs are gay. Love itself is incredibly gay, as are any other heartfelt emotions. Singing is gay, but chanting is not gay. Wanking contests are not gay. Neither is all-male cuddling during specially designated periods in football matches, or communal bathing thereafter. (I didn't invent the rules of gay - I'm just telling you what they are.) ~ Gavin Extence, #NFDB
118:My dearest friend, for your tryst
You have chosen this stormy night
The sky is hopelessly crying
I have no sleep in my eyes
Opening my door
Again and again I am looking outside
I see nothing
My mind is full of worries
Where runs your way
Is it along the bank of the river
Or along the verge of the deep dark forest?
And in this darkness
Where are you crossing the stream?
Transcreation of one of the sweetest love songs Aji jhorer rate tomar abhisar by Rabindranath Tagore. Sung like a plain song it has been recorded by Debabrata Biswas. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas.
~ Rabindranath Tagore, Waiting For The Beloved
,#NFDB
119:Love is kisses and touches and all the little things that make your body flood with emotions such as need, want, protectiveness, jealousy, hurt, and anger. It can take your breath away, or smother you at times, and make you feel like you can't go on. Your heart may race a thousand miles per minute, then slow down, and then race again, just with a simple look. Love is deadly and can kill you from the inside out if you let it. It makes you do stupid, ridiculous things, and say senseless sappy words, or listen to silly love songs, jazz, or dance in the streets, or laugh, or smile. Love is a weapon, or a drug, and can drive a person mad. I know what love is... ~ Lyra Parish, #NFDB
120:I Am Buried In Shyam
Whatever the elders at home may say
I can never leave my treasure, my Shyam,
His beauty and charm have eaten my heart.
I constantly fear that someone will come
And cut my ribs open to take them away.
Forever I am conscious, awake day and night,
Even when in lassitude I close my eyes.
I am buried in Shyam, the shape of my loves.
Who could ever wish me to leave my loving,
I would rather eat poison than hear such words.
I have explored his beauty and found no shores,
But the god at last is standing by me.
I will fulfil my dream and let the rest go.
[From 'Love songs of ~ Chandidas
']
~ Chandidas,#NFDB
121:Kizzy was so busy wishing she was Sarah Ferris or Jenny Glass that she could scarcely see herself at all and she was certainly blind to her own weird beauty: her heavy spell-casting eyes too-wide mouth wild hair and hips that could be wild too if they learned how. No one else in town looked anything like her and if she lived to womanhood she was the one artists would want to draw not the Sarahs and Jennys. She was the one who would some day know a dozen ways to wear a silk scarf how to read the sky for rain and coax feral animals near how to purr throaty love songs in Portuguese and Basque how to lay a vampire to rest how to light a cigar how to light a man's imagination on fire. ~ Laini Taylor, #NFDB
122:MEET ME IN MORNING STILLNESS, while the earth is fresh with the dew of My Presence. Worship Me in the beauty of holiness. Sing love songs to My holy Name. As you give yourself to Me, My Spirit swells within you till you are flooded with divine Presence. The world’s way of pursuing riches is grasping and hoarding. You attain My riches by letting go and giving. The more you give yourself to Me and My ways, the more I fill you with inexpressible, heavenly Joy. Give unto the LORD the glory due to His name; worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness. —PSALM 29:2 NKJV Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy. —1 PETER 1:8 ~ Sarah Young, #NFDB
123:When I write, I hold nothing back. I write like he’ll never read it. Because he never will. Every secret thought, every careful observation, everything I’ve saved up inside me, I put it all in the letter. When I’m done, I seal it, I address it, and then I put it in my teal hatbox. They’re not love letters in the strictest sense of the word. My letters are for when I don’t want to be in love anymore. They’re for good-bye. Because after I write my letter, I’m no longer consumed by my all-consuming love. I can eat my cereal and not wonder if he likes bananas over his Cheerios too; I can sing along to love songs and not be singing them to him. If love is like a possession, maybe my letters are like my exorcisms. My letters set me free. Or at least they’re supposed to. ~ Jenny Han, #NFDB
124:When they say the heart wants what it wants, they're talking about the poetic heart—the heart of love songs and soliloquies, the one that can break as if it were just-formed glass. They're not talking about the real heart, the one that only needs healthy foods and aerobic exercise. But the poetic heart is not to be trusted. It is fickle and will lead you astray. It will tell you that all you need is love and dreams. It will say nothing about food and water and shelter and money. It will tell you that this person, the one in front of you, the one who caught your eye for whatever reason, is the One. And he is. And she is. The One—for right now, until his heart or her heart decides on someone else or something else. The poetic heart is not to be trusted with long-term decision making. ~ Nicola Yoon, #NFDB
125:When they say the heart wants what it wants, they’re talking about the poetic heart—the heart of love songs and soliloquies, the one that can break as if it were just-formed glass. They’re not talking about the real heart, the one that only needs healthy foods and aerobic exercise. But the poetic heart is not to be trusted. It is fickle and will lead you astray. It will tell you that all you need is love and dreams. It will say nothing about food and water and shelter and money. It will tell you that this person, the one in front of you, the one who caught your eye for whatever reason, is the One. And he is. And she is. The One—for right now, until his heart or her heart decides on someone else or something else. The poetic heart is not to be trusted with long-term decision-making. ~ Nicola Yoon, #NFDB
126:I revise my suicide plan to slow death by morphling. I will become a yellow-skinned bag of bones, with enormous eyes. I’m a couple of days into the plan, making good progress, when something unexpected happens. I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What’s amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snows fall on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear. What ~ Suzanne Collins, #NFDB
127:This generation has lost the true meaning of romance. There are so many songs that disrespect women. You can’t treat the woman you love as a piece of meat. You should treat your love like a princess. Give her love songs, something with real meaning. Maybe I’m old fashioned but to respect the woman you love should be a priority. " Wait a minute! I'm actually a Tom Hiddleston fan just putting it out there that this quote and others that you find around the internet are completely fake. Only believe quotes that are written in professional interviews, because I'm here right now to show you that anything can be made up easily by anyone, I could write anything I want here and you could think it's a real quote. So go to interviews or the verified twitter to see the real words someone has said - anything else can be made up! :) ~ Tom Hiddleston, #NFDB
128:June
June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees,
Weaving garlands for our lassies, whispering love songs in the trees,
Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush,
Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush.
June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red,
Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding wheresoe'er we tread;
Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon;
Flowers and lassies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June.
Month of love and month of sunshine, month of happiness and song,
Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along;
Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet,
And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,#NFDB
129:I lie in a bathtub of cold water, still sweating and singing love songs to myself. I put the gun to my head and cock it.
I think of my Grandma and remember that old feeling of being so in love that nothing matters except seeing and being seen by her. I drop the gun to my chest. I'm so sad and I can't really see a way out of what I'm feeling but I'm leaning on memory for help. Faster. Slower. I think I want to hurt myself more than I'm already hurting. I'm not the smartest boy in the world by a long shot, but even in my funk I know that easy remedies like eating your way out of sad, or fucking your way out of sad, or lying your way out of sad, or slanging your way out of sad, or robbing your way out of sad, or gambling your way out of sad, or shooting your way out of sad, are just slower, more acceptable ways for desperate folks, and especially paroled black boys in our country, to kill ourselves and others close to us in America. ~ Kiese Laymon,#NFDB
130:How do you make someone love you? For the very young, there can be nothing harder in the world. You may try as hard as you like: place yourself beside them, cook their favourite food, bring them wine or sing the love songs that you know will move them. They will not move them. Nothing will move them. You will waste days interpreting the simple banalities of a phone call; months staring at their soft lips as they talk; you will waste years watching a body sitting in a chair and willing every muscle to take you across the room and do a simple thing, say a simple word, make them love you and you will not do it; you will waste long nights wondering how they cannot feel this - the urge to embrace, the snow melt in the heart when you are near them - how they can sit in that chair, or speak with those lips, or make a call and mean nothing by it, hide nothing in their hearts. Or perhaps what they hide is not what you want to see. Because surely they love someone. It simply isn’t you. ~ Andrew Sean Greer, #NFDB
131:Words.
I’m surrounded by thousands of words. Maybe millions.
Cathedral. Mayonnaise. Pomegranate.
Mississippi. Neapolitan. Hippopotamus.
Silky. Terrifying. Iridescent.
Tickle. Sneeze. Wish. Worry.
Words have always swirled around me like snowflakes—each one delicate and different, each one melting untouched in my hands.
Deep within me, words pile up in huge drifts. Mountains of phrases and sentences and connected ideas. Clever expressions. Jokes. Love songs.
From the time I was really little—maybe just a few months old—words were like sweet, liquid gifts, and I drank them like lemonade. I could almost taste them. They made my jumbled thoughts and feelings have substance. My parents have always blanketed me with conversation. They chattered and babbled. They verbalized and vocalized. My father sang to me. My mother whispered her strength into my ear.
Every word my parents spoke to me or about me I absorbed and kept and remembered. All of them.
I have no idea how I untangled the complicated process of words and thought, but it happened quickly and naturally. By the time I was two, all my memories had words, and all my words had meanings.
But only in my head.
I have never spoken one single word. I am almost eleven years old. ~ Sharon M Draper,#NFDB
132:Idyl
The swallows made twitter incessant,
The thrushes were wild with their mirth.
The ways and the woods were made pleasant,
And the flowering nooks of the earth.
And the sunshine sufficed to rejoice me,
And the air was as bracing as wine,
And the sky and the shadows and grasses
Were enough to make living divine.
Then I saw on the ground two gray robins,
One with glorious flame-colored vest,
'Neath the shade of some delicate bluebells,
By the breeze of the morning caressed.
They were singing of love in the shadow;
She was bashful, and modest, and coy,
And he sang to her tenderest love-songs,
And madrigals full of his joy.
And his song came forth clearer and clearer,
With each passionate, musical note;
Like the ripple of silvery waters,
It gushed from his beautiful throat.
His whole little bird-soul he offers,—
Ah! she listens to him as he sings:
Then he ceases, awaiting her answer,
With bright eyes and with quivering wings.
And I, too, stood awaiting it, breathless,
For his song was too sweet to disdain,
Till it came, little notes full of gladness,
With a plaintive and tender refrain.
And the songs died away in the distance,
And the forest alone heard the rest,
As the two little lovers flew upward,
To build them together a nest.
~ Emma Lazarus,#NFDB
133:I like to save things. Not important things like whales or people or the environment. Silly things. Porcelain bells, the kind you get at souvenir shops. Cookie cutters you’ll never use, because who needs a cookie in the shape of a foot? Ribbons for my hair. Love letters. Of all the things I save, I guess you could say my love letters are my most prized possession.
I keep my letters in a teal hatbox my mom bought me from a vintage store downtown. They aren’t love letters that someone else wrote for me; I don’t have any of those. These are ones I’ve written. There’s one for every boy I’ve ever loved—five in all.
When I write, I hold nothing back. I write like he’ll never read it. Because he never will. Every secret thought, every careful observation, everything I’ve saved up inside me, I put it all in the letter. When I’m done, I seal it, I address it, and then I put it in my teal hatbox.
They’re not love letters in the strictest sense of the word. My letters are for when I don’t want to be in love anymore. They’re for good-bye. Because after I write my letter, I’m no longer consumed by my all-consuming love. I can eat my cereal and not wonder if he likes bananas over his Cheerios too; I can sing along to love songs and not be singing them to him. If love is like a possession, maybe my letters are like my exorcisms.
My letters set me free. Or at least they’re supposed to. ~ Jenny Han,#NFDB
134:Nobody Believes
Nobody believes in lovenot even me.
Love is the thing
you wait
to end.
Love is the thing
that will not,
cannot work.
Love is the thing
they warn you ofthe dire parents,
the friends
with their dead
marriages,
their crushed hopes.
Nothing crushes hope
but the will to make
the heart
like rock.
That will is strong.
The rock-heart stands
when the love songs crumble,
their yellowing sheet music
kept in a drawer,
their sweet hugs & tugs
forgotten,
like the merest air
of an old New England
spring.
Spring comes again
& again,
& the rock-hearts
142
feel the sap rising
thinking it is sex,
thinking the glands alone
cause this tumult
to the innards,
this hidden spring,
this secret river
which is hope.
Let them put it down
to sex!
Let them say
we worship Dionysus,
Bacchus, Pan,
but not the proper
gods.
Let them have
the proper godsJahweh
with his heart like rock,
Christ with his blood
& thorns,
Mammon with his stock certificates,
his rates, his rates,
his bull markets,
& his late rallies.
We are rallying
alone.
We spit our love
into the wind.
Nobody can bear
to watch
our love.
Except the muse
who smiles
& sends
143
these
poems.
~ Erica Jong,#NFDB
135:WE ARE HAVING A MOMENT I don’t want to be having. When they say the heart wants what it wants, they’re talking about the poetic heart—the heart of love songs and soliloquies, the one that can break as if it were just-formed glass. They’re not talking about the real heart, the one that only needs healthy foods and aerobic exercise. But the poetic heart is not to be trusted. It is fickle and will lead you astray. It will tell you that all you need is love and dreams. It will say nothing about food and water and shelter and money. It will tell you that this person, the one in front of you, the one who caught your eye for whatever reason, is the One. And he is. And she is. The One—for right now, until his heart or her heart decides on someone else or something else. The poetic heart is not to be trusted with long-term decision-making. I know all these things. I know them the way I know that Polaris, the North Star, is not actually the brightest star in the sky—it’s the fiftieth. And still here I am with Daniel in the middle of the sidewalk, on what is almost certainly my last day in America. My fickle, nonpractical, non-future-considering, nonsensical heart wants Daniel. It doesn’t care that he’s too earnest or that he doesn’t know what he wants or that he’s harboring dreams of being a poet, a profession that leads to heartbreak and the poorhouse. I know there’s no such thing as meant-to-be, and yet here I am wondering if maybe I’ve been wrong. I close my open palm, which wants to touch him, and I walk on. ~ Nicola Yoon, #NFDB
136:The Voyage
We planned a glorious voyage, my Captain bold and I,
To sail in bliss on summer seas while halcyon days went by;
And underneath a speckless sky in a little dancing breeze,
We decked our craft with roses, and launched it on the seas.
Yes - we would sail together, my Captain gay and I.
Past miles and miles of blossomed shore, with sheltering harbours nigh;
We would not tempt the trackless seas, nor roam the waters dark,
Les Love, the tricksy pilot, should e’er desert our bark.
Alas! For all our planning, my Captain brave and I,
We drove before a whistling gale beneath a lowering sky;
For the fierce storms came up on us scarce half a league from home,
And flung our crimson roses in the bitter blinding foam.
Silent our lilting love songs, untouched our gay guitar,
As side by side we toil and strive where raging tempests are;
But though in ceaseless labour our earnest days are spent,
A voiceless song is in our souls – a song of glad content.
For Love, the tricksy pilot, still at our helm he sings,
Our darkest night is luminous with torchlight from his wings;
Loudly he sings and sweetly above the whistling gale,
And with Love’s music in our hearts, how could we turn or quail?
Content we sail together, my Captain true and I,
Unheeding of the raging waves, or of the threatening sky;
With His strong hand to guard us, and Love to guide the boat,
The happiest pair of mariners that God has set afloat.
~ Alice Guerin Crist,#NFDB
137:My darling
Everybody is blaming me for you!
They are saying,
In all his songs
Her picture he is painting
In her ears
He is singing only love songs
Because of his addiction
He is composing
Frivolous words into poesy
And all over the land at the top of his voice
He is raving and shouting.
My darling
For you only me they are blaming.
My queen
With the blots of these scandals
I have smeared my forehead
Hoping
You will remove them smiling,
Who cares if they go on carping
If you protect me with your arms
And in your embrace go on sheltering.
Once I had a fancy to compose an epic
But by a sudden touch of your bangles
It burst into thousand songs
As a result of that accident
That epic is lying at my feet in smithereens.
Alas, those stories of wars and heroes
In as many as eight long cantos
Where have they gone!
Attacked by the chopper of your glances
All of them disappeared like dreams.
My doe-eyed darling,
I have kept an eye on my compensation
In the minds of men
I dont care to remain enthroned
If you condescend to give me
The key to your dear hearts bedroom.
After I am dead and gone
I dont want to be immortal
Only in your love
I would like to be eternal.
My doe-eyed darling
Ignoring my posthumous reputation
I have kept an eye on my compensation.
Transcreation of the poem Kshatipuran from the collection Kshanika by Rabindranath Tagore. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas.
Translated by Kumud Biswas
~ Rabindranath Tagore, Compensation
,#NFDB
138:His Tuning Of The Night
All night he lies awake tuning the sky,
tuning the night with its fat crackle of static,
with its melancholy love songs crooning
across the rainy air above Verdun
& the autobahn's blue suicidal dawn.
Wherever he lives there is the same unwomaned bed,
the ashtrays overflowing their reproaches,
his stained fingers on the tuning bar, fishing
for her voice in a deep mirrorless pond,
for the tinsel & elusive fish
(brighter than pennies in water & more wished upon)the copper-colored daughter of the pond god.
He casts for her, the tuning bar his rod,
but only long-dead lovers with their griefs
haunt him in Piaf's voice(as if a voice could somehow only die
when it was sung out, utterly).
He finally lies down and drowns the light
but the taste of her rises, brackish,
from the long dark water of her illness
& his grief is terrible as drowning
when he reaches for the radio again.
In the daytime, you hardly know him;
he walks in a borrowed calm.
You cannot sense
his desperation in the dawn
when the abracadabras of the birds
conjure another phantom day.
He favors cities which blaze all night,
hazy mushrooms of light under the blue
& blinking eyes of jets.
But when the lamps across the way go under,
& the floorboards settle,
97
& the pipes fret like old men garglinghe is alone with his mouthful of ghosts,
his tongue bitter with her unmourned death,
& the terrible drowning.
I watch from my blue window
knowing he does not trust me,
though I know him as I know my ghosts,
though I know his drowning,
though, since that night when all harmony broke for me,
I have been trying to tune the sky.
~ Erica Jong,#NFDB
139:Autumn
I dwell alone - I dwell alone, alone,
Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
Gilded with flashing boats
That bring no friend to me:
O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
O love-pangs, let me be.
Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
And spices bear to sea:
Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
Love-promising, entreating Ah! sweet, but fleeting Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
Hush! the wind flags and fails Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
Their songs wake singing echoes in my land They cannot hear me moan.
One latest, solitary swallow flies
Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tossed,
Poor bird, shall it be lost?
Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
With no kind eyes
To watch it while it dies,
Unguessed, uncared for, free:
Set free at last,
The short pang past,
In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.
Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
Some rent by thunder strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze;
Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.
A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;
90
He catches down and foolish painted flies,
That spider wary and wise.
Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
Betwixt boughs green with sap,
So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.
It shakes - my trees shake - for a wind is roused
In cavern where it housed:
Each white and quivering sail,
Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
Each maiden sings again Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm
Miles down my river to the sea
They float and wane,
Long miles away from me.
Perhaps they say: ‘She grieves,
Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.’
Perhaps they say: ‘One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves.’
Perhaps they say: ‘One hour
More, and we stand,
Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!’
My trees are not in flower,
I have no bower,
And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,#NFDB
140:Then, without warning, notes from a single flute floated as if down on a breeze, and with a quick snap of wrists the dancers twitched the ropes into soaring, billowing squares of gauze.
A gasp from the watchers greeted the sudden change, as the gauzy material rippled and arched and curled through the air, expertly manipulated by the dancers until it seemed the scarves were alive and another kind of dance altogether took place above the humans.
Then the dancers added finger cymbals, clinking and clashing in a syncopated beat that caused, I noted as I looked about me, responsive swayings and nods and taps of feet.
Why this gift, o pilgrim, my pilgrim,
Why this cup of water for me?
I give thee the ocean, stormy or tranquil,
Endless and boundless as my love for thee…
Now it was time for the love songs, and first was the ancient Four Questions, sung in antiphony by the women and the men, and then reversed. High voices and deep echoed down from the unseen gallery, as the dancers below handed out smaller versions of the scarves and drew the guests into the dance.
…why this firebrand for me?
Dancers, lovers, all turned and stepped and circled, connected only by the scarves which hid them, then revealed them, then bound them together as they stepped in, his corner held high by the shoulder, hers low at her waist.
…just so my love burneth for thee
The music, flawlessly performed, the elusive perfume on the scarves--all made the atmosphere feel charged with physical awareness. In the very center of all the dancers were Branaric and Nimiar, circling round one another, their faces flushed and glowing, eyes ardent.
I scarcely recognized my own brother, who moved now with the unconscious ease that makes its own kind of grace, and in a dainty but provocatively deliberate counterpoint danced Nee. It was she, and not Bran, who--when the gauze was overhead, making a kind of canopy that turned their profiles to silhouettes--leaned up to steal a kiss. Then they separated, she casting a look over her shoulder at him that was laughing and not laughing, and which caused him to spin suddenly and crush her in both arms, just for a moment, as around them the others swirled and dipped and the gauzes rose and fell with languorous grace.
As I watched, images flitted through my mind of little Ara, the girl I’d met last year who talked so cheerily of twoing. And of Oria, and of the summer dances on our hills; and I realized, at last, how emotion-parched I was and how ignorant of the mysteries of love.
I had seen ardency in men’s eyes, but I had never felt it myself. As I watched, isolated but unable to turn away, I suddenly wished that I could feel it. No, I did feel it, I realized. I did have the same feeling, only I had masked it before as restlessness, or as the exhortation to action, or as anger. And I thought how wonderful it would be to see that spark now, in the right pair of eyes. ~ Sherwood Smith,#NFDB
141:The light of the sun, the moon, and the stars shines bright: The melody of love swells forth, and the rhythm of love's detachment beats the time. Day and night, the chorus of music fills the heavens; and Kabir says "My Beloved One gleams like the lightning flash in the sky." Do you know how the moments perform their adoration? Waving its row of lamps, the universe sings in worship day and night, There are the hidden banner and the secret canopy: There the sound of the unseen bells is heard. Kabir says: "There adoration never ceases; there the Lord of the Universe sitteth on His throne." The whole world does its works and commits its errors: but few are the lovers who know the Beloved. The devout seeker is he who mingles in his heart the double currents of love and detachment, like the mingling of the streams of Ganges and Jumna; In his heart the sacred water flows day and night; and thus the round of births and deaths is brought to an end. Behold what wonderful rest is in the Supreme Spirit! and he enjoys it, who makes himself meet for it. Held by the cords of love, the swing of the Ocean of Joy sways to and fro; and a mighty sound breaks forth in song. See what a lotus blooms there without water! and Kabir says "My heart's bee drinks its nectar." What a wonderful lotus it is, that blooms at the heart of the spinning wheel of the universe! Only a few pure souls know of its true delight. Music is all around it, and there the heart partakes of the joy of the Infinite Sea. Kabir says: "Dive thou into that Ocean of sweetness: thus let all errors of life and of death flee away." Behold how the thirst of the five senses is quenched there! and the three forms of misery are no more! Kabir says: "It is the sport of the Unattainable One: look within, and behold how the moon-beams of that Hidden One shine in you." There falls the rhythmic beat of life and death: Rapture wells forth, and all space is radiant with light. There the Unstruck Music is sounded; it is the music of the love of the three worlds. There millions of lamps of sun and of moon are burning; There the drum beats, and the lover swings in play. There love-songs resound, and light rains in showers; and the worshipper is entranced in the taste of the heavenly nectar. Look upon life and death; there is no separation between them, The right hand and the left hand are one and the same. Kabir says: "There the wise man is speechless; for this truth may never be found in Vedas or in books." I have had my Seat on the Self-poised One, I have drunk of the Cup of the Ineffable, I have found the Key of the Mystery, I have reached the Root of Union. Travelling by no track, I have come to the Sorrowless Land: very easily has the mercy of the great Lord come upon me. They have sung of Him as infinite and unattainable: but I in my meditations have seen Him without sight. That is indeed the sorrowless land, and none know the path that leads there: Only he who is on that path has surely transcended all sorrow. Wonderful is that land of rest, to which no merit can win; It is the wise who has seen it, it is the wise who has sung of it. This is the Ultimate Word: but can any express its marvelous savour? He who has savoured it once, he knows what joy it can give. Kabir says: "Knowing it, the ignorant man becomes wise, and the wise man becomes speechless and silent, The worshipper is utterly inebriated, His wisdom and his detachment are made perfect; He drinks from the cup of the inbreathings and the outbreathings of love." There the whole sky is filled with sound, and there that music is made without fingers and without strings; There the game of pleasure and pain does not cease. Kabir says: "If you merge your life in the Ocean of Life, you will find your life in the Supreme Land of Bliss." What a frenzy of ecstasy there is in every hour! and the worshipper is pressing out and drinking the essence of the hours: he lives in the life of Brahma. I speak truth, for I have accepted truth in life; I am now attached to truth, I have swept all tinsel away. Kabir says: "Thus is the worshipper set free from fear; thus have all errors of life and of death left him." There the sky is filled with music: There it rains nectar: There the harp-strings jingle, and there the drums beat. What a secret splendour is there, in the mansion of the sky! There no mention is made of the rising and the setting of the sun; In the ocean of manifestation, which is the light of love, day and night are felt to be one. Joy for ever, no sorrow,--no struggle! There have I seen joy filled to the brim, perfection of joy; No place for error is there. Kabir says: "There have I witnessed the sport of One Bliss!" I have known in my body the sport of the universe: I have escaped from the error of this world. The inward and the outward are become as one sky, the Infinite and the finite are united: I am drunken with the sight of this All! This Light of Thine fulfills the universe: the lamp of love that burns on the salver of knowledge. Kabir says: "There error cannot enter, and the conflict of life and death is felt no more." [bk1sm.gif] -- from One Hundred Poems of Kabir: Translated by Rabindranath Tagore, by Kabir / Translated by Rabindranath Tagore
~ Kabir, The light of the sun, the moon, and the stars shines bright
,#NFDB
142:THE light of the sun, the moon, and the stars shines bright:
The melody of love swells forth, and the rhythm of love's detachment beats the time.
Day and night, the chorus of music fills the heavens; and Kabr says
"My Beloved One gleams like the lightning flash in the sky."
Do you know how the moments perform their adoration?
Waving its row of lamps, the universe sings in worship day and night,
There are the hidden banner and the secret canopy:
There the sound of the unseen bells is heard.
Kabr says: "There adoration never ceases; there the Lord of the Universe sitteth on His throne."
The whole world does its works and commits its errors: but few are the lovers who know the Beloved.
The devout seeker is he who mingles in his heart the double currents of love and detachment, like the mingling of the streams of Ganges and Jumna;
In his heart the sacred water flows day and night; and thus the round of births and deaths is brought to an end.
Behold what wonderful rest is in the Supreme Spirit! and he enjoys it, who makes himself meet for it.
Held by the cords of love, the swing of the Ocean of Joy sways to and fro; and a mighty sound breaks forth in song.
See what a lotus blooms there without water! and Kabr says
"My heart's bee drinks its nectar."
What a wonderful lotus it is, that blooms at the heart of the spinning wheel of the universe! Only a few pure souls know of its true delight.
Music is all around it, and there the heart partakes of the joy of the Infinite Sea.
Kabr says: "Dive thou into that Ocean of sweetness: thus let all errors of life and of death flee away."
Behold how the thirst of the five senses is quenched there! and the three forms of misery are no more!
Kabr says: "It is the sport of the Unattainable One: look within, and behold how the moon-beams of that Hidden One shine in you."
There falls the rhythmic beat of life and death:
Rapture wells forth, and all space is radiant with light.
There the Unstruck Music is sounded; it is the music of the love of the three worlds.
There millions of lamps of sun and of moon are burning;
There the drum beats, and the lover swings in play.
There love-songs resound, and light rains in showers; and the worshipper is entranced in the taste of the heavenly nectar.
Look upon life and death; there is no separation between them,
The right hand and the left hand are one and the same.
Kabr says: "There the wise man is speechless; for this truth may never be found in Vadas or in books."
I have had my Seat on the Self-poised One,
I have drunk of the Cup of the Ineffable,
I have found the Key of the Mystery,
I have reached the Root of Union.
Travelling by no track, I have come to the Sorrowless Land: very easily has the mercy of the great Lord come upon me.
They have sung of Him as infinite and unattainable: but I in my meditations have seen Him without sight.
That is indeed the sorrowless land, and none know the path that leads there:
Only he who is on that path has surely transcended all sorrow.
Wonderful is that land of rest, to which no merit can win;
It is the wise who has seen it, it is the wise who has sung of it.
This is the Ultimate Word: but can any express its marvellous savour? {p. 65}
He who has savoured it once, he knows what joy it can give.
Kabr says: "Knowing it, the ignorant man becomes wise, and the wise man becomes speechless and silent,
The worshipper is utterly inebriated,
His wisdom and his detachment are made perfect;
He drinks from the cup of the inbreathings and the outbreathings of love."
There the whole sky is filled with sound, and there that music is made without fingers and without strings;
There the game of pleasure and pain does not cease.
Kabr says: "If you merge your life in the Ocean of Life, you will find your life in the Supreme Land of Bliss."
What a frenzy of ecstasy there is in every hour! and the worshipper is pressing out and drinking the essence of the hours: he lives in the life of Brahma.
I speak truth, for I have accepted truth in life; I am now attached to truth, I have swept all tinsel away.
Kabr says: "Thus is the worshipper set free from fear; thus have all errors of life and of death left him."
There the sky is filled with music:
There it rains nectar:
There the harp-strings jingle, and there the drums beat.
What a secret splendour is there, in the mansion of the sky!
There no mention is made of the rising and the setting of the sun;
In the ocean of manifestation, which is the light of love, day and night are felt to be one.
Joy for ever, no sorrow,no struggle!
There have I seen joy filled to the brim, perfection of joy;
No place for error is there.
Kabr says: "There have I witnessed the sport of One Bliss!"
I have known in my body the sport of the universe: I have escaped from the error of this world..
The inward and the outward are become as one sky, the Infinite and the finite are united: I am drunken with the sight of this All!
This Light of Thine fulfils the universe: the lamp of love that burns on the salver of knowledge.
Kabr says: "There error cannot enter, and the conflict of life and death is felt no more."
~ Kabir, The Light of the Sun
,#NFDB
143:Beachy Head
ON thy stupendous summit, rock sublime !
That o'er the channel rear'd, half way at sea
The mariner at early morning hails,
I would recline; while Fancy should go forth,
And represent the strange and awful hour
Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent
Stretch'd forth his arm, and rent the solid hills,
Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between
The rifted shores, and from the continent
Eternally divided this green isle.
Imperial lord of the high southern coast !
From thy projecting head-land I would mark
Far in the east the shades of night disperse,
Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave
Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light
Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun
Just lifts above it his resplendent orb.
Advances now, with feathery silver touched,
The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands,
While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar
Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry,
Their white wings glancing in the level beam,
The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food,
And thy rough hollows echo to the voice
Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws,
With clamour, not unlike the chiding hounds,
While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog,
Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock.
The high meridian of the day is past,
And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven,
Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low
The tide of ebb, upon the level sands.
The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still,
Catches the light and variable airs
That but a little crisp the summer sea.
Dimpling its tranquil surface.
Afar off,
17
And just emerging from the arch immense
Where seem to part the elements, a fleet
Of fishing vessels stretch their lesser sails;
While more remote, and like a dubious spot
Just hanging in the horizon, laden deep,
The ship of commerce richly freighted, makes
Her slower progress, on her distant voyage,
Bound to the orient climates, where the sun
Matures the spice within its odorous shell,
And, rivalling the gray worm's filmy toil,
Bursts from its pod the vegetable down;
Which in long turban'd wreaths, from torrid heat
Defends the brows of Asia's countless casts.
There the Earth hides within her glowing breast
The beamy adamant, and the round pearl
Enchased in rugged covering; which the slave,
With perilous and breathless toil, tears off
From the rough sea-rock, deep beneath the waves.
These are the toys of Nature; and her sport
Of little estimate in Reason's eye:
And they who reason, with abhorrence see
Man, for such gaudes and baubles, violate
The sacred freedom of his fellow man
Erroneous estimate ! As Heaven's pure air,
Fresh as it blows on this aërial height,
Or sound of seas upon the stony strand,
Or inland, the gay harmony of birds,
And winds that wander in the leafy woods;
Are to the unadulterate taste more worth
Than the elaborate harmony, brought out
From fretted stop, or modulated airs
Of vocal science.So the brightest gems,
Glancing resplendent on the regal crown,
Or trembling in the high born beauty's ear,
Are poor and paltry, to the lovely light
Of the fair star, that as the day declines,
Attendant on her queen, the crescent moon,
Bathes her bright tresses in the eastern wave.
For now the sun is verging to the sea,
18
And as he westward sinks, the floating clouds
Suspended, move upon the evening gale,
And gathering round his orb, as if to shade
The insufferable brightness, they resign
Their gauzy whiteness; and more warm'd, assume
All hues of purple. There, transparent gold
Mingles with ruby tints, and sapphire gleams,
And colours, such as Nature through her works
Shews only in the ethereal canopy.
Thither aspiring Fancy fondly soars,
Wandering sublime thro' visionary vales,
Where bright pavilions rise, and trophies, fann'd
By airs celestial; and adorn'd with wreaths
Of flowers that bloom amid elysian bowers.
Now bright, and brighter still the colours glow,
Till half the lustrous orb within the flood
Seems to retire: the flood reflecting still
Its splendor, and in mimic glory drest;
Till the last ray shot upward, fires the clouds
With blazing crimson; then in paler light,
Long lines of tenderer radiance, lingering yield
To partial darkness; and on the opposing side
The early moon distinctly rising, throws
Her pearly brilliance on the trembling tide.
The fishermen, who at set seasons pass
Many a league off at sea their toiling night,
Now hail their comrades, from their daily task
Returning; and make ready for their own,
With the night tide commencing:The night tide
Bears a dark vessel on, whose hull and sails
Mark her a coaster from the north. Her keel
Now ploughs the sand; and sidelong now she leans,
While with loud clamours her athletic crew
Unload her; and resounds the busy hum
Along the wave-worn rocks. Yet more remote,
Where the rough cliff hangs beetling o'er its base,
All breathes repose; the water's rippling sound
Scarce heard; but now and then the sea-snipe's cry
Just tells that something living is abroad;
And sometimes crossing on the moonbright line,
19
Glimmers the skiff, faintly discern'd awhile,
Then lost in shadow.
Contemplation here,
High on her throne of rock, aloof may sit,
And bid recording Memory unfold
Her scroll voluminousbid her retrace
The period, when from Neustria's hostile shore
The Norman launch'd his galleys, and the bay
O'er which that mass of ruin frowns even now
In vain and sullen menace, then received
The new invaders; a proud martial race,
Of Scandinavia the undaunted sons,
Whom Dogon, Fier-a-bras, and Humfroi led
To conquest: while Trinacria to their power
Yielded her wheaten garland; and when thou,
Parthenope ! within thy fertile bay
Receiv'd the victors
In the mailed ranks
Of Normans landing on the British coast
Rode Taillefer; and with astounding voice
Thunder'd the war song daring Roland sang
First in the fierce contention: vainly brave,
One not inglorious struggle England made
But failing, saw the Saxon heptarchy
Finish for ever.Then the holy pile,
Yet seen upon the field of conquest, rose,
Where to appease heaven's wrath for so much blood,
The conqueror bade unceasing prayers ascend,
And requiems for the slayers and the slain.
But let not modern Gallia form from hence
Presumptuous hopes, that ever thou again,
Queen of the isles ! shalt crouch to foreign arms.
The enervate sons of Italy may yield;
And the Iberian, all his trophies torn
And wrapp'd in Superstition's monkish weed,
May shelter his abasement, and put on
Degrading fetters. Never, never thou !
Imperial mistress of the obedient sea;
But thou, in thy integrity secure,
20
Shalt now undaunted meet a world in arms.
England ! 'twas where this promontory rears
Its rugged brow above the channel wave,
Parting the hostile nations, that thy fame,
Thy naval fame was tarnish'd, at what time
Thou, leagued with the Batavian, gavest to France
One day of triumphtriumph the more loud,
Because even then so rare. Oh ! well redeem'd,
Since, by a series of illustrious men,
Such as no other country ever rear'd,
To vindicate her cause. It is a list
Which, as Fame echoes it, blanches the cheek
Of bold Ambition; while the despot feels
The extorted sceptre tremble in his grasp.
From even the proudest roll by glory fill'd,
How gladly the reflecting mind returns
To simple scenes of peace and industry,
Where, bosom'd in some valley of the hills
Stands the lone farm; its gate with tawny ricks
Surrounded, and with granaries and sheds,
Roof'd with green mosses, and by elms and ash
Partially shaded; and not far remov'd
The hut of sea-flints built; the humble home
Of one, who sometimes watches on the heights,
When hid in the cold mist of passing clouds,
The flock, with dripping fleeces, are dispers'd
O'er the wide down; then from some ridged point
That overlooks the sea, his eager eye
Watches the bark that for his signal waits
To land its merchandize:Quitting for this
Clandestine traffic his more honest toil,
The crook abandoning, he braves himself
The heaviest snow-storm of December's night,
When with conflicting winds the ocean raves,
And on the tossing boat, unfearing mounts
To meet the partners of the perilous trade,
And share their hazard. Well it were for him,
If no such commerce of destruction known,
He were content with what the earth affords
21
To human labour; even where she seems
Reluctant most. More happy is the hind,
Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor,
Or turbary, his independent hut
Cover'd with heather, whence the slow white smoke
Of smouldering peat arisesA few sheep,
His best possession, with his children share
The rugged shed when wintry tempests blow;
But, when with Spring's return the green blades rise
Amid the russet heath, the household live
Joint tenants of the waste throughout the day,
And often, from her nest, among the swamps,
Where the gemm'd sun-dew grows, or fring'd buck-bean,
They scare the plover, that with plaintive cries
Flutters, as sorely wounded, down the wind.
Rude, and but just remov'd from savage life
Is the rough dweller among scenes like these,
(Scenes all unlike the poet's fabling dreams
Describing Arcady)But he is free;
The dread that follows on illegal acts
He never feels; and his industrious mate
Shares in his labour. Where the brook is traced
By crouding osiers, and the black coot hides
Among the plashy reeds, her diving brood,
The matron wades; gathering the long green rush
That well prepar'd hereafter lends its light
To her poor cottage, dark and cheerless else
Thro' the drear hours of Winter. Otherwhile
She leads her infant group where charlock grows
'Unprofitably gay,' or to the fields,
Where congregate the linnet and the finch,
That on the thistles, so profusely spread,
Feast in the desert; the poor family
Early resort, extirpating with care
These, and the gaudier mischief of the ground;
Then flames the high rais'd heap; seen afar off
Like hostile war-fires flashing to the sky.
Another task is theirs: On fields that shew
As angry Heaven had rain'd sterility,
Stony and cold, and hostile to the plough,
22
Where clamouring loud, the evening curlew runs
And drops her spotted eggs among the flints;
The mother and the children pile the stones
In rugged pyramids;and all this toil
They patiently encounter; well content
On their flock bed to slumber undisturb'd
Beneath the smoky roof they call their own.
Oh ! little knows the sturdy hind, who stands
Gazing, with looks where envy and contempt
Are often strangely mingled, on the car
Where prosperous Fortune sits; what secret care
Or sick satiety is often hid,
Beneath the splendid outside: He knows not
How frequently the child of Luxury
Enjoying nothing, flies from place to place
In chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp;
And that content is e'en less found by him,
Than by the labourer, whose pick-axe smooths
The road before his chariot; and who doffs
What was an hat; and as the train pass on,
Thinks how one day's expenditure, like this,
Would cheer him for long months, when to his toil
The frozen earth closes her marble breast.
Ah ! who is happy ? Happiness ! a word
That like false fire, from marsh effluvia born,
Misleads the wanderer, destin'd to contend
In the world's wilderness, with want or woe
Yet they are happy, who have never ask'd
What good or evil means. The boy
That on the river's margin gaily plays,
Has heard that Death is thereHe knows not Death,
And therefore fears it not; and venturing in
He gains a bullrush, or a minnowthen,
At certain peril, for a worthless prize,
A crow's, or raven's nest, he climbs the boll,
Of some tall pine; and of his prowess proud,
Is for a moment happy. Are your cares,
Ye who despise him, never worse applied ?
The village girl is happy, who sets forth
23
To distant fair, gay in her Sunday suit,
With cherry colour'd knots, and flourish'd shawl,
And bonnet newly purchas'd. So is he
Her little brother, who his mimic drum
Beats, till he drowns her rural lovers' oaths
Of constant faith, and still increasing love;
Ah ! yet a while, and half those oaths believ'd,
Her happiness is vanish'd; and the boy
While yet a stripling, finds the sound he lov'd
Has led him on, till he has given up
His freedom, and his happiness together.
I once was happy, when while yet a child,
I learn'd to love these upland solitudes,
And, when elastic as the mountain air,
To my light spirit, care was yet unknown
And evil unforeseen:Early it came,
And childhood scarcely passed, I was condemned,
A guiltless exile, silently to sigh,
While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew
The contrast; and regretting, I compar'd
With the polluted smoky atmosphere
And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills
That to the setting Sun, their graceful heads
Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks
With her white rocks, the strong impetuous tide,
When western winds the vast Atlantic urge
To thunder on the coastHaunts of my youth !
Scenes of fond day dreams, I behold ye yet !
Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes
To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft
By scatter'd thorns: whose spiny branches bore
Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb
There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun;
And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,
To look beneath upon the hollow way
While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain,
And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind
To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone
The grating wheel.
Advancing higher still
24
The prospect widens, and the village church
But little, o'er the lowly roofs around
Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane;
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring,
When on each bough, the rosy-tinctur'd bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.
For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit,
Console them for the vineyards of the south,
Surpass not these.
Where woods of ash, and beech,
And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home,
There wanders by, a little nameless stream
That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear,
Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,
But still refreshing in its shallow course,
The cottage garden; most for use design'd,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement; yet the briar
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;
And pansies rayed, and freak'd and mottled pinks
Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue:
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow
Almost uncultured: Some with dark green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others, like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson, while in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely, wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now
In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd.
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine;
I loved her rudest sceneswarrens, and heaths,
25
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedge rows, bordering unfrequented lanes
Bowered with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine
Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch
With bittersweet, and bryony inweave,
And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups
I loved to trace the brooks whose humid banks
Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil;
And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech,
Lending in Summer, from the heats of noon
A whispering shade; while haply there reclines
Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers,
Who, from the tumps with bright green mosses clad,
Plucks the wood sorrel, with its light thin leaves,
Heart-shaped, and triply folded; and its root
Creeping like beaded coral; or who there
Gathers, the copse's pride, anémones,
With rays like golden studs on ivory laid
Most delicate: but touch'd with purple clouds,
Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow.
Ah ! hills so early loved ! in fancy still
I breathe your pure keen air; and still behold
Those widely spreading views, mocking alike
The Poet and the Painter's utmost art.
And still, observing objects more minute,
Wondering remark the strange and foreign forms
Of sea-shells; with the pale calcareous soil
Mingled, and seeming of resembling substance.
Tho' surely the blue Ocean (from the heights
Where the downs westward trend, but dimly seen)
Here never roll'd its surge. Does Nature then
Mimic, in wanton mood, fantastic shapes
Of bivalves, and inwreathed volutes, that cling
To the dark sea-rock of the wat'ry world ?
Or did this range of chalky mountains, once
Form a vast bason, where the Ocean waves
Swell'd fathomless ? What time these fossil shells,
Buoy'd on their native element, were thrown
Among the imbedding calx: when the huge hill
Its giant bulk heaved, and in strange ferment
26
Grew up a guardian barrier, 'twixt the sea
And the green level of the sylvan weald.
Ah ! very vain is Science' proudest boast,
And but a little light its flame yet lends
To its most ardent votaries; since from whence
These fossil forms are seen, is but conjecture,
Food for vague theories, or vain dispute,
While to his daily task the peasant goes,
Unheeding such inquiry; with no care
But that the kindly change of sun and shower,
Fit for his toil the earth he cultivates.
As little recks the herdsman of the hill,
Who on some turfy knoll, idly reclined,
Watches his wether flock; that deep beneath
Rest the remains of men, of whom is left
No traces in the records of mankind,
Save what these half obliterated mounds
And half fill'd trenches doubtfully impart
To some lone antiquary; who on times remote,
Since which two thousand years have roll'd away,
Loves to contemplate. He perhaps may trace,
Or fancy he can trace, the oblong square
Where the mail'd legions, under Claudius, rear'd,
The rampire, or excavated fossé delved;
What time the huge unwieldy Elephant
Auxiliary reluctant, hither led,
From Afric's forest glooms and tawny sands,
First felt the Northern blast, and his vast frame
Sunk useless; whence in after ages found,
The wondering hinds, on those enormous bones
Gaz'd; and in giants dwelling on the hills
Believed and marvell'd
Hither, Ambition, come !
Come and behold the nothingness of all
For which you carry thro' the oppressed Earth,
War, and its train of horrorssee where tread
The innumerous hoofs of flocks above the works
By which the warrior sought to register
His glory, and immortalize his name
27
The pirate Dane, who from his circular camp
Bore in destructive robbery, fire and sword
Down thro' the vale, sleeps unremember'd here;
And here, beneath the green sward, rests alike
The savage native, who his acorn meal
Shar'd with the herds, that ranged the pathless woods;
And the centurion, who on these wide hills
Encamping, planted the Imperial Eagle.
All, with the lapse of Time, have passed away,
Even as the clouds, with dark and dragon shapes,
Or like vast promontories crown'd with towers,
Cast their broad shadows on the downs: then sail
Far to the northward, and their transient gloom
Is soon forgotten.
But from thoughts like these,
By human crimes suggested, let us turn
To where a more attractive study courts
The wanderer of the hills; while shepherd girls
Will from among the fescue bring him flowers,
Of wonderous mockery; some resembling bees
In velvet vest, intent on their sweet toil,
While others mimic flies, that lightly sport
In the green shade, or float along the pool,
But here seem perch'd upon the slender stalk,
And gathering honey dew. While in the breeze
That wafts the thistle's plumed seed along,
Blue bells wave tremulous. The mountain thyme
Purples the hassock of the heaving mole,
And the short turf is gay with tormentil,
And bird's foot trefoil, and the lesser tribes
Of hawkweed; spangling it with fringed stars.
Near where a richer tract of cultur'd land
Slopes to the south; and burnished by the sun,
Bend in the gale of August, floods of corn;
The guardian of the flock, with watchful care,
Repels by voice and dog the encroaching sheep
While his boy visits every wired trap
That scars the turf; and from the pit-falls takes
The timid migrants, who from distant wilds,
Warrens, and stone quarries, are destined thus
28
To lose their short existence. But unsought
By Luxury yet, the Shepherd still protects
The social bird, who from his native haunts
Of willowy current, or the rushy pool,
Follows the fleecy croud, and flirts and skims,
In fellowship among them.
Where the knoll
More elevated takes the changeful winds,
The windmill rears its vanes; and thitherward
With his white load, the master travelling,
Scares the rooks rising slow on whispering wings,
While o'er his head, before the summer sun
Lights up the blue expanse, heard more than seen,
The lark sings matins; and above the clouds
Floating, embathes his spotted breast in dew.
Beneath the shadow of a gnarled thorn,
Bent by the sea blast, from a seat of turf
With fairy nosegays strewn, how wide the view !
Till in the distant north it melts away,
And mingles indiscriminate with clouds:
But if the eye could reach so far, the mart
Of England's capital, its domes and spires
Might be perceivedYet hence the distant range
Of Kentish hills, appear in purple haze;
And nearer, undulate the wooded heights,
And airy summits, that above the mole
Rise in green beauty; and the beacon'd ridge
Of Black-down shagg'd with heath, and swelling rude
Like a dark island from the vale; its brow
Catching the last rays of the evening sun
That gleam between the nearer park's old oaks,
Then lighten up the river, and make prominent
The portal, and the ruin'd battlements
Of that dismantled fortress; rais'd what time
The Conqueror's successors fiercely fought,
Tearing with civil feuds the desolate land.
But now a tiller of the soil dwells there,
And of the turret's loop'd and rafter'd halls
Has made an humbler homesteadWhere he sees,
29
Instead of armed foemen, herds that graze
Along his yellow meadows; or his flocks
At evening from the upland driv'n to fold
In such a castellated mansion once
A stranger chose his home; and where hard by
In rude disorder fallen, and hid with brushwood
Lay fragments gray of towers and buttresses,
Among the ruins, often he would muse
His rustic meal soon ended, he was wont
To wander forth, listening the evening sounds
Of rushing milldam, or the distant team,
Or night-jar, chasing fern-flies: the tir'd hind
Pass'd him at nightfall, wondering he should sit
On the hill top so late: they from the coast
Who sought bye paths with their clandestine load,
Saw with suspicious doubt, the lonely man
Cross on their way: but village maidens thought
His senses injur'd; and with pity say
That he, poor youth ! must have been cross'd in love
For often, stretch'd upon the mountain turf
With folded arms, and eyes intently fix'd
Where ancient elms and firs obscured a grange,
Some little space within the vale below,
They heard him, as complaining of his fate,
And to the murmuring wind, of cold neglect
And baffled hope he told.The peasant girls
These plaintive sounds remember, and even now
Among them may be heard the stranger's songs.
Were I a Shepherd on the hill
And ever as the mists withdrew
Could see the willows of the rill
Shading the footway to the mill
Where once I walk'd with you
And as away Night's shadows sail,
And sounds of birds and brooks arise,
Believe, that from the woody vale
I hear your voice upon the gale
In soothing melodies;
And viewing from the Alpine height,
30
The prospect dress'd in hues of air,
Could say, while transient colours bright
Touch'd the fair scene with dewy light,
'Tis, that her eyes are there !
I think, I could endure my lot
And linger on a few short years,
And then, by all but you forgot,
Sleep, where the turf that clothes the spot
May claim some pitying tears.
For 'tis not easy to forget
One, who thro' life has lov'd you still,
And you, however late, might yet
With sighs to Memory giv'n, regret
The Shepherd of the Hill.
Yet otherwhile it seem'd as if young Hope
Her flattering pencil gave to Fancy's hand,
And in his wanderings, rear'd to sooth his soul
Ideal bowers of pleasureThen, of Solitude
And of his hermit life, still more enamour'd,
His home was in the forest; and wild fruits
And bread sustain'd him. There in early spring
The Barkmen found him, e'er the sun arose;
There at their daily toil, the Wedgecutters
Beheld him thro' the distant thicket move.
The shaggy dog following the truffle hunter,
Bark'd at the loiterer; and perchance at night
Belated villagers from fair or wake,
While the fresh night-wind let the moonbeams in
Between the swaying boughs, just saw him pass,
And then in silence, gliding like a ghost
He vanish'd ! Lost among the deepening gloom.
But near one ancient tree, whose wreathed roots
Form'd a rude couch, love-songs and scatter'd rhymes,
Unfinish'd sentences, or half erased,
And rhapsodies like this, were sometimes found
Let us to woodland wilds repair
While yet the glittering night-dews seem
To wait the freshly-breathing air,
31
Precursive of the morning beam,
That rising with advancing day,
Scatters the silver drops away.
An elm, uprooted by the storm,
The trunk with mosses gray and green,
Shall make for us a rustic form,
Where lighter grows the forest scene;
And far among the bowery shades,
Are ferny lawns and grassy glades.
Retiring May to lovely June
Her latest garland now resigns;
The banks with cuckoo-flowers are strewn,
The woodwalks blue with columbines,
And with its reeds, the wandering stream
Reflects the flag-flower's golden gleam.
There, feathering down the turf to meet,
Their shadowy arms the beeches spread,
While high above our sylvan seat,
Lifts the light ash its airy head;
And later leaved, the oaks between
Extend their bows of vernal green.
The slender birch its paper rind
Seems offering to divided love,
And shuddering even without a wind
Aspins, their paler foliage move,
As if some spirit of the air
Breath'd a low sigh in passing there.
The Squirrel in his frolic mood,
Will fearless bound among the boughs;
Yaffils laugh loudly thro' the wood,
And murmuring ring-doves tell their vows;
While we, as sweetest woodscents rise,
Listen to woodland melodies.
And I'll contrive a sylvan room
Against the time of summer heat,
Where leaves, inwoven in Nature's loom,
Shall canopy our green retreat;
And gales that 'close the eye of day'
Shall linger, e'er they die away.
32
And when a sear and sallow hue
From early frost the bower receives,
I'll dress the sand rock cave for you,
And strew the floor with heath and leaves,
That you, against the autumnal air
May find securer shelter there.
The Nightingale will then have ceas'd
To sing her moonlight serenade;
But the gay bird with blushing breast,
And Woodlarks still will haunt the shade,
And by the borders of the spring
Reed-wrens will yet be carolling.
The forest hermit's lonely cave
None but such soothing sounds shall reach,
Or hardly heard, the distant wave
Slow breaking on the stony beach;
Or winds, that now sigh soft and low,
Now make wild music as they blow.
And then, before the chilling North
The tawny foliage falling light,
Seems, as it flits along the earth,
The footfall of the busy Sprite,
Who wrapt in pale autumnal gloom,
Calls up the mist-born Mushroom.
Oh ! could I hear your soft voice there,
And see you in the forest green
All beauteous as you are, more fair
You'ld look, amid the sylvan scene,
And in a wood-girl's simple guise,
Be still more lovely in mine eyes.
Ye phantoms of unreal delight,
Visions of fond delirium born !
Rise not on my deluded sight,
Then leave me drooping and forlorn
To know, such bliss can never be,
Unless loved like me.
The visionary, nursing dreams like these,
Is not indeed unhappy. Summer woods
Wave over him, and whisper as they wave,
33
Some future blessings he may yet enjoy.
And as above him sail the silver clouds,
He follows them in thought to distant climes,
Where, far from the cold policy of this,
Dividing him from her he fondly loves,
He, in some island of the southern sea,
May haply build his cane-constructed bower
Beneath the bread-fruit, or aspiring palm,
With long green foliage rippling in the gale.
Oh ! let him cherish his ideal bliss
For what is life, when Hope has ceas'd to strew
Her fragile flowers along its thorny way ?
And sad and gloomy are his days, who lives
Of Hope abandon'd !
Just beneath the rock
Where Beachy overpeers the channel wave,
Within a cavern mined by wintry tides
Dwelt one, who long disgusted with the world
And all its ways, appear'd to suffer life
Rather than live; the soul-reviving gale,
Fanning the bean-field, or the thymy heath,
Had not for many summers breathed on him;
And nothing mark'd to him the season's change,
Save that more gently rose the placid sea,
And that the birds which winter on the coast
Gave place to other migrants; save that the fog,
Hovering no more above the beetling cliffs
Betray'd not then the little careless sheep
On the brink grazing, while their headlong fall
Near the lone Hermit's flint-surrounded home,
Claim'd unavailing pity; for his heart
Was feelingly alive to all that breath'd;
And outraged as he was, in sanguine youth,
By human crimes, he still acutely felt
For human misery.
Wandering on the beach,
He learn'd to augur from the clouds of heaven,
And from the changing colours of the sea,
And sullen murmurs of the hollow cliffs,
34
Or the dark porpoises, that near the shore
Gambol'd and sported on the level brine
When tempests were approaching: then at night
He listen'd to the wind; and as it drove
The billows with o'erwhelming vehemence
He, starting from his rugged couch, went forth
And hazarding a life, too valueless,
He waded thro' the waves, with plank or pole
Towards where the mariner in conflict dread
Was buffeting for life the roaring surge;
And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulphs,
The dismal gleaming of the clouded moon
Shew'd the dire peril. Often he had snatch'd
From the wild billows, some unhappy man
Who liv'd to bless the hermit of the rocks.
But if his generous cares were all in vain,
And with slow swell the tide of morning bore
Some blue swol'n cor'se to land; the pale recluse
Dug in the chalk a sepulchreabove
Where the dank sea-wrack mark'd the utmost tide,
And with his prayers perform'd the obsequies
For the poor helpless stranger.
One dark night
The equinoctial wind blew south by west,
Fierce on the shore; the bellowing cliffs were shook
Even to their stony base, and fragments fell
Flashing and thundering on the angry flood.
At day-break, anxious for the lonely man,
His cave the mountain shepherds visited,
Tho' sand and banks of weeds had choak'd their way
He was not in it; but his drowned cor'se
By the waves wafted, near his former home
Receiv'd the rites of burial. Those who read
Chisel'd within the rock, these mournful lines,
Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve,
That dying in the cause of charity
His spirit, from its earthly bondage freed,
Had to some better region fled for ever.
35
~ Charlotte Smith,#NFDB
2 Poetry
2 Philosophy
2 Mysticism
2 Rabindranath Tagore
2 Tagore - Poems
1.rt - Compensation, #Tagore - Poems, #Rabindranath Tagore, #Poetry
He is singing only love songs
Because of his addiction
1.rt - Waiting For The Beloved, #Tagore - Poems, #Rabindranath Tagore, #Poetry
Transcreation of one of the sweetest love songs Aji jhorer rate tomar abhisar by Rabindranath Tagore. Sung like a plain song it has been recorded by Debabrata Biswas. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas.
Sayings of Sri Ramakrishna (text), #Sayings of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
wearing the fine black-bordered muslin, the love songs of Nidhu Babu spring to his lips. A pair of English
boots inflates even a languid man with the delight of vanity; he begins to whistle immediately, and if he
--
dhoti of fine muslin, one feels impelled to be lively and to sing love songs perhaps. The wearing of the
orange garb of the Sannyasin naturally causes sacred thoughts to rise in the mind. Every kind of dress
--- Overview of noun love_song
The noun love song has 1 sense (no senses from tagged texts)
1. love song, love-song ::: (a song about love or expressing love for another person)
--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun love_song
1 sense of love song
Sense 1
love song, love-song
=> song, vocal
=> musical composition, opus, composition, piece, piece of music
=> music
=> auditory communication
=> communication
=> abstraction, abstract entity
=> entity
--- Hyponyms of noun love_song
--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun love_song
1 sense of love song
Sense 1
love song, love-song
=> song, vocal
--- Coordinate Terms (sisters) of noun love_song
1 sense of love song
Sense 1
love song, love-song
-> song, vocal
=> religious song
=> anthem
=> aria
=> ballad, lay
=> barcarole, barcarolle
=> ditty
=> dirge, coronach, lament, requiem, threnody
=> drinking song
=> folk song, folksong, folk ballad
=> lied
=> love song, love-song
=> lullaby, cradlesong, berceuse
=> oldie, golden oldie
=> partsong
=> prothalamion, prothalamium
=> roundelay
=> scolion, banquet song
=> serenade
=> torch song
=> work song
--- Grep of noun love_song
love song
Wikipedia - A Love Song for Latasha -- 2019 documentary film
Wikipedia - A Million Love Songs -- 1992 single by Take That
Wikipedia - An Old Fashioned Love Song -- 1971 single by Three Dog Night
Wikipedia - Another Sad Love Song -- 1993 single by Toni Braxton
Wikipedia - Boy (Book of Love song) -- 1985 single by Book of Love
Wikipedia - Freya's Love Songs -- album by Freya Lim
Wikipedia - Independent Love Song -- 1995 single by Scarlet
Wikipedia - In the Mood: The Love Songs -- 2003 album by the American band, Alabama
Wikipedia - Love Song 1980 -- 2020 romance drama film directed by Mei Feng
Wikipedia - Love Song for Joyce -- 1958 novel by Lois Duncan
Wikipedia - Love Song (Luna Sea song) -- 2000 single by Luna Sea
Wikipedia - Love Songs (1930 film) -- 1930 film
Wikipedia - Love Songs (Cliff Richard album) -- 1981 compilation album by Cliff Richard
Wikipedia - Love Songs (Kaash Paige song) -- 2018 single by Kaash Paige
Wikipedia - Love Song (Sky song) -- 1999 single by Sky
Wikipedia - Love Songs (UB40 album) -- compilation album by UB40
Wikipedia - Love Song (The Damned song) -- Song by The Damned
Wikipedia - Love You like a Love Song -- 2011 single by Selena Gomez & the Scene
Wikipedia - Mad Girl's Love Song -- Poem
Wikipedia - Manhattan Love Song -- 1934 film directed by Leonard Fields
Wikipedia - My Only Love Song -- 2017 South Korean television series
Wikipedia - Play a Love Song -- 2018 single by Hikaru Utada
Wikipedia - Put It in a Love Song -- 2010 single by Alicia Keys ft. BeyoncM-CM-)
Wikipedia - Secret Love Song -- 2016 single by Little Mix
Wikipedia - Silly Love Songs -- 1976 Paul & Linda McCartney/Wings song
Wikipedia - Sing Me a Love Song -- 1937 film by Ray Enright
Wikipedia - Space Age Love Song -- Single by A Flock of Seagulls
Wikipedia - The Cuban Love Song -- 1931 film
Wikipedia - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock in popular culture -- 1915 poem by T.S. Elliot
Wikipedia - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock -- 1915 poem by T.S. Eliot
Wikipedia - The Love Songs of Hafiz -- Song cycles by Polish composer Karol Szymanowski
Wikipedia - The Pilot's Love Song
Wikipedia - This Ain't a Love Song (Scouting for Girls song) -- 2010 single by Scouting for Girls
Wikipedia - This Ain't a Love Song -- 1995 single by Bon Jovi
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11207666-love-songs
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/118389.The_Love_Song_of_J_Alfred_Prufrock_and_Other_Poems
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/118390.The_Love_Song_of_J_Alfred_Prufrock_and_Others
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1294049.Love_Songs
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15803048-mad-girl-s-love-song
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15803175-the-love-song-of-jonny-valentine
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/159148.The_Secret_Life_of_the_Love_Song_and_The_Flesh_Made_Word
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18192905.Whiskey_Lullaby__Love_Songs___1_
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https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20890479-the-love-song-of-miss-queenie-hennessy
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/209829.The_Love_Songs_of_Sappho
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https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25773035-love-song-for-cleveland
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/257752.A_Little_Love_Song
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https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/356072.The_Love_Song_of_J_Edgar_Hoover
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37485691-new-delhi-love-songs
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/45133613-love-songs-detours-et-cetera
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4523435-sad-love-song
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/5868509-j-pop-love-song
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6455907-17-years-of-love-song
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6718371.How_to_Knit_a_Love_Song__Cypress_Hollow_Yarn___1_
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/712638.Elvis_Presley_The_50_Greatest_Love_Songs
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7182566-love-songs-from-a-shallow-grave
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7444024-love-songs-for-the-shy-and-cynical
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7623063-the-love-song-of-a-jerome-minkoff
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/9912820-american-love-songs
https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Love_song
DTV 'Doggone' Valentine(1987) - Tv special hosted by von drake as he plays love songs.
Everyone Says I Love You(1996) - Writer-director Woody Allen brings romance and comedy together in his first movie musical that celebrates love for one extended family with classic love songs and hilarious production number making perfect (and sometimes not so perfect) harmony. We see Joe, a writer living in Paris returning to New...
A Love Song For Bobby Long(2004) - A headstrong young woman returns to New Orleans after the death of her estranged mother.
https://myanimelist.net/anime/609/Saishuu_Heiki_Kanojo__Another_Love_Song -- Drama, Romance, Sci-Fi
https://myanimelist.net/manga/1896/Akuma_to_Love_Song
https://myanimelist.net/manga/5794/Sad_Love_Song
A Love Song for Bobby Long (2004) ::: 7.1/10 -- R | 1h 59min | Drama | 21 January 2005 (USA) -- A headstrong young woman returns to New Orleans after the death of her estranged mother. Director: Shainee Gabel Writers: Ronald Everett Capps (novel), Shainee Gabel (screenplay)
The Bubble (2006) ::: 7.3/10 -- Ha-Buah (original title) -- The Bubble Poster The movie follows a group of young friends in the city of Tel Aviv and is as much a love song to the city as it is an exploration of the claim that people in Tel Aviv are isolated from the ... S Director: Eytan Fox Writers: Gal Uchovsky (screenplay), Eytan Fox (screenplay) | 1 more credit
https://beegees.fandom.com/wiki/Love_Songs
https://blackveilbrides.fandom.com/wiki/Rebel_Love_Song
https://equalsthree.fandom.com/wiki/Apple_Store_Love_Song
https://glee.fandom.com/wiki/Glee:_The_Music,_Love_Songs
https://glee.fandom.com/wiki/Love_Song
https://glee.fandom.com/wiki/Love_You_Like_a_Love_Song
https://glee.fandom.com/wiki/Silly_Love_Songs
https://glee.fandom.com/wiki/Silly_Love_Songs_(Episode)
https://glee.fandom.com/wiki/Silly_Love_Songs_(Song)
https://glee.fandom.com/wiki/Silly_Love_Songs_(song)
https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Ferengi_Love_Songs
https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Ferengi_Love_Songs_(episode)
https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Love_song
https://memory-beta.fandom.com/wiki/Ferengi_Love_Songs
https://selenagomez.fandom.com/wiki/Love_You_Like_a_Love_Song
https://top10.fandom.com/wiki/Love_Songs_from_2000_to_Today
https://top10.fandom.com/wiki/Love_Songs_of_All_Time
https://top10.fandom.com/wiki/Love_Songs_of_the_1960s
https://top10.fandom.com/wiki/Love_Songs_of_the_1970s
https://top10.fandom.com/wiki/Love_Songs_of_the_1980s
https://top10.fandom.com/wiki/Love_Songs_of_the_1990s
https://warrenzevon.fandom.com/wiki/Reconsider_Me:_The_Love_Songs
Eromanga-sensei OVA -- -- A-1 Pictures -- 2 eps -- Light novel -- Comedy Drama Ecchi Romance -- Eromanga-sensei OVA Eromanga-sensei OVA -- Yamada Elf's Love Song -- -- As a novelist with works getting adapted into anime, Elf Yamada holds an event to celebrate her success and to thank everyone who had supported her. With her mother attending, she becomes more excited. However, just as her mother arrives, she tells Elf to go back home so that she can find a suitable husband. Elf, who harbors feelings for Masamune Izumi, chooses to say no… -- -- Cooked Meals of Pure Love -- -- Winter has come, and it's freezing outside. With her brother Masamune catching a cold, Sagiri Izumi decides to nurse her brother into good health by stepping outside the comfort of her room and doing the housework herself. -- -- OVA - Jan 16, 2019 -- 85,923 6.90
Saishuu Heiki Kanojo: Another Love Song -- -- Studio Fantasia -- 2 eps -- Manga -- Drama Romance Sci-Fi -- Saishuu Heiki Kanojo: Another Love Song Saishuu Heiki Kanojo: Another Love Song -- Before Chise became the "ultimate weapon," there was another—Lieutenant Mizuki. A battle-hardened military woman, she volunteered for an experimental procedure after injuries left her unable to return to the battlefield. As the prototype ultimate weapon, Lieutenant Mizuki was highly successful on the battlefield, however, as the first candidate, her development was limited. -- -- When a more suitable candidate to become the weapon, Chise, is forced into the military, Lieutenant Mizuki thinks that she is silly, weak, and unsuited for the role. As the only other person to have undergone the procedure, however, Lieutenant Mizuki can hear Chise's thoughts and is the only one who understands her. As the war rages on and Chise's development progresses, Lieutenant Mizuki discovers more about Chise, ultimate weapons, and herself. -- -- -- Licensor: -- VIZ Media -- OVA - Aug 5, 2005 -- 16,216 7.10
Yagate Kimi ni Naru -- -- TROYCA -- 13 eps -- Manga -- Drama Romance School Shoujo Ai -- Yagate Kimi ni Naru Yagate Kimi ni Naru -- Yuu Koito has always been entranced with romantic shoujo manga and the lyrics of love songs. She patiently waits for the wings of love to sprout and send her heart aflutter on the day that she finally receives a confession. Yet, when her classmate from junior high declares his love for her during their graduation, she feels unexpectedly hollow. The realization hits her: she understands romance as a concept, but she is incapable of experiencing the feeling first-hand. -- -- Now, having enrolled in high school, Yuu, disconcerted and dispirited, is still ruminating over how to respond to her suitor. There, she happens upon the seemingly flawless student council president, Touko Nanami, maturely rejecting a confession of her own. Stirred by Touko's elegant manner, Yuu approaches her for advice, only to be bewildered when the president confesses to her! Yuu quickly finds herself in the palm of Touko's hand, and unknowingly sets herself on a path to find the emotion which has long eluded her. -- -- -- Licensor: -- Sentai Filmworks -- 210,785 7.92
69 Love Songs
A Devil and Her Love Song
A Different Kind of Love Song
All the Great Love Songs
All You Get from Love Is a Love Song
A Love Song for Bobby Long
A Love Song (Lee Greenwood song)
A Love Song (Loggins and Messina song)
Always the Love Songs
Amalfi Sarah Brightman Love Songs
Another Love Song
Another Love Song (album)
A Porter's Love Song to a Chambermaid
A Tibetan Love Song
Ayumi Hamasaki Countdown Live 20112012 A: Hotel Love Songs
Ballads The Love Song Collection
Beautiful Ballads & Love Songs
Best Love Song
Blah...Blah...Blah...Love Songs for the New Millennium
Can't Help Falling in Love (Instrumental Love Songs), Vol. 1
Cliche Love Song
DJ Play a Love Song
Ferengi Love Songs
G4 Love Songs
Greasy Love Songs
Greatest Love Songs
Gwanghwamun Love Song
Heard It in a Love Song
How to Write Love Songs
In the Mood: The Love Songs
In Your Arms (Love song from Neighbours)
Jnigatsu no Love Song
Jnigatsu no Love Songs: Complete Box
Just a Love Song... Christian Bautista Live!
Just an Old Fashioned Love Song
Lady Snowblood: Love Song of Vengeance
Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs
Love & Rain: Love Songs
Love song
Love Song (Blue Caf song)
Love song (disambiguation)
Love Song for a Vampire
Love Song (M-Flo song)
Love Songs
Love Songs (1930 film)
Love Songs (2007 film)
Love Songs 4 the Streets 2
Love Songs: A Compilation... Old and New
Love Songs (Anne Sofie von Otter and Brad Mehldau album)
Love Song (Sara Bareilles song)
Love Songs (Babyface album)
Love Songs (Beatles album)
Love Songs (Bee Gees album)
Love Songs (Chicago album)
Love Songs (Dan Fogelberg album)
Love Songs (David Sanborn album)
Love Songs (Destiny's Child album)
Love Songs (Elton John album)
Love Songs for Patriots
Love Songs (Gipsy Kings album)
Love Songs (Harry Watters album)
Love Songs (Heart album)
Love Songs (Jennifer Love Hewitt album)
Love Songs (Johnny Gill album)
Love Songs (Julio Iglesias album)
Love Songs Koi Uta
Love Song (Sky song)
Love Songs (Michael Jackson album)
Love Songs (Nat King Cole album)
Love Songs (Santana album)
Love Songs (The Carpenters album)
Love Songs to the Beatles
Love Songs (UB40 album)
Love Song (Tesla song)
Love Song (The Damned song)
Love! (Thelma Love Song Collection)
Love Wind Love Song
Love You like a Love Song
Lum's Love Song
Mad Girl's Love Song
Marti Webb Sings Gershwin: The Love Songs
Meiky Love Song
Murdering Oscar (And Other Love Songs)
Negotiations and Love Songs
Not a Love Song
Peace and Love Songs
Piano Love Songs
Play a Love Song
Play Me a Love Song
Poor Aim: Love Songs
Put It in a Love Song
Shine On (The House of Love song)
Silly Love Songs
Teen Choice Award for Choice Music Love Song
Ten Love Songs
The Age of Love (Age of Love song)
The Greatest Love Songs of All Time
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
The Love Songs (Chris de Burgh album)
The Love Songs of Hafiz
The Pilot's Love Song
This Ain't a Love Song
This Is a Love Song EP
This Is Not a Love Song (film)
This Is Not a Love Song (Public Image Ltd song)
Trying to Write a Love Song
Wedding Day (Courtney Love song)
Wrong Side of a Love Song
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