TOPICS

SEE ALSO

AUTH

BOOKS

IN CHAPTERS TITLE

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT

01.13_-_T._S._Eliot:_Four_Quartets

1.12_-_The_Superconscient

1.13_-_Gnostic_Symbols_of_the_Self

1.15_-_Index

1.38_-_The_Myth_of_Osiris

1.4.02_-_The_Divine_Force

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Haunter_of_the_Dark

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Street

1.jk_-_I_Stood_Tip-Toe_Upon_A_Little_Hill

1.jk_-_Lamia._Part_II

1.jk_-_Ode_To_Autumn

1.rb_-_Among_The_Rocks

1.rb_-_The_Lost_Mistress

1.rb_-_Waring

1.rmr_-_Loneliness

1.rt_-_Gitanjali

1.rt_-_Unyielding

1.whitman_-_American_Feuillage

1.whitman_-_Out_of_the_Cradle_Endlessly_Rocking

1.whitman_-_Proud_Music_Of_The_Storm

1.whitman_-_Sea-Shore_Memories

1.whitman_-_Song_of_Myself

1.whitman_-_Song_Of_Myself-_XIX

1.ww_-_A_Morning_Exercise

1.ww_-_Written_in_March

2.2.7.01_-_Some_General_Remarks

3.2.3_-_Dreams

Liber_71_-_The_Voice_of_the_Silence_-_The_Two_Paths_-_The_Seven_Portals

PRIMARY CLASS

social_media

website

SIMILAR TITLES

twitter

twittered ::: imp. & p. p. --> of Twitter

twittering ::: p. pr. & vb. n. --> of Twitter ::: n. --> The act of one who, or that which, twitters.
A slight nervous excitement or agitation, such as is caused by desire, expectation, or suspense.

twitter ::: n. --> One who twits, or reproaches; an upbraider.
The act of twittering; a small, tremulous, intermitted noise, as that made by a swallow.
A half-suppressed laugh; a fit of laughter partially restrained; a titter; a giggle.
A slight trembling or agitation of the nerves. ::: v. i.

Twitter "messaging" A free {Internet} service for posting short messages, known as "tweets", via a central server, which are then sent to all users who have chosen to follow you or to a specific user. A variety of {client} programs are available in addition to the {website}. Launched in about 2008. {Twitter home (http://twitter.com/)}. (2009-06-10)

twire ::: n. --> A twisted filament; a thread. ::: v. i. --> To peep; to glance obliquely; to leer.
To twinkle; to glance; to gleam.
To sing, or twitter.

KEYS (10k)

  167 Kobayashi Issa
  162 Ogawa
  112 Matsuo Basho
  103 Buson
   15 Shiki
   12 Ikkyu
   9 Sora
   7 Saint Thomas Aquinas
   5 Chiyo-ni
   5 Dogen Zenji
   4 Kyorai
   3 Taigu Ryokan
   3 Soseki
   3 Onitsura
   3 Etsujin
   3 Kabir
   2 Yoka Daishi
   2 Uko
   2 Tosei
   2 Tendo Shogaku
   2 Sogi
   2 Sogen
   2 Saigyo
   2 Rihaku
   2 Mumon
   2 Misato
   2 Jinul
   2 Boncho
   2 Banto
   1 Yubai
   1 Yoshihide
   1 Yoka Diashi
   1 Tilopa
   1 Sosan
   1 Soha
   1 Shogaku
   1 Shen-hsiu
   1 Seijyo
   1 Saiko
   1 Ryutan
   1 Rotsu
   1 Princess Shikishi
   1 Nichiren
   1 Muju
   1 Moritake
   1 Manyoshu
   1 Mansei Manyoshu
   1 LaoTzu
   1 Kyoshi
   1 Kikaku
   1 Kazo
   1 Kautilya
   1 Kasho
   1 Kakuan
   1 Kakei
   1 Jijun
   1 Ise
   1 Ichiyu
   1 Huikai
   1 Hoshi
   1 Hakuen
   1 Gigen
   1 Etusjin
   1 Ekai
   1 Ejo
   1 Eisho
   1 Eicho
   1 Doko
   1 Daie
   1 Bunrin
   1 Bryan Del Monte
   1 Lao Tzu
   1 Bodhidharma

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   37 Anonymous
   21 Biz Stone
   16 Nir Eyal
   15 Nick Bilton
   13 Jack Dorsey
   12 Gary Vaynerchuk
   11 Guy Kawasaki
   10 Jon Ronson
   10 Jen Kirkman
   10 Hillary Rodham Clinton
   9 Roxane Gay
   9 Kenneth Goldsmith
   9 Julie James
   8 Neil Gaiman
   7 Steven Johnson
   7 Recep Tayyip Erdogan
   7 Jalaluddin Rumi
   6 Peter Thiel
   6 Mira Gonzalez
   6 Mindy Kaling

1:Let reality be reality. ~ LaoTzu, @BashoSociety

2:for eternal peace ~ Kasho, @BashoSociety

3:A caged bird now flying among the clouds of heaven ~ Eicho, @BashoSociety

4:who love understand ~ Kabir, @BashoSociety

5:feel heal evolve ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

6:passing like dew ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

7:If you love, love openly. ~ Muju, @BashoSociety

8:truth has a feeling ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

9:straight undecorated words ~ Yubai, @BashoSociety

10:we suffer from being ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

11:true robes of our bodies ~ Yoka Daishi, @BashoSociety

12:eelings are divine gifts ~ Kautilya, @BashoSociety

13:in my eyes autumn sunset ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

14:no need to cling floating ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

15:only one poem matters you ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

16:alone with a gold star dawn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

17:a tree has fallen autumn sky ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

18:Give yourself the gift of your true self. ~ Jinul, @BashoSociety

19:alone among the fallen leaves ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

20:a withered tree a flower blooms ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

21:healing is an act of becoming ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

22:a cicada's last song to autumn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

23:cold air falling with the rain ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

24:the full moonrise at evening ~ Kikaku, @BashoSociety

25:together happy under the stars ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

26:we live we heal we are reborn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

27:You must not let it collect dust ~ Shen-hsiu, @BashoSociety

28:at the end of a journey thunder ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

29:dawn is your time for dancing ~ Ichiyu, @BashoSociety

30:finally asleep peace on earth ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

31:home is a presence not a place ~ Boncho, @BashoSociety

32:serenity dissolves all sorrows ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

33:the ache in your heart is holy ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

34:together laughing in the rain ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

35:What you are, so is your world. ~ Yoka Daishi, @BashoSociety

36:a butterfly is also made of dust ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

37:a full moon a full heart at dawn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

38:arriving alone under a dark moon ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

39:is this rain falling only on me? ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

40:sadness the weight of empathy ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

41:Words, by themselves, do not represent truth. ~ Mumon, @BashoSociety

42:a fox trotting over morning frost ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

43:greeting my reflection with love ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

44:horses trotting in the snowy mist ~ Soha, @BashoSociety

45:sipping tea waiting for the stars ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

46:waterlilies blooming in the rain ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

47:blooming in the early autumn frost ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

48:dazzling red dusk familiar faces ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

49:gazing at the bridge autumn sunset ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

50:happy together in the cool evening ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

51:in the dawn a dewy blue flax field ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

52:joy in being alone autumn evening ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

53:melting into one an amazing night ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

54:the cloud that never moved is gone ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

55:the glitter of the stars night rain ~ Uko, @BashoSociety

56:young so very young newlywed stars ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

57:all rivers become one with the ocean ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

58:an old well a fish leaps dark sound ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

59:for a moment darkness over the moon ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

60:Give yourself the gift of your true self. ~ Jinul, @BashoSociety

61:peace within the depths of the lake ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

62:petals falling with easy hearts ~ Etsujin, @BashoSociety

63:shadows walking in the cold night ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

64:again the lake is gloomy autumn moon ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

65:a scarecrow casting a moon shadow ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

66:autumn frost silencing the insects ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

67:dewy grass crying into the dying sun ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

68:know the way few actually walk it ~ Bodhidharma, @BashoSociety

69:moonlight for a moment then clouds ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

70:seeds carried off by the night wind ~ Kyorai, @BashoSociety

71:sinking in shallow fields autumn sun ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

72:the princess lily's heart at peace ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

73:along the busy road flowers blooming ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

74:altar flowers discarded in the rain ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

75:amoung the fallen leaves an old frog ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

76:at dawn walking through yellow fields ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

77:cloudless sky a white moon daylight ~ Kyorai, @BashoSociety

78:downwind in moonlight tea pot steam ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

79:frost on amber maple late autumn wind ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

80:hope for tomorrow evening swallows ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

81:to be alive is a wonder autumn herbs ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

82:two or three red leaves autumn frost ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

83:writing love poetry on fallen leaves ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

84:A green spider crawling on a red rose ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

85:A mirror facing a mirror nowhere else ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

86:a morning of steady rainfall hot tea ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

87:a star poem forever written on his arm ~ Hoshi, @BashoSociety

88:for a moment the darkness is forgotten ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

89:great earth limitless sky autumn fades ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

90:lantern light in the autumn mist dawn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

91:leaves with poems on them are falling ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

92:running and hiding in harvested fields ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

93:under the stars is my home autumn wind ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

94:walking within a shadow an autumn moon ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

95:after dinner they gather cumulus clouds ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

96:bonfire happy faces happy time ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

97:engulfed in sunset red leaves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

98:my heart wanders like a migrating bird ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

99:never doubt your ability to be loved ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

100:new moon a gift of tea along my journey ~ Sogi, @BashoSociety

101:noonday the sun flooding a yellow maple ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

102:peach leaves falling in a field of mums ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

103:something in us always wants to cry out ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

104:still singing the insects drifting away ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

105:the moon missing from the dark cold sky ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

106:the river that flows in you flows in me ~ Kabir, @BashoSociety

107:the soul's cry draws near autumn night ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

108:visions of moonlight dazzling the eyes ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

109:with tonight's moon we begin to dance ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

110:Words, by themselves, do not represent truth. ~ Mumon, @BashoSociety

111:a cicada shell sang itself away ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

112:a small crab in the rain climbing a pine ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

113:a world healing moon prayers midsummer ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

114:gratitude receiving relief from heaven ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

115:half-moon in raindrops sleepless night ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

116:late roses in the clover a sacred space ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

117:loving under a crescent moon autumn dusk ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

118:melancholy has returned autumn darkness ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

119:moonrise holding hands at evening ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

120:mulberry leaves gathered for a bookmark ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

121:my book is not worm infested autumn wind ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

122:revealed in candle light my lover's face ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

123:sleeping while on a journey willow shade ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

124:Sparrows sleep if you please at my house ~ Jijun, @BashoSociety

125:the river of heaven runs through my body ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

126:today beginning to feel the autumn wind ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

127:together in great pleasure autumn evening ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

128:a bonfire in a frosty field morning light ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

129:a dark moon over the mountain autumn rain ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

130:alone I have lost my way autumn darkness ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

131:autumn rain the night begins now ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

132:breaking open the fragrance of a plum ~ Chiyo-ni, @BashoSociety

133:Confronting the unknown is a condition of life. ~ Eisho, @BashoSociety

134:first leaf falls then another in the wind ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

135:following clouds torn apart autumn wind ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

136:happy on a pure night the river of heaven ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

137:into the autumn mist refreshing our souls ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

138:many different ways to have been in love ~ Boncho, @BashoSociety

139:quietly sipping my lucky tea mid-autumn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

140:Slowly drink your tea without a thought of the future. ~ Sogen, @BashoSociety

141:this world a fading mountain echo ~ Taigu Ryokan, @BashoSociety

142:To remember you I carve true words in stone ~ Ejo, @BashoSociety

143:twilight is left in the maple leaves ~ Chiyo-ni, @BashoSociety

144:after the rain garden sparrows autumn mist ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

145:a kitten prancing with an acorn ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

146:alone at low tide along the river ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

147:a moment of brief eternity autumn sunset ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

148:a pillow of fallen leaves autumn afternoon ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

149:at dawn no clouds are seen yet rain drops ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

150:frost is forming along the river of heaven ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

151:hope is the celebration of possibilities ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

152:moonlight from a tree's shadow forest walk ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

153:sadness has again returned autumn darkness ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

154:strange lighting slicing the autumn night ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

155:the moon above the sea lives again ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

156:the mountains are as isolated as the moon ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

157:the silence of glittering stars evening rain ~ Uko, @BashoSociety

158:welcoming the cool rain dry autumn fields ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

159:winter draws nearer wildflowers in bloom ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

160:a dark moon passing through new beginnings ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

161:a field of yellow flowers in a early frost ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

162:again sleeping through a cold autumn night ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

163:a house without wine evening frost ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

164:alone dancing at the festival autumn dusk ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

165:amazing wondering and lost seeing this moon ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

166:an alter of meadow grass summer coolness ~ Bunrin, @BashoSociety

167:an autumn rainbow over the lake fades away ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

168:a silhouette of wild geese across the moon ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

169:at dawn a feral cat cries for love ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

170:celebrating the morning rain autumn journey ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

171:every morning my tea tastes better ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

172:extraordinary a woman's wisdom moonlight ~ Kyorai, @BashoSociety

173:holy tears that stain fallen leaves ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

174:how much longer is my life? a brief night ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

175:in the dark autumn a wise person stays home ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

176:I wonder if the blossoms are soft and fluffy ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

177:last of the cicadas in the forest dark moon ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

178:leaves falling in honor of our simple love ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

179:melancholy walking alone viewing the moon ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

180:short lived dreams of a summer moon ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

181:their face by the glow of an unsteady light ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

182:Where the great gods live sunrise ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

183:a bird's voice carried over the water ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

184:a fragrance from the past almost forgotten ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

185:a hill without a name veiled in mist ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

186:a spider's voice crying autumn wind ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

187:early darkness slowly creeps in autumn wind ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

188:ending their flight one by one crows at dusk ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

189:feeling safe with a person under a dark moon ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

190:listening to ancient oaks in the autumn wind ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

191:lusting after truth is a very noble passion ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

192:midnight in a forest of dreams moon viewing ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

193:moonrise holding hands autumn evening ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

194:nostalgic for cherry blossoms in deep autumn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

195:not a devil not a saint just a slug ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

196:singing to the crescent moon autumn cicadas ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

197:stillness fireflies glowing over deep water ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

198:walking alone graffiti on a wall autumn dusk ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

199:warblers signing under a full moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

200:whose skin will they touch rouge flowers ~ Chiyo-ni, @BashoSociety

201:writing poetry on the back of dried leaves ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

202:a harvest moon coming twice in a year ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

203:a moonlit hideout in the pine forest's shadow ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

204:by the lamp of the moon she reads her letter ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

205:Crossing over a summer stream sandals in hand ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

206:eating bitter herbs alone i bear my feelings ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

207:fragile twigs breaking off autumn wind ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

208:giving thanks to the flowers farewell ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

209:happiness before dawn is a bonfire ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

210:his smile last night was a farewell ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

211:lonelier than last year this autumn evening ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

212:misty rain hibiscus sky summer weather ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

213:morning rain falling upon a bonfire of leaves ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

214:sleepy after a wasted night as the rain falls ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

215:stand in your center and be flooded with joy ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

216:The full moon ringed with stars deep green sk ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

217:the hometown that I abandoned in late autumn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

218:the wind through the forest among the trees ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

219:Through the fields a spring breeze cattails ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

220:through the window a bright moon late autumn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

221:unable to settle a wandering heart new moon ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

222:warm sun mild wind song of the nightingale ~ Kakuan, @BashoSociety

223:with the moonlight comes the cold late autumn ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

224:a cicada chorus marks the time to take my bath ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

225:a hundred hearings cannot surpass one seeing ~ Ryutan, @BashoSociety

226:a mulberry leaf poem for the festival ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

227:a pure sky at high noon walking alone ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

228:a strange evening for falling leaves moonless ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

229:autumn wind to which hell am I going? ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

230:bees robbing my honey dewdrops vanish ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

231:Cold rain on moss a quiet memory of happy days ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

232:fields still in bloom withered by frost ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

233:fragile twigs breaking off autumn wind ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

234:frost on a iron kettle has a cold voice ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

235:fruitless blossoms bear no shame autumn seeds ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

236:her shadow walking through the house new moon ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

237:irises is where that rainbow began ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

238:late autumn rain and clouds start in the east ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

239:left without a candle in the darkness ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

240:lighting! illuminating a dry field evening sky ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

241:migrating birds flocking in the temple forest ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

242:nothing but a calm heart and cool air ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

243:on horseback in a silent village a thin mist ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

244:since the cresent moon I have been waiting ~ Chiyo-ni, @BashoSociety

245:sparrows singing of the next life morning dew ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

246:the birds praising the final flowers at sunset ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

247:the dewy grass silently crying summer sunrise ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

248:the frost sleeps with an orphaned child ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

249:the path ends in fragrant blossoms wild roses ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

250:vanishing in my warm tears autumn frost ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

251:watching the clouds drifting to sleep ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

252:waves of heat hovering over dried grass ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

253:where will they moon watch tomorrow? ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

254:with lightning one is not enlightened ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

255:a finger pointing westward autumn air ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

256:a finger pointing westward autumn wind ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

257:a heron sleeping undisturbed nobility ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

258:a long day tears of joy flowing freely ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

259:a long day tears of joy rolling down ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

260:a strange morning for falling leaves loneliness ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

261:Birds hushed asleep by the silence of the lake ~ Rotsu, @BashoSociety

262:birds singing as the east turns light ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

263:crying "father" in the dead of the autumn night ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

264:deep autumn what is my neighbor doing? ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

265:even for the mums autumn ends quickly ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

266:fading roses in pale thin clover a sacred space ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

267:falling maple leaves suspended in the sunset ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

268:farewell but also hopeful a green orange ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

269:giving birth to love she adorns herself ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

270:if I am to be alone the moon will be my friend ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

271:in the young grass are forgotten roots a willow ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

272:odd a bright moon in the falling sleet ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

273:on a leaf an insect sleeps on a journey ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

274:red leaves perfectly silent a temple of prayer ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

275:resting easy the cat sleeps too.... autumn rain ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

276:sailing down the waterfall red leaves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

277:strange yellow flowers blooming out of season ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

278:the moon over my hometown brings tears ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

279:tonight no time for sleep moon viewing ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

280:totally alone in great pleasure autumn twilight ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

281:after a year of drought small flowers are a gift ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

282:a kitten dancing in the fallen leaves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

283:alone an orphan bird in the autumn dusk ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

284:along the river friends for moon viewing ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

285:an open sky at high noon walking alone ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

286:at sunrise the stray cat cries for love ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

287:autumn butterflies have no desire to young again ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

288:a willow in morning light is a wonder ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

289:birds still singing into the night autumn wind ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

290:bright moon where are the clouds flying off to? ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

291:cicadas undressing the treetops along the river ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

292:come play with me little orphan sparrow ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

293:dying in song the meadow ends in autumn darkness ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

294:geese flying under the cover of the morning mist ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

295:low tide in a soft rain darkness coming ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

296:moonlight over my hometown then clouds ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

297:my arm as its pillow a butterfly sleeps ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

298:ry step I take is my home ~ Dogen Zenji, @BashoSociety

299:Slowly drink your tea without a thought of the future. ~ Sogen, @BashoSociety

300:songs fading in the wild fields autumn darkness ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

301:strange being born human autumn evening ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

302:sunset upon people's faces autumn wind ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

303:sunset taking the place of a cloudburst ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

304:through the fields we wander a butterfly and I ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

305:a crescent moon on a clear night migrating geese ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

306:a kitten dancing with the falling leaves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

307:Alone drinking tea a butterfly stops by ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

308:alone gazing at wildflowers summer moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

309:alone on the road as autumn evening comes ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

310:alone gazing at wildflowers summer moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

311:a moon with no clouds together through the night ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

312:a naked body possessed by a god the summer dance ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

313:asleep on a boat floating down the river of heaven ~ Ise, @BashoSociety

314:at every home a celebration summer moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

315:autumn leaves on a rainy evening rusting deep red ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

316:a woodpecker bathed in sunset red leaves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

317:Before the flowers the knife hesitates a moment ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

318:distant days recalling memories of the deep past ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

319:like you growing old autumn butterfly ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

320:peach orchard leaves falling in a field of mums ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

321:rain dripping from the roof sound of loneliness ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

322:Rain falling in a nameless river fear has no name ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

323:small birds with happy sounds on a wooden bridge ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

324:some stayed behind in the colored leaves sparrows ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

325:Spring rain telling stories an umbrella walks by ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

326:sunset tears shine in a frog's eyes too ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

327:tea smoke in the shadows falling leaves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

328:the sound of water lingering autumn star gazing ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

329:thorny roses remind me of a path in my hometown ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

330:totally alone great pleasure in autumn twilight ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

331:wildflowers we only speak of autumn wind ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

332:a bonfire in the deep forest naked souls dancing ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

333:a clear sky in the noon sun walking alone ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

334:a dragonfly unable to perch in the grass ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

335:a firefly on a blade of grass evening dew ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

336:after the rain over the mountain an autumn rainbow ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

337:a hundred summer days writing poetry mindfulness ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

338:an oak in autumn peace of memories of the deep past ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

339:a storm of dried leaves blowing over a scarecrow ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

340:a summer night at the edge of the ocean a bonfire ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

341:autographed by lightning yellow flowers ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

342:autumn dew reflecting the pale blue sky ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

343:a warm sun on a secluded house in a withered field ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

344:a yellow rose almost hidden in deep grass ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

345:beneath which star is my home? autumn sky ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

346:birds huddling along the eaves cold autumn morning ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

347:chestnuts dropping from the sky as autumn deepens ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

348:dawn moon in rain drops the geese depart ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

349:dew from a lotus used to brew morning tea ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

350:Dusk rain the moon peeking in and out the clouds ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

351:fallen leaves flying from everywhere late autumn ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

352:flowers leaning into the sun summer rain ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

353:For three days a bright moon in a cloudless sky ~ Etusjin, @BashoSociety

354:in a field of grass each flower a victory ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

355:noon sparrows singing to a silent river ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

356:passing through the gate I have become a wanderer ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

357:rain on the beach smothering the bonfire ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

358:red blossoms spread over the loneliness of my bed ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

359:still singing the insects drifting away ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

360:The highest achievement in this life is truly know who you are. ~ Banto, @BashoSociety

361:unable to settle a wandering heart new moon ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

362:very alone in the fallen leaves my friend the moon ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

363:a clear sky when evening comes autumn wind ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

364:A flash of lightning between the trees spring rain ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

365:a full moon over my home town brings tears ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

366:alone with a bonfire of leaves autumn rain ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

367:a low tide in a soft rain autumn darkness ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

368:An open window a bright moon singing frogs ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

369:autumn has arrived what is the prophet's surprise? ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

370:autumn wind quietly burning an alter lamp ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

371:aware of life passing like dew they play in the sun ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

372:drinking tea not knowing the winds of autumn ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

373:everyday life sleeping through an cold autumn night ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

374:five or six drinking tea around a fireplace ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

375:intimate autumn under the stars on bearskin ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

376:late autumn a single quilt close to my body ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

377:late autumn wanting to hide inside a flower ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

378:maple trees tipped with stars a lone bell rings out ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

379:red clouds above the butterfly autumn dusk ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

380:rhythm a current from the divine flooding your body ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

381:the colors of dawn have changed to autumn ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

382:the morning glories have strong karma autumn frost ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

383:The sound of a waterfall through the young leaves ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

384:two lovers crossing together the river of heaven ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

385:under young green leaves white water yellow barley ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

386:unknown lights in an autumn forest a fox's wedding ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

387:warm afternoon sun in the autumn wind upon my face ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

388:will I grow old like you? autumn butterfly ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

389:with the tide small shells mixed with clover ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

390:yellow flowers in the drizzling rain fallen leaves ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

391:a butterfly only flies in a field of sunshine ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

392:a crescent moon over a penniless town dead end road ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

393:a friend departing looks lonely autumn wind ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

394:after a frost some wildflowers still in bloom ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

395:a gathering in the red leaves mountain deer ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

396:a lark singing as a woman is facing sunset ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

397:an empty nest how lonely the house next door ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

398:avoid being like me like a melon split in two ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

399:dancing at night red leaves falling into the bonfire ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

400:drinking tea not knowing the winds of autumn ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

401:emptiness falling from a tree a cicada shell ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

402:fields of cotton as if the moon has flowered ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

403:fireflies disappearing at dawn behind a wall ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

404:in the morning dew the butterfly's attitude improves ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

405:is it but a dream? the bloom lasted only seven days ~ Hakuen, @BashoSociety

406:leaves silently falling suddenly it is cold ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

407:Lighthing a candle from another candle spring sunset ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

408:lovemaking stars falling from the river of heaven ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

409:low tide in a soft rain evening approaches ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

410:making my lawn a vacation spot summer trees ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

411:my hands as a pillow loving myself under a hazy moon ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

412:one by one collecting dew drops brewing tea ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

413:pine wind through the house departing autumn ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

414:silence even the insects stifled in the heat ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

415:sunrise seems to wash the summer mountains ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

416:take me too wherever you want beach turtle ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

417:the dark sound of mosquitoes in summer heat ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

418:the early sun reaches the valley autumn wildflowers ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

419:you must rise above the clouds to see the sun ~ Taigu Ryokan, @BashoSociety

420:alone under the fallen leaves my ancestors ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

421:a path that no one travels an autumn departure ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

422:awakened a bottle breaks in a night of frost ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

423:borrowing a scarecrow's clothes midnight frost ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

424:brutal heat my mind wanders listening to the thunder ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

425:even at dawn autumn fog hovers over the sallow river ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

426:evening shadows enjoying the company of old friends ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

427:hunter moon clear autumn night everywhere a new sign ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

428:if your heart is pure then all things are pure ~ Taigu Ryokan, @BashoSociety

429:in a withered field a fox carrying messages trots by ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

430:incense smoke in the peace temple cold rain ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

431:in my withered field the surprise of flowering grass ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

432:just a whisper a flock of birds takes flight ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

433:keeping an ancient promise moon at the gate ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

434:mist rising silence over the water the day has ended ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

435:My love ending in hopelessness empty cicada shells ~ Saigyo, @BashoSociety

436:nothing else can compare to the cresent moon ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

437:passing through I have become a nomad autumn darkness ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

438:the dragonfly too folds his hands in prayer ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

439:the lake is filled with a flash of fireworks ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

440:The most powerful force in the universe is silence. ~ Tendo Shogaku, @BashoSociety

441:the mountains in silence nurture the spirit ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

442:The river's water enters the ocean never to return ~ Rihaku, @BashoSociety

443:The sound of rain is my companion in my lonely place ~ Saigyo, @BashoSociety

444:walking on frost it hurts me to see him leave ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

445:a broken wall an autumn moon's grand entrance ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

446:a butterfly softly landing in my tea kettle ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

447:a grassy meadow my resting place summer moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

448:a journey for moon viewing departs at sunrise ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

449:an owl happy in her solitude autumn evening ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

450:a path that no one travels an autumn departure ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

451:a peach tree still with it's leaves autumn wind ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

452:as the moon recedes in the west purple dawn ~ Mansei Manyoshu, @BashoSociety

453:borrowing a scarecrow's clothes midnight frost ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

454:dew drops breaking into a thousand jewels moon viewing ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

455:drifting clouds seem to change the moonlight ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

456:easily emerging now uncertain an overcast moon ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

457:for love and hate I swat a fly and offer it to an ant ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

458:Having slept in the temple solemnly I watched the moon ~ Tosei, @BashoSociety

459:in a warm bed everything is forgotten autumn evening ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

460:Midnight moon high over the village wandering around ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

461:moon in the autumn dawn lanterns on the eaves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

462:moonlight through the clouds as we drift up the river ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

463:no return poem from a departed lover painful birdsong ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

464:people's faces quickly grown dark autumn wind ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

465:sunset as if it was the last thank you for the morning ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

466:the bright sun touching my face walking in the forest ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

467:the divine without humanity is a force without poetry ~ Misato, @BashoSociety

468:the falling sun passing through dying stalks of grain ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

469:there is nothing after the mums except turnips ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

470:traveling to a strange land just to watch the sunset ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

471:twilight the stars are shining above withered fields ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

472:winter prayers for courtesans in moonlight ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

473:a bird perched on a bare branch autumn evening ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

474:a brief moonlit wedding night insects singing ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

475:a dandelion interrupting the dream of a butterfly ~ Chiyo-ni, @BashoSociety

476:all sound disappears in the rivers meeting clear water ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

477:Along a moonlit river our thoughts move with the wate ~ Etsujin, @BashoSociety

478:a misty moon in the the pines passing through ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

479:a night of flowing flowers and flowing water fragrant ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

480:an old pond floating upside-down an empty cicada shell ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

481:a silk tree beauty in the rain a sleeping flower ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

482:a window's light climbs to the tree tops golden leaves ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

483:come here I am also lonely this autumn evening ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

484:early autumn horses grazing in flowering grass ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

485:flashing smiles the best of spirits two stars ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

486:in the shade of a green willow a warrior woman ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

487:it is time to arrange flowers into a vase autumn mums ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

488:mushrooms gathering on an old maple stump autumn rain ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

489:picking autumn fruit my hands are once again fragrant ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

490:Sailing on a lake of lotus blooms breaking into the sky ~ Doko, @BashoSociety

491:Sleepy spring days how long ago were those "Old Times" ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

492:sparrows perched on an old plum tree returning to sleep ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

493:tea smoke hesitantly rising into the autumn morning sky ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

494:the moon in east the sun in the west yellow wildflowers ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

495:there is a moon yet something is missing summer ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

496:the river's farewell to autumn a bright moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

497:the soul of autumn this evening endures into the next ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

498:through a frosty window an autumn moon sleep time bliss ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

499:unexpected moonlight shining through my bedroom window ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

500:yellow wildflowers among tea drinkers autumn festival ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

501:A bird lives in my bedroom wall spring evening ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

502:a cold wind sharpens the rocks between the trees ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

503:after a long day even getting in a bath is work ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

504:after the demons have runaway a brilliant moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

505:a house for sale very peaceful withered roses ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

506:alone again gazing at wildflowers summer moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

507:alone drinking wine without flowers or the moon ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

508:a single leaf falling increases the darkness ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

509:autumn wind fragrance from a late blooming flower ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

510:Broken to pieces by a winter storm new moon in the sky ~ Kakei, @BashoSociety

511:early autumn the ocean and the fields all green ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

512:everyone has something to say morning swallows ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

513:ivy clinging to an old bridge body and soul together ~ Etsujin, @BashoSociety

514:leaves floating upon a lotus pond autumn festival ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

515:migrating birds woven into the clouds embroidered silk ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

516:mountain path beginning to feel the autumn wind ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

517:newborn bamboo climbing straight up to the sun ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

518:now gathering now scattering fireflies over the river ~ Soseki, @BashoSociety

519:open the door let the moonlight enter your temple ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

520:patiently waiting for the sunset a willow tree ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

521:raindrops greetings from heaven midsummer heat ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

522:rainy afternoon the autumn world of a small town ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

523:try it on clothe yourself with a robe of flowers ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

524:Wildflowers alive with dragonflies making love ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

525:without thought without feeling everything disappears ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

526:yellow wildflowers an early frosty night a deer's voice ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

527:a butterfly emerges then flys aways morning moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

528:a mosquito divinely protected in the autumn wind ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

529:an autumn night completely spent in conversation ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

530:an early sun reaches the valley roses of Sharon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

531:as the night fades through the blossoms a glimpse of dawn ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

532:at the tavern all is forgotten autumn evening ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

533:even a fly bathing in ashes has hopes and dreams ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

534:fireworks reflected in the teahouse pool autumn moonlight ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

535:fresh cut grass sticking to my shoes autumn rain ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

536:how hot the spider's webs look hanging in summer trees ~ Onitsura, @BashoSociety

537:in the dark autumn the mountain sparrows return to sleep ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

538:into the ocean I throw my sandals rain on my head ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

539:I walk everyday five or six miles in search of you ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

540:leaves blowing in the autumn wind frost on the ivy ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

541:life's journey plowing the fields back and forth ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

542:looking back at her home disappearing into mist ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

543:My only prayer is to be firm in my determination in pursuing the truth. ~ Daie, @BashoSociety

544:nameless I stood in the surge of their sweet smell ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

545:pine tree wind through the house autumn departing ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

546:Spring breeze blowing through the hair of a caterpillar ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

547:The boat of compassion is almost never rowed over pure water. ~ Shogaku, @BashoSociety

548:The highest achievement in this life is truly know who you are. ~ Banto, @BashoSociety

549:The plum tree's heart is peacefully leafing out ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

550:the sound of the sunset bell autumn wildflowers ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

551:through the short night the guard never slept an old dog ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

552:warming my hands over a cup of tea morning frost ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

553:watching the bridge as evening falls autumn sky ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

554:without looking back leaving one home for the next ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

555:across the river a column of lightning flashes ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

556:a red leaf flutters down the last of the cicadas ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

557:Before my bed moonlight glitters like dew upon the ground ~ Rihaku, @BashoSociety

558:do not forget that in the thicket there are flowers ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

559:hazing night wine is flowing waterfall and moon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

560:moonlight divinely pure upon the sand of the beach ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

561:mountain sparrows and an old plum tree returning to sleep ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

562:The mountains reflected in the eye of a dragonfly ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

563:trusting in the Gods a little butterfly in autumn ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

564:a narrow path through thick grass dew on the flowers ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

565:an autumn moon at the feet of the Goddess of Mercy ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

566:as autumn deepens a black bird rests in a harvested field ~ Tosei, @BashoSociety

567:a sparrow happy with the grain left at the back door ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

568:autumn moon wherever you are somebody is not happy ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

569:a young couple filled with hope little butterflies ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

570:blooming again in the autumn frost roses of sharon ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

571:dragonfly please don't be stunned by the cold air ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

572:drawing close then suddenly lonely autumn leaves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

573:hovering in the streets golden yellow fog a human shadow ~ Soseki, @BashoSociety

574:In spring your bag shall be filled with cherry-blossoms ~ Yoshihide, @BashoSociety

575:morning fog the castle's shutters suddenly opening ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

576:on the beach twilight pours out across the waves ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

577:peering out from the willow tree the face of a fox ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

578:the alter lanterns are blown out again autumn wind ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

579:the day is short as is the life of the dragonfly ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

580:the half moon drifting with the tide a little boat ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

581:the river's fog adds to the mist a secluded temple ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

582:upon purple clouds when do I set sail? western sea ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

583:after the lighting the sound of water dripping off of bamboo ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

584:a full moon in the autumn dawn prayers and incense ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

585:an abandoned garden becomes a home to a swarm of butterflies ~ Sogi, @BashoSociety

586:geese calling in the coldest rain in harvested fields ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

587:high noon the reed thrush sings to a silent river ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

588:miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is walk on earth . ~ Gigen, @BashoSociety

589:red leaves falling just to be swept away tomorrow ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

590:Resting with a visiting butterfly by a warm spring ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

591:teasing all day the horse's ear a little butterfly ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

592:the butterfly I passed two miles back is ahead now ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

593:the day is fleeting as is the life of a dragonfly ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

594:this tree born in the time of the gods now in autumn ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

595:upon purple clouds when do I set sail? western sea ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

596:walking through a mountain village on a cold autumn night ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

597:writing something pulling it apart missing someone ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

598:a bird singing a lullaby to the spirit of the willow ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

599:allow me to wipe your tears with these fallen leaves ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

600:a rainbow over the mountain reflected on the lake autumn wind ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

601:autumn wind singing in the reeds how many insects? ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

602:brief summer night the dream and reality are the same thing ~ Kyoshi, @BashoSociety

603:could there ever be a more wonderful story than your own? ~ Nichiren, @BashoSociety

604:not leave a trace do not follow a path ~ Dogen Zenji, @BashoSociety

605:nowhere to perch in the middle of a field a bird sings ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

606:Perfect obedience as the blossoms speak to the inner ear ~ Onitsura, @BashoSociety

607:pressing my lips I wept invisibly among the yellow foliage ~ Misato, @BashoSociety

608:sadness all the flowers withered dropping of the seeds ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

609:The half moon moves across standing water spring air ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

610:the voice of two bells softly speaking from twilight temples ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

611:under a pine tree viewing the moon thinking all night ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

612:under a pine tree watching the moon thinking all night ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

613:after the lightning the sound of dew dripping off of bamboo ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

614:a hot bath in a secluded house cicadas in the forest ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

615:a sad moon while telling the story of a soldier's wife ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

616:a tranquil morning of sleeping and eating autumn dew ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

617:autumn night by a quiet window recalling my departed friends ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

618:a world of dew within every drop a world of struggle ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

619:Clouds drifting by providing rest for the moon viewers ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

620:dreams drifting over fertile fields whispering as they pass ~ Onitsura, @BashoSociety

621:gazing at the mountains gazing at the sea autumn dusk ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

622:in the dead of night moonlight strikes the middle of the pond ~ Soseki, @BashoSociety

623:mountain trail beginning to feel the cool autumn air ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

624:on a journey traveling with the gods numbering the days ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

625:summer noon the reed sparrows sing to a silent river ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

626:watching the river through a window of tress autumn rain falls ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

627:a long life and a cold night moonlight through bamboo ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

628:what is the heart? wind in the forest in a forgotten painting ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

629:in which direction are the hidden footprints in the autumn night ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

630:moonlight drifting through the clouds as we ascend up the river ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

631:not yet a butterfly as autumn approaches a caterpillar ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

632:Under the cherry tree blossoms have gathered chatting together ~ Kyorai, @BashoSociety

633:What divine instinct has taught these birds to build their homes ~ Sora, @BashoSociety

634:a butterfly hovers in front of her face how long will she sleep? ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

635:a flash of lightning towards the darkness a bird's voice ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

636:a fool in darkness grabbing thorns instead of fireflies ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

637:a green willow owned by neighbors a tea drinking bridge ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

638:my home surrounded by thick foliage pregnant with autumn ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

639:standing inside me naked infinite love opening my dreaming heart ~ Ikkyu, @BashoSociety

640:the wind of autumn cucumbers and apples our simple dinner ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

641:with awareness the appearance of conflict disappears into unity ~ Tilopa, @BashoSociety

642:a happy morning amoung the tall grasses swallows flying ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

643:butterflies and birds frantically fly up a cloud of flowers ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

644:butterflies dancing everything is forgotten for a while ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

645:Falling blossoms returning to the branch watching butterflies ~ Moritake, @BashoSociety

646:if a mirror ever makes you sad, remember that it does not know you ~ Kabir, @BashoSociety

647:in the long night writing poetry with the broken edge of the moon ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

648:the moon sails down the river of heaven into a forest of stars ~ Manyoshu, @BashoSociety

649:the voices of two bells speaking from the tops of twilight temples ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

650:drifting here and there like fallen willow leaves in clear water ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

651:enlightenment is intimacy with all things ~ Dogen Zenji, @BashoSociety

652:It is wisdom to know about others, it is enlightenment to know oneself. ~ Lao Tzu, @BashoSociety

653:the winds of autumn scattered randomly in a field of reeds ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

654:we will always be disturbed by the truth ~ Dogen Zenji, @BashoSociety

655:when all thoughts are exhausted I escape into the forest and gather ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

656:disconnected by clouds a goose lives apart from his partner ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

657:Seaside temple incoming tide flows with the sound of the holy flute ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

658:sharing shade with a butterfly friends in a previous life ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

659:the entire family walking canes and grey hair visiting graves ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

660:a flash of lightning holding in the darkness a paper candle ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

661:every morning my tea taste better the fog is finally lifting ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

662:what to do? like waves crashing shattered in unknown love ~ Princess Shikishi, @BashoSociety

663:above everything a sweet acorn tree standing in a summer Grove ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

664:morning tea among yellow flowers until the ten o'clock bell ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

665:You left in the morning this evening my heart is in a thosand pieces ~ Buson, @BashoSociety

666:down the river is the gate of knowledge the red leaves of sunset ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

667:giving a fellow voyager my place at the fire first morning light ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

668:a gathering of stars children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

669:It is not sufficient to acknowledge suffering; it must be understood and changed. ~ Seijyo, @BashoSociety

670:Our life is not a one-time event, but rather it is merely one moment in the course nature. ~ Kazo, @BashoSociety

671:from my hand she took a piece of fruit knowing that our time was not forever ~ Saiko, @BashoSociety

672:do not view the moon from the scale of the human mind ~ Dogen Zenji, @BashoSociety

673:prostitute and priest sleeping under the same roof moon in a field of clover ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

674: The best season of your life is when your mind is not clouded by unnecessary things. ~ Huikai, @BashoSociety

675:The soul is perfected by knowledge and virtue ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ScG 2.79). twitter.com/ManlyVirtue/st…, @Aquinas_Quotes,

676:The worlds of the universe are like foam on the ocean and poets and the wise appear like lightning. ~ Yoka Diashi, @BashoSociety

677:When the mind is calm and undisturbed, nothing can offend. When something can no longer offend, it ceases to exist. ~ Sosan, @BashoSociety

678:The Eucharist is the sacrament of love and ecclesial unity ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (Commentary on 1 Cor. 11). twitter.com/Thewarning9/st…, @Aquinas_Quotes,

679: Ultimately, the only way the universe can be understood is not by thought or by deed, but in the experience of oneness. ~ Ekai, @BashoSociety

680:The unity or community of human nature, however, is not a thing, but only a consideration ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ST 1.39.4ad3). twitter.com/DalaiLama/stat…, @Aquinas_Quotes,

681:This is good because it bans something I disagree with ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (it would be bad if it was something I agreed with) twitter.com/disclosetv/sta…, @Aquinas_Quotes,

682:The highest Truth is seen by all the blessed in various degrees ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ST 1.62.9). https://twitter.com/tylerwittman/status/1432744297154109440, @Aquinas_Quotes,

683:Passion is not power. Passion is like a storm beating wildly upon a rock while true power is like the rock itself, remaining silent and unmoved. ~ Tendo Shogaku, @BashoSociety

684:A fruit is something that proceeds from a source as from a seed or root ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ST 1-2.70.3). https://twitter.com/lazyraran/status/1382480995321004034, @Aquinas_Quotes,

685:Anselm desired to dry up the marrow of his body through the fullness of his devotion ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (In Sent. 4.17.2.3). https://twitter.com/bubodeserti/status/1415263913852248067, @Aquinas_Quotes,

686:Bryan Del Monte (Author | Entrepreneur | Advertising & Marketing Expert | bryandelmonte.com)Answered April 26, 2016 That's like asking - what's considered a good day... it's so broad it depends. That said, here's some realities about website traffic generally...   Under 10K unique visitors a month, it's very hard to draw any meaningful conclusions from your analytics. You're just way too small.   Around 100K a month, you'll be able to really spot some decent trends in your analytics that will allow you to make better content...   If you're drawing a million unique visitors a year, you're rapidly approaching the top 2% of all websites in the world.   If you're at 5-10M a year in unique visitors, you're a name brand site in your niche that is routinely visited. It also means you probably have 1000's of articls that are drawing a few hundred visits a month through SEO.   To be in the top 1/2 1% - you need to draw over 10M unique views a month. If you're at that level... you're on the level of Drudge, Facebook, Amazon, Pintrest, Twitter, etc...   Most websites have less than 3000 visitors a month... and by most I mean like 98%. Putting all the aggregate stuff aside, here are some things to think about:   New/Returning matters. Do people find your content useful or not? Anything under 80% is a win... which is the average bounce rate.   A thousand true fans can lead to a successful website - it's not all about aggregate stats. (see Kevin Kelly's post - The Technium: 1,000 True Fans ~ Bryan Del Monte, Quora,

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Twitter is the world. ~ Jack Dorsey,

2:I'm not a fan of Twitter. ~ Alan Cumming,

3:I think Twitter is great. ~ Chris Hughes,

4:I don't use Twitter for bad. ~ Kevin Hart,

5:Twitter is a human seismograph ~ Brian Solis,

6:~ Jalaluddin Rumi twitter.com/BuddhaDoodles/…,

7:~ Jalaluddin Rumi twitter.com/KarenVanB/stat…,

8:Everything on Twitter is true. ~ Jonathan Chait,

9:I don't have a Twitter account. ~ Anna Chlumsky,

10:I got Twitter identity theft. ~ Elizabeth Banks,

11:I think I’m an alright twitterer. ~ Todd Snider,

12:Twitter is a global town square. ~ Dick Costolo,

13:Twitter is part of our social fabric ~ Joel Comm,

14:Twitter花3000萬美元收購初創公司Niche，幫社交明星找廣告主 ~ Anonymous,

15:Le compte Twitter du " Monde " piraté ~ Anonymous,

16:Twitter is the Devil's playground. ~ Albert Brooks,

17:You won't see Moonves on Twitter. ~ Leslie Moonves,

18:I've seen people twitter in haiku only. ~ Biz Stone,

19:Twitter should ban my mother. ~ Frances Bean Cobain,

20:I Twitter (or Facebook) therefore I am ~ Jayce O Neal,

21:Being on Twitter is like having a fern. ~ Steve Martin,

22:Screw you and your 38,000 twitter followers! ~ CM Punk,

23:I don't have a Facebook or Twitter account. ~ Dev Patel,

24:I stay on [Twitter] because I deserve to. ~ Jen Kirkman,

25:I'm much nicer in person than on Twitter. ~ Chrissy Teigen,

26:I love when people on Twitter give advice. ~ Jake M Johnson,

27:I don't use Twitter. I'm a serious person. ~ Paolo Sorrentino,

28:I have a Twitter handle, but I never sign on. ~ Adepero Oduye,

29:The ton will be all atwitter about last night ~ Loretta Chase,

30:Twitter? No, I'd rather use phone and texts. ~ Domenico Dolce,

31:How?" Leo asked. "Start a flame war on twitter? ~ Rick Riordan,

32:Life is like Twitter: nobody wants to sign off. ~ Paulo Coelho,

33:Stupid quotes are only Twitters in disguise. ~ Shannon L Alder,

34:Twitter, for all its good, is a hate amplifier. ~ Kathy Sierra,

35:Twitter! It's like being stalked by committee! ~ David Tennant,

36:Use Twitter Search to act as your bionic ears. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

37:A late lark twitters from the quiet skies. ~ William Ernest Henley,

38:Sex on Twitter can't hurt you - unless you fall off. ~ Woody Allen,

39:The scroll is coming back (Twitter is a scroll.) ~ Margaret Atwood,

40:My Twitter reflects what's going on with me in my life. ~ Kevin Hart,

41:There is now a scourge that is called Twitter ~ Recep Tayyip Erdogan,

42:Twitter is my main tool for ensuring news balance. ~ Ethan Zuckerman,

43:Twitter is the limit of me putting myself out there. ~ Matthew Lewis,

44:I don't Twitter, I don't MyFace, I don't Yearbook... ~ Bill Belichick,

45:Twitter is more a cultural than a technological change. ~ Chris Sacca,

46:With Twitter, it's as easy to unfollow as it is to follow. ~ Biz Stone,

47:Twitter. You know what it is? Termites with microphones. ~ Meg Wolitzer,

48:I don't take Twitter too seriously in the physical world. ~ Ilana Glazer,

49:Twitter marketing in 4 words: Listen. Learn. Care. Serve. ~ Laura Fitton,

50:Can't say no one makes money from Twitter now. The NBA does. ~ Mark Cuban,

51:I don't Twitter, although sometimes I think that I should. ~ Parker Posey,

52:I'm active on Twitter, and I love my iPad and my Kindle. ~ Evgeny Morozov,

53:Twitter's popularity and usefulness are mysteries to me. ~ David Harsanyi,

54:I refresh Twitter as thoughtlessly as some twirl their hair. ~ Lena Dunham,

55:I understand Twitter much more than I understand Tumblr. ~ Rowan Blanchard,

56:My house is full of traps.” Twitter would look like this: ~ Randall Munroe,

57:We have even managed to turn into a Twitter trending topic. All ~ Gene Kim,

58:I actually I don't feel a lot of hate on Twitter very often. ~ Grace Phipps,

59:I think Twitter has brought something totally new to the table. ~ Biz Stone,

60:If Shakespeare were alive today, he might be writing on Twitter. ~ Ai Weiwei,

61:Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. It’s the fourth time today that ~ C L Taylor,

62:Twitter is a place where there is extreme vitriol at all times. ~ Trevor Noah,

63:You don't get fewer followers saying outrageous stuff on Twitter. ~ Van Jones,

64:You get reactions and you connect to people and I love Twitter. ~ Lena Dunham,

65:Twitter gives people an illusionary sense of leadership. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana,

66:Twitter! Never have lives been less lived and more chronicled! ~ Dennis Miller,

67:For the most part, I don't have a Facebook page; I don't Twitter. ~ Teddy Sears,

68:I fell in love with Twitter. Fathers, lock up your deadlines. ~ David Edelstein,

69:I personally never got the gist of Facebook and Twitter. ~ Helena Bonham Carter,

70:This is America. We don't have adult discussions. We have Twitter. ~ Bill Maher,

71:Had Twitter been invented earlier, my books would have been shorter. ~ Tom Peters,

72:I went from rotary phone to Twitter. And was appalled at the notion. ~ Jeff Perry,

73:Want more Twitter followers? Take care of the ones you have FIRST! ~ Laura Fitton,

74:He said at last, when Miss Gilchrist had twittered into silence: ~ Agatha Christie,

75:I have a Facebook page for me and my friends and a Twitter page. ~ Maisie Williams,

76:Some people really like to get into Twitter, but it's not my thing. ~ Vince Vaughn,

77:Whatever you do, do it always carefully. ~ The Mother twitter.com/searchforlight…,

78:I dont spend much time on Twitter. I joined because I found it funny. ~ Tahar Rahim,

79:twittering among themselves in some obscure but vehement argument. ~ Steven Erikson,

80:Twitter is my happy place. I am not there to overthink 140 characters. ~ Roxane Gay,

81:Twitter, twatter, fudder, motherfucker, I don’t care what it’s called. ~ L H Cosway,

82:140characters is twitter's simple way of saying 'know your limits ~ Prajakta Mhadnak,

83:I’ve never considered joining Twitter, nor do I know why anybody would. ~ Nick Saban,

84:these twitterers can tell one a lot if one just lets them—twitter! ~ Agatha Christie,

85:Twitter is not a good place for people who feel they're being followed. ~ Dana Gould,

86:First full day as Twitter COO tomorrow. Task #1: undermine the CEO, ~ Jeffrey Pfeffer,

87:I was pretty damn sure there was a Twitter hashtag that said #NanHater. ~ Abbi Glines,

88:Little known Max fact: I invented the word TWIRGIN (a Twitter virgin). ~ Max Cummings,

89:I was the first person Donald Trump threatened to sue on Twitter. ~ Lawrence O Donnell,

90:Twitter. Honestly, that's all I really have to say to explain insanity. ~ Corey Taylor,

91:I have a Twitter, but I'm not a tweeter... if that really makes sense. ~ Kiernan Shipka,

92:Some people are sass monsters on twitter. Like honey, you need to chill. ~ Ashton Irwin,

93:Twitter is a real addiction, like the color of it, the process of it. ~ Earl Sweatshirt,

94:If I had a girlfriend I would write her letters instead of using Twitter. ~ Bill Kaulitz,

95:What’s a social worker, is it someone whose job it is to go on Twitter? And ~ Jack Cheng,

96:I would not have a career without Facebook and Twitter. That's the truth. ~ Billy Eichner,

97:Twitter lets me hear from a lot of people in a very short period of time. ~ Robert Scoble,

98:We are drawn to Twitter the way we are drawn to the scene of an accident. ~ Vincent Canby,

99:I try to avoid Twitter. I occasionally can't resist the siren call of email. ~ Diablo Cody,

100:Twitter's designed to reduce the language, directly out of 1984! It's Ingsoc! ~ Alex Jones,

101:When you've got 5 minutes to fill, Twitter is a great way to fill 35 minutes. ~ Matt Cutts,

102:I breeze through Twitter - I look at the mentions, the pictures, the videos. ~ Adam Lambert,

103:Twitter freaks me out. You have followers? It feels so obsessive and proprietary. ~ Mos Def,

104:We can't have a Twitter president. This is serious stuff, this governing. ~ Charles Schumer,

105:Is it rude to Twitter during sex? To go "omg, omg, wtf, zzz"? Is that rude? ~ Robin Williams,

106:The ease and immediacy of twitter is no match for the patient labor of prayer. ~ Tony Reinke,

107:The UN is all screams and twitters, like a ladies’ room when a guy barges in. A ~ Herman Wouk,

108:Twitter is unspeakably irritating. Twitter stands for everything I oppose. ~ Jonathan Franzen,

109:I log out of Twitter on my computer so I have to log in and then I log back out. ~ Jen Kirkman,

110:I'm not against Twitter or Facebook. I'm not against anything. Never say never. ~ Lily Collins,

111:I think Twitter is kind of boring, to be honest. To me, it's not even real life. ~ Jen Kirkman,

112:I have Twitter so I can tell people what I want them to buy and they give me money. ~ Louis C K,

113:I make sure to use both Twitter and Facebook a lot which helps me connect to the fans. ~ Avicii,

114:I'm a little bit awkward on Twitter; like, I'm never really sure what to say. ~ Maisie Williams,

115:It (Twitter) closes the six degrees of separation to one degree of separation ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

116:#Twitter: proudly promoting ghastly grammar and silly misspelling since 2006. ~ E A Bucchianeri,

117:we’d focused ourselves on doing more than trending for a few hours on Twitter. ~ Michelle Obama,

118:~ Jalaluddin Rumi #quote#poetry #mysticpoetry(pic: @everydayspirit1) twitter.com/LivingKindness…,

119:Twitter, Facebook and YouTube have to respect the Turkish Republic's laws ~ Recep Tayyip Erdogan,

120:We want to get to a point where Twitter highlights lead to purchase of a live game ~ Adam Silver,

121:Twitter is fun - I'm a tech guy, I love anything new, I'm big on all that stuff. ~ Steven Levitan,

122:If I were to read about me purely on Twitter, I wouldn’t know what to make of me. ~ Jeremy Scahill,

123:If she was friends with them on Twitter that was equal to being besties in real life. ~ Lucy Sykes,

124:I have a Twitter and have followers from all over the world. It's pretty overwhelming. ~ Dot Jones,

125:Twitter is most suitable for me. In the Chinese language, 140 characters is a novella. ~ Ai Weiwei,

126:Twitter is not art. But it inspires me in the way that art used to inspire me. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

127:In this age of Twitter and Snark every misstep gets posted online in twelve seconds. ~ Howard Kurtz,

128:There's no difference between my persona on Twitter and Instagram and in real life. ~ Lili Reinhart,

129:They came to me with this case of Twitter ignoring case of smeared housewife ~ Recep Tayyip Erdogan,

130:We did Twitter, and Twitter grew so fast, and in 2006 we spun it out into Twitter, Inc. ~ Biz Stone,

131:Anyone who follows me on Twitter knows that I am a massive Frank [Turner] fanboy. ~ Timothy Omundson,

132:I do use texting as a great way to communicate quickly, but I dont Twitter or anything. ~ Dave Gahan,

133:I'm kind of new to Twitter. I'm about one year in, so I'm a little late to the party. ~ Josh Charles,

134:I think we have the attention span of a gnat. You know, with cell phones and Twitter. ~ Jeff Daniels,

135:Twitter, Facebook, Google + are the trifecta of marketing for authors (and bloggers). ~ Guy Kawasaki,

136:You need to react. That's the absurdity of Twitter. You can react without thinking now. ~ Raoul Peck,

137:As a world of shared ideas, Twitter is a kind of Inscape in and of itself, and a good one. ~ Joe Hill,

138:I don't know if I've learned anything about people, but I've learned about Twitter. ~ Martha Plimpton,

139:I think Twitter is the future of communications and Square will be the payment network. ~ Jack Dorsey,

140:live your eyeliner, breathe your lipstick, and kill for each other -Lady Gaga via twitter ~ Lady Gaga,

141:On Twitter at last, and can't think of a thing to say. Some writer I turned out to be. ~ Stephen King,

142:The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; and gathering swallows twitter in the skies. ~ John Keats,

143:To me everything is fun. I've started Twittering or tweeting recently and that's been fun. ~ Stan Lee,

144:Twitter can no more produce analysis than a monkey can type out a work of Shakespeare. ~ Eric Schmidt,

145:Twitter is your window to relevance , but Facebook is your home page for the Social Web ~ Brian Solis,

146:Being on Twitter, live tweeting some of the episodes, I get direct feedback from people. ~ Emmy Rossum,

147:I am not on Facebook. I'm not on Instagram. I only use Twitter, which I wish I didn't. ~ Michael Schur,

148:In summation, like your beloved pet rock, Twitter is useful only in your imagination. ~ David Harsanyi,

149:I think Facebook, Twitter and YouTube are the cornerstones of any social media strategy. ~ Chad Hurley,

150:Twitter is not a technology. It's a conversation and it's happening with or without you. ~ Charlene Li,

151:A funny thing is that you can't search me on Twitter because Adam Levine dominates there. ~ Adam DeVine,

152:At Twitter, mobile is in our DNA ... For us, it's all about mobile, and it always has been. ~ Biz Stone,

153:I think, like, Twitter is somewhat difficult sometimes, and it can be kind of negative. ~ Chrissy Teigen,

154:live your eyeliner, breathe your lipstick, and kill for each other -Lady Gaga via twitter ~ Lady Gaga,

155:Twitter is an amazing thing, because people follow each other and they can make friends. ~ Courtney Love,

156:Twitter makes you a comedian in the same way that digital cameras make you a photographer ~ Ken Jennings,

157:Twitter," said Manny, waving his hand. "You know what that is? Termites with microphones. ~ Meg Wolitzer,

158:Twitter,” said Manny, waving his hand. “You know what that is? Termites with microphones. ~ Meg Wolitzer,

159:Why do I have to follow CNN on Twitter? If I want to follow CNN, I can follow them on CNN. ~ Jon Stewart,

160:Facebook is where you lie to your friends, Twitter is where you tell the truth to strangers. ~ Jon Ronson,

161:I cannot understand how sensible people still defend Facebook, YouTube and Twitter ~ Recep Tayyip Erdogan,

162:I would consider...Google Plus a push technology. It's closer to Twitter than to Facebook. ~ Guy Kawasaki,

163:Make no mistake: E-mail, Facebook, and Twitter checking constitute a neural addiction. ~ Daniel J Levitin,

164:Whether or not Twitter makes you stupid, it certainly makes some smart people sound stupid. ~ Bill Keller,

165:I don't do Twitter, Facebook; none of that. My email I do from my Blackberry or my iPhone. ~ Penelope Cruz,

166:It's annoying when people tag my name in their conversation with someone else [on Twitter.] ~ Casper Smart,

167:Facebook: What's on your mind? ..Twitter: What's happening? Myspace: Where did everybody go? ~ Will Ferrell,

168:I believe in the age of the Internet, Facebook and Twitter, that relationships are everything. ~ Tom Peters,

169:Tempted to type meaningless twaddle all the time on Twitter...with alliteration, no less! ~ E A Bucchianeri,

170:We killed 5 terrorists, one committed twicide, The other 2 have been blocked by twitter. ~ Joseph Ole Lenku,

171:Don't incriminate yourself. You got the Twitter. I hate twitter. It should be some exclusivity. ~ Sean Price,

172:Don't you love it that Prince doesn't use Twitter? Don't you think he's somewhere on a unicorn? ~ Bruno Mars,

173:Join our weekly twitter chat, Sunday Aug 2 at 9amET ~ On New Foundations ~ bit.ly/sc140-newfound #SpiritChat,

174:Join our weekly twitter chat - Sunday, July 19 at 9amET ~ “On Healing with Play” ~ w/@AjmaniK in #SpiritChat,

175:The qualities that make Twitter seem inane and half-baked are what makes it so powerful. ~ Jonathan Zittrain,

176:We can break news really fast. When an earthquake happens, there are people Twittering about it. ~ Biz Stone,

177:Everybody think they're famous when they get 100,000 followers on Instagram and 5,000 on Twitter. ~ Meek Mill,

178:I don't view Twitter as a promotional tool but as a really, really, really cool cocktail party. ~ Kurt Busiek,

179:LinkedIn is 277 percent more effective for lead generation than Facebook and Twitter combined. ~ John Jantsch,

180:there was no backup of Twitter. “If the database goes down right now, we would lose everything, ~ Nick Bilton,

181:A lot of people are living their lives online in much more public ways with Facebook and Twitter. ~ Dan Savage,

182:I am not leaving twitter. If the mindless few defeat the thoughtful majority we are all doomed. ~ Gary Lineker,

183:I initially signed up for Twitter just to do jokes I wasn't going to do in my stand-up routine. ~ Jim Gaffigan,

184:Twitter is the people’s tool, the tool of the ordinary people, people who have no other resources. ~ Ai Weiwei,

185:Sometimes I look [ on trolls on Twitter], but even one ignorant comment can make me go, "Oh god." ~ Jen Kirkman,

186:Twitter has 300 million active users, but 40 per cent of people just use Twitter to read not tweet. ~ Anonymous,

187:Twitter is good. Why say a lot to a few people when you can say virtually nothing to everyone? ~ Jerry Seinfeld,

188:ere the hour of the twattering of bards in the twitterlitter between Druidia and the Deepsleep Sea ~ James Joyce,

189:Facebook is where everyone lies to their friends. Twitter is where they tell the truth to strangers. ~ Matt Haig,

190:I avoid Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter, and if I need to communicate with someone, I email direct. ~ Martin Parr,

191:I think Twitter is a fabulous tool. Crowd-sourcing by Twitter is useful in getting early warnings. ~ Bill Keller,

192:Twitter's a lot of work! That's the first thing I would say. There's so much pressure to be funny. ~ Ari Graynor,

193:If you're on Twitter, what you're saying is, 'I'm important enough for you to care what I think.' ~ Donald Glover,

194:I hear YouTube, Twitter and Facebook are merging to form a super Social Media site - YouTwitFace. ~ Conan O Brien,

195:It feels like every day or two, people on Twitter and the Internet are outraged about something. ~ Demetri Martin,

196:A brand not responding on Twitter is like hanging up the phone on customers. With millions watching. ~ Dave Kerpen,

197:Facebook is for people, Twitter is for perspective, Google+ is for passion, LinkedIn is for pimping ~ Guy Kawasaki,

198:The psychic being is the soul developing in the evolution. ~ Sri Aurobindo.#SriAurobindo pic.twitter.com/4sNG2CVci,

199:... there is a constant aspiration of the heart towards the truthabove. ~ Sri Aurobindo. pic.twitter.com/j1eZyrj1c,

200:Twitter does have an effect on everything - things you put out there, they are out there for good. ~ Donald Glover,

201:My office is on Twitter. I don't tweet myself - at least, not intentionally, but I probably should do. ~ Tony Blair,

202:The longer a person's twitter @username is, the harder it is to argue with them … on twitter. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana,

203:I know what Twitter is; I don't use it. I don't use Facebook, so luckily, it does zero to my ego. ~ Richard Armitage,

204:I want to be one of those cool people that's like, "What is Twitter?" and just be totally blind to it. ~ Jen Kirkman,

205:Join our weekly twitter chat, Sunday Sep 6 at 9amET ~ A Spiritual Homecoming bit.ly/sc140-homecomi… ~ in #SpiritChat,

206:I'm not a Twitterer, I'm not a twerker, I'm not a Facebooker. I am a ... nothin' ... I'm old school. ~ Michael Jordan,

207:The press pass and the a title of “journalist” had been replaced by a smart phone and a Twitter account. ~ Nick Bilton,

208:You have to make sure there's a lock on your phone because people can hack into your Twitter so fast. ~ Jordan Francis,

209:In Sunday's 10am ET hour, join a timeless #meditation with #SantRajinderSingh ~ #spiritchat twitter.com/SOSmeditate/st…,

210:Oh, I’m following President Obama on Twitter. I like my black history in 140 characters or less. ~ Baratunde R Thurston,

211:Twitter fascinates me because it's real. It feels kind of unreal, but it makes very real things happen. ~ Amanda Palmer,

212:I actually credit Twitter with fine-tuning some joke-writing skills. I still feel like I'm working at it. ~ Steve Martin,

213:I'm certainly not computer savvy, at all. I joined Twitter kicking and screaming, and very reluctantly. ~ Guillermo Diaz,

214:Join our weekly twitter chat, Sunday July 26 at 9amET ~ The Magic of Slowing Down bit.ly/sc140-slowing9 ~ in #SpiritChat,

215:The beauty of Twitter is that more and more people are flocking to it because it's shrinking their world. ~ Dick Costolo,

216:What I love most about achieving whatever Ive achieved is that the Seattle Seahawks follow me on Twitter! ~ Ross Mathews,

217:You must make grow in you the peace that is born of the certitude of victory. ~ Sri Aurobindo. pic.twitter.com/hAT11RKlA,

218:You should see some of the things people tweet me. There have been death wishes on my Twitter timeline. ~ Ashley Madekwe,

219:But then, apart from politicians and the pope, why does anyone else use Twitter? Perhaps to feel important. ~ Umberto Eco,

220:Jack Dorsey, founder of Twitter and Square, tweeted to his 2 million followers: “Success is never accidental. ~ Anonymous,

221:Many on Twitter wondered if Trump had violated the platform’s terms of service by threatening nuclear war. ~ Bob Woodward,

222:My favourite people to follow on Twitter are... my fans. They make me laugh so much and keep me smiling. ~ Ellie Goulding,

223:She went in the pool," she finished for me. "Ohmigod. She was killed while tweeting. It was Twittercide! ~ Gemma Halliday,

224:The last thing I needed was for a horde of Justin Bieber fans to take over my Twitter feed with death threats. ~ R S Grey,

225:Thought for the day: Twitter...140 character limit...must be a great tool for fortune cookie writers... ~ E A Bucchianeri,

226:You and I will be around a lot longer than Twitter, and nothing substitutes face to face.” —Rob Delaney It ~ Austin Kleon,

227:Twitter is about following (and possibly getting to know), people you would never meet in real life. ~ Daniel Post Senning,

228:Twitter is the perpetual cocktail party where everyone is talking at once but nobody is saying anything. ~ Teresa Medeiros,

229:The reason it's hard for me to tweet is I don't want to pronounce anything, and Twitter is for pronouncing. ~ Jonathan Ames,

230:Today! Join our weekly twitter chat, Sunday Sep 6 at 9amET ~ A Spiritual Homecoming bit.ly/sc140-homecomi… ~ in #SpiritChat,

231:“Come out of the circle of time and into the circle of Love.” ~ Jalaluddin Rumi #SpiritChat (A1) twitter.com/AjmaniK/status…,

232:If there's ever an example of the importance of making bold bets and focusing on what you love, it's Twitter. ~ Dick Costolo,

233:I'm an instant responder. Somebody told me I'm a living Twitter. I'm quick to respond and quick to fill air. ~ Sheila Nevins,

234:Linkedin is for people you know. Facebook is for people you used to know. Twitter is for people you want to know. ~ Jay Baer,

235:Narcissism really spreads its wings and soars on twitter. It's like watching a dragon hatch and learn to fly. ~ Dave Anthony,

236:Poets think in short lines. Unless you're Samuel Beckett, Twitter might be more difficult for novelists. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

237:I sometimes wonder: If you add together his time spent on golf, Twitter and cable news, what’s left? ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

238:Join our weekly twitter chat, Sunday Sep 27 at 9amET ~ Towards Peace Supreme ~ bit.ly/sc140-peace27 w/@AjmaniK in #SpiritChat,

239:People, alas, don't document things with any kind of precision. They fill Twitter with blurry photos. ~ Maria Dahvana Headley,

240:Social media is its own sort of thing: Twitter and Facebook have changed the way everyone perceives everything. ~ Steve Kazee,

241:If you look at my Twitter feed it is 99% links, but 1% is me responding and 1% of a big number is a big number. ~ Guy Kawasaki,

242:RT @AjmaniK:“Thou art That" and "That is ALL there Is" ~ #universality #oneness 🙏🏽☺️❤️ #SpiritChat twitter.com/AjmaniK/status…,

243:There will be more words written on Twitter in the next two years than contained in all books ever printed. ~ Christian Rudder,

244:Twitter is a marketer’s dream come true because it allows you to initiate a relationship with your customer. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

245:Wednesday night. Faber shared the news on Twitter, announcing that the deal would be made on Thursday morning. The ~ Anonymous,

246:But there's a bigger trend I'm seeing: people who used to enjoy blogging their lives are now moving to Twitter. ~ Robert Scoble,

247:I get a lot of abuse on Twitter. It's mostly homophobic, but what can you do? I just either ignore it or laugh. ~ Clare Balding,

248:It is incredible to me that my Twitter feed is a source of 'news' for every rock news outlet around the world. ~ Sebastian Bach,

249:I use Twitter a lot. That's how I communicate with international fans. Everyone's always really, really nice. ~ Maisie Williams,

250:The lazy blogosphere has given up on journalism and now trolls Twitter for their on-the-record in-depth articles. ~ Kurt Sutter,

251:I can't think of a bigger waste of police time than chasing somebody who has said something offensive on Twitter. ~ Tony Parsons,

252:In the past, history was always written by the victors. But in the age of Twitter, history is written by everyone. ~ Nick Bilton,

253:[Twitter] certainly doesn't hurt me. I'm not in any pain over any of the things I see. I'm just more disappointed. ~ Jen Kirkman,

254:Twitter is a serious writing distraction. As are grapefruits. The two have nothing else in common. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

255:Twitter is my bar. I sit at the counter and listen to the conversations, starting others, feeling the atmosphere. ~ Paulo Coelho,

256:[Twitter] is not totally where I go anymore to sell myself as a concept, as a comedian, because it moves too fast. ~ Jen Kirkman,

257:Basically, me and Ed Sheeran are kind of Twitter friends - well, I say that. He probably just thinks I'm weird. ~ Maisie Williams,

258:I have a severe Google Reader habit. I think people will use blog forms and twitter to contrive fiction. ~ Patrick Nielsen Hayden,

259:Join us for our weekly twitter chat on Sunday Aug 23 at 9amET ~ Spiritual Return to School ~ bit.ly/sc140-school20 in #SpiritChat,

260:The internet, Facebook and Twitter have created mass communications and social spaces that regimes cannot control. ~ Shimon Peres,

261:Bullhorns are overrated: having ten times as many Twitter followers generates approximately zero times as much value. ~ Seth Godin,

262:For me, Twitter has given me a direct line to the world - it gave me an opportunity to be like, "This is my voice. ~ Laura Benanti,

263:I did a rendition of Billie Jean which is on my Soundcloud. I put it on Twitter, and it got about 3000 hits that day. ~ Idris Elba,

264:Nearly 7 in 10 Fortune 500 companies have a corporate Facebook page, and more than that have active Twitter accounts. ~ Clara Shih,

265:She has given me sight to hear the Robin's twitter. The signature is, Butler, and , Kate, is her wonderful name. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,

266:There is no shame in not watching news. There is no shame in not going on Twitter. There is no shame in disconnecting. ~ Matt Haig,

267:I don't even have Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. Why would I ever want to be viral when I'm not even on the Internet? ~ Mila Kunis,

268:If you're famous, I don't - for the life of me - I don't understand why any famous person would ever be on Twitter. ~ George Clooney,

269:I'm not actually pop culture or social media savvy. I really didn't know what Twitter was when I created an account. ~ Misha Collins,

270:Make a statement, stake out a position, establish a voice—this is how you successfully jab your Twitter followers. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

271:On twitter, you may have a zero follower; but in real life, this is not possible because everyone has a shadow! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

272:Twitter, Facebook and Reddit, that’s not journalism. That's gossip. Journalism was invented as an antidote to gossip. ~ Scott Pelley,

273:2006, I started 'WineLibrary TV.' To build 'WineLibrary TV,' I started using Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter in 2008. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

274:Join host @llake on Monday July 13 at 7pm EDT in #SoulNestingChat ~ Your Soul is Calling ~ // #SpiritChat twitter.com/SoulNesting/st…,

275:Keep up with social media. Twitter and Facebook are both great ways to get your music out, especially internationally. ~ Dia Frampton,

276:Playing the villain gets you higher ratings on reality TV and saying outrageous stuff on Twitter gets you more followers. ~ Van Jones,

277:Sometimes I get scared that I’m going to enter a web address into Twitter thinking it was my browser. That would be bad. ~ John Mayer,

278:The only work that spiritually purifies us is that which is done without personal motives. ~ Sri Aurobindo. pic.twitter.com/v6YNvSrZj,

279:Today! Join us Sunday Aug 23 at 9amEDT / 630pm India for our weekly twitter chat ~ Heart of Silence bit.ly/sc140-hsilence #spiritchat,

280:When Trump and North Korean leader Kim Jong Un amped up the rhetoric, he was warned, “Twitter could get us into a war. ~ Bob Woodward,

281:A soft answer turns away wrath and a gentle tongue is the tree of life, but a snarky Twitter Bible only leads to trouble. ~ Jana Riess,

282:For a long while, I was really against Twitter. I mean, who cares if I'm in an airport or had broccoli for dinner? ~ Shantel VanSanten,

283:That's what social media is, that's what Twitter is, that's what Facebook posts are. It's just really anti-intellectual. ~ David Cross,

284:Today! Join us Sunday Aug 16 at 9amEDT / 630pm India for our weekly twitter chat ~ Finding our Own Path bit.ly/sc140-paths #spiritchat,

285:We're so very focused on ourselves and on self-promotion. It goes on all day with Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. ~ Nancy Jo Sales,

286:As somebody back then wrote, “Facebook is where you lie to your friends, Twitter is where you tell the truth to strangers. ~ Jon Ronson,

287:MarkBaynard: Twitter is the perpetual cocktail party where everyone is talking at once but nobody is saying anything. ~ Teresa Medeiros,

288:President Obama finally has his own personal Twitter account. Even John McCain said, 'Welcome to the Internet, grandpa.' ~ Jimmy Fallon,

289:«Que debes dar prioridad a aumentar tus seguidores en las redes sociales (Instagram, FB, Twitter, Snapchat, YouTube). ~ Timothy Ferriss,

290:Sunday at 10amET ~ a wonderful event for #GuruPurnima today ~ do join if you are available 🙏🏽😇💜 #SpiritChat twitter.com/SOSmeditate/st…,

291:Thinks that twitter is like facebook's slutty cousin. It does everything dumb and whore-ish you're too responsible to do ~ Jessica Park,

292:When someone says something in an interview, the beauty of Twitter is that it's a platform for instantaneous response. ~ Damon Lindelof,

293:I don't think of Twitter as a social network. I think of it as a messaging system that has a lot of social components to it. ~ Biz Stone,

294:I'm not motivated to entertain people through Twitter, so just by having Twitter and not saying anything, I make people mad. ~ Louis C K,

295:I wake up and check my Instagram to see what I missed out on last night. Then I check my Twitter. Then I check my Tumblr. ~ Domo Genesis,

296:Join our weekly twitter chat, Sunday June 14 at 9amET/ 630pm India ~ On Spirituality and #Privilege ~ bit.ly/sc140-privilege #SpiritChat,

297:The human race is faced with a cruel choice: work or daytime twittering - anon Twitter has raised writing to a new low. ~ Samuel Goldwyn,

298:It was genuinely horrible. I stopped using Twitter for a while because I got so much s**t about being anorexic. And Im not. ~ Alexa Chung,

299:There is something decidedly faux about the camaraderie of Facebook, something illusory about the connectedness of Twitter. ~ Bill Keller,

300:Today! Join us Sunday Sep 13 at 9amEDT / 630pm India for our weekly twitter chat ~ On Light and Lightness bit.ly/ac140-light2 #spiritchat,

301:For reasons that I don't fully understand, Twitter is a place where I don't feel ashamed to say my most shameful thoughts. ~ Mira Gonzalez,

302:His eyes were locked on me. We looked like Bambi and Faline, twitterpated, unable to be around normal people, at least I did. ~ Tara Brown,

303:I take all the best parts of YouTube, Twitter, and Facebook, and combine them into a whole new service called … YouTwit-face. ~ Mark Frost,

304:One of the great uses of Twitter and Facebook will be to prove at the Last Day that prayerlessness was not from lack of time. ~ John Piper,

305:The silence was gone now, and the night was filled with voices—a chirp, a growl, a twitter—a burst of high-pitched laughter. ~ Lois Duncan,

306:he didn't like Nan. Neither did the rest of the world. I was pretty damn sure there was a Twitter hashtag that said #NanHater. ~ Abbi Glines,

307:Join us for our weekly twitter chat, Sunday June 14 at 9amET / 630pm India ~ On Spirituality and #Privilege ~ w/@AjmaniK in #SpiritChat 🙏🏽💜😌,

308:More than 80% of our revenue comes from people viewing ads on mobile devices. Inside Twitter, we talk and think mobile first. ~ Shailesh Rao,

309:Re-tweeting is a pretty common practice on Twitter, but on an average day, we see maybe one out of 20 posts is a re-tweet. ~ Ethan Zuckerman,

310:Twitter taught me how to become better at writing jokes because it forces you to chip away at all the extraneous words. ~ Peter Serafinowicz,

311:It seems unfair that anyone can set up on Twitter using my name, or the name of any famous person, without any checks at all. ~ Shirley Eaton,

312:I was in Shanghai recently, where Twitter is blocked, and yet there were ads and billboards across town with hashtags on them. ~ Dick Costolo,

313:, ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,#love, pic.twitter.com/TRPGhWRkfE, ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,#love,#stranger, pic.twitter.com/SnPTO8zHGs, ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,#want,

314:The use of the internet, the use of Twitter, the way protest movements developed...This is a different world. ~ Gus O Donnell Baron O Donnell,

315:Today at 11amET, Join this wonderful meditation and lecture with #SantRainderSingh ~ #FF @SOSmeditate #spiritchat twitter.com/SOSmeditate/st…,

316:Today! Join us Sunday July 12 at 9amEDT / 630pm India for our weekly twitter chat ~ On Time and HeartSpace ~ bit.ly/sc140-toheart #spiritchat,

317:Twitter is really a hyper-distilled version of how the internet should work - short bursts of relatively useful information. ~ Chris Hardwick,

318:, ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,#love, pic.twitter.com/TRPGhWRkfE, ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,#love,#stranger, pic.twitter.com/SnPTO8zHGs, ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,#want,

319:En enero de 2013, Jack Dorsey, fundador de Twitter y Square, tuiteó a dos millones de seguidores: «El éxito nunca es accidental». ~ Peter Thiel,

320:Friends, haters, it's Twitter poll time. What do you think most holds back justice and equality for women? All thoughts welcome! ~ Olivia Wilde,

321:I found that when I was putting my own music out, with my Twitter feed as the pure marketing budget, I'm preaching to the choir. ~ Trent Reznor,

322:I've seen rock stars agonize over the fact that another artist has far more Facebook 'likes' and Twitter followers than they do. ~ Neil Strauss,

323:People are writing shorter jokes. The style I've started with was almost trying to keep jokes under 140 characters before Twitter. ~ Nick Thune,

324:Sometimes @BrookeShields rolls into your party dressed as a Christmas tree, carrying a bucket of KFC. pic.twitter.com/DTtZkZY4cB ~ Willie Geist,

325:The biggest mistake we see companies make when they first hit Twitter is to think about it as a channel to push out information. ~ Tim O Reilly,

326:The girl starts crying even harder, but helpful posts in 140 characters or less don’t appear. Life should be more like Twitter. ~ Janet Gurtler,

327:Today! Join us Sunday June 7 at 9amEDT / 630pm India for our weekly twitter chat ~ On Spiritual #Restoration ~ bit.ly/sc140-restore #spiritchat,

328:What I find interesting is that the people that follow your Twitters are called 'followers.' Talk about false idolatry, right? ~ Emilio Estevez,

329:Writing is one long session of insecurity and fear punctuated by occasional elation. Which is why so many of us are on Twitter. ~ Kelli Stanley,

330:I put my filter on, though, and I only see things people I follow [on Twitter] write now. So, I don't even know anymore [ trolls]. ~ Jen Kirkman,

331:I stopped using Twitter for a while just because I got sick of it and I started using it again, but I don't check the "mentions." ~ Michael Schur,

332:I was informed yesterday that there's a Twitter account for my laugh. Very hard to get used to things like that. Pretty amazing. ~ Tom Hiddleston,

333:There is a trouble called Twitter, the finest lies are here. Nowadays, social media is actually the headache of societies. ~ Recep Tayyip Erdogan,

334:Twitter is like Ozymandias' wall of tv's in Watchmen. You don't read every tweet, but from the whole you can absorb the zeitgeist. ~ Mike Pohjola,

335:Twitter is so short, it's safe. I don't want my bosses to be like, 'Hey, your script is due and we saw you wrote four blog pages.' ~ Mindy Kaling,

336:Twitter, to me, works if you're funny. Twitter doesn't work as a promotional tool unless you do it very, very, very occasionally. ~ Albert Brooks,

337:@RonanFitz: So this is Twitter. Can’t say I’m impressed. @Tomsouthernchef: @RonanFitz Oh, go drink some prune juice, Granddad. ~ L H Cosway,

338:The Facebook of China, however, is Renren, launched in 2005. (The Google of China is Baidu, and the Twitter of China is Sina Weibo.) ~ Clay Shirky,

339:Bridget. Sleeping with a twenty-nine year old off Twitter on the second date is not 'rather like in Jane Austen's day'." (Talitha) ~ Helen Fielding,

340:If Twitter, Youtube & Facebook will be honest; if they'll stop being so immoral, stop attacking families, we'll support them ~ Recep Tayyip Erdogan,

341:I love Twitter. My favorite thing to do these days is to Tweet things that seem very questionable as to whether I’m joking or not. ~ Max Greenfield,

342:The best way to engage honestly with the marketplace via Twitter is to never use the words "engage," "honestly," or "marketplace. ~ Jeffrey Zeldman,

343:Twitter is very impulsive and impermanent and you only have 140 characters. There is no greater 'Emperor' of Twitter than Stephen Fry. ~ David Tang,

344:We hired a CSR person at Twitter, years before we hired our first sales person, to make sure we had a culture and impact of doing good. ~ Biz Stone,

345:As for being on Twitter, I enjoy it tremendously, and it is wonderfully overwhelming to see people not just digging it and liking it. ~ David Mandel,

346:I am literally obsessed with Lena Dunham. She's, like, my favorite person in the world. I follow her on Twitter; I read her every day. ~ Emma Watson,

347:I'll just let the hair speak for itself. It's got a Twitter account, so it actually does more speaking than I probably do on Twitter. ~ Milos Raonic,

348:Optimism: That effervescent, blindingly- bright, perky, chipper, twittering quality you want to squash out of annoying people. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

349:Twitter provides a great amount of timely information, but we still need those people to fill out the rest of the story and the context. ~ Biz Stone,

350:Elizabethan Twitter feed; they carried news quickly, spread it widely, and their relationship to the truth was similarly easy-going. ~ Neil MacGregor,

351:I was a little late in the game for Twitter and Facebook and everything because I thought, 'Oh, I don't know. I just don't have time. ~ Stacy Keibler,

352:The more angels we have in Silicon Valley, the better. We are funding innovation. We are funding the next Facebook, Google, and Twitter. ~ Ron Conway,

353:The thing that excites me, and the thing that excited me about Twitter, is the idea of a flock of birds moving around an object in flight. ~ Biz Stone,

354:Today! Join us Sunday May 17 at 9amEDT / 630pm India for our weekly twitter chat ~ On Spiritual Grounding ~ bit.ly/sc140-ground #Grounding #spiritchat,

355:Anybody who follows me on Twitter or Facebook knows that I'm super into fantasy sports. I like to make money on my sports knowledge basically. ~ Slaine,

356:...if you've got writer's block, you aren't empty - maybe it's just like Twitter - overwhelmed, and loading seems to be taking a while... ~ John Geddes,

357:I'm disappearing from twitter for a while. Need a break from the bile. Local prejudice just seems to bring out the worst in some people. ~ Gary Lineker,

358:I stay on [Twitter] as Jen Kirkman, a person. It's just a way for me to connect with what I know and read everything and catch all areas. ~ Jen Kirkman,

359:Politics move, as fast as Twitter, and for everyone to think that in four years America was going to be perfect is ridiculous. ~ Cedric the Entertainer,

360:The Internet kept the joke going. Abevigoda.com was devoted to updating the actor's status, as was @AbeVigodaUpdate, a Twitter account. ~ Audie Cornish,

361:I don't look at Twitter between events because it's a distraction but I will ring my fiance and parents to let them know how it's going. ~ Jessica Ennis,

362:It’s the pull to visit YouTube, Facebook, or Twitter for just a few minutes, only to find yourself still tapping and scrolling an hour later. ~ Nir Eyal,

363:I am not a fan of Facebook or Twitter. They both allow too much information to be available and they make privacy a thing of the past. ~ Kirsty Gallacher,

364:If Mrs. Roosevelt were writing today, she might put it this way: Don’t let any single cable network or Twitter feed tell you what to think. ~ Jon Meacham,

365:I say the stupidest stuff, all the time, off of Twitter, and so I think Twitter is good way for people to get to know the stupid side of me. ~ Kris Allen,

366:Thanks to social media such as Facebook and Twitter, a far wider range of people take part in gathering, filtering and distributing news. ~ Lionel Barber,

367:The only people I ever get irritated with are the ones who announce, using my Twitter handle, that they are no longer following me and why. ~ Neil Gaiman,

368:Very sad, very upset, very glad I did not have to hear about this though Twitter. Probably going to be taking some time off it for a while. ~ Mara Wilson,

369:All the people who follow me on Twitter know my sense of humor. I sometimes forget the blogosphere will give it more weight than I intended. ~ Kurt Sutter,

370:At its core Twitter is about sharing, and I think that in life we never feel better or more energized than when we're giving to someone else. ~ Demi Moore,

371:Everyone starts out with nobody listening to them and nobody to listen to. How and who you add determines what Twitter will become for you. ~ Laura Fitton,

372:I talk to friends who get their feelings hurt when they read Twitter mentions. I have an amazing solution - don't read Twitter mentions. ~ Sarah Silverman,

373:SocialPoster is a gem that allows you easily post to different social networks. Supported networks are: Facebook Twitter Livejournal Vkontakte ~ Anonymous,

374:I remember reading somewhere that the chemicals produced in the brain by a lengthy Twitter session are similar to those produced by cocaine. ~ Marian Keyes,

375:The fashion industry now has a direct relationship with its customers. Thanks to things like Twitter, ideas can be shared and circulated. ~ Stefano Gabbana,

376:There are athletes and celebrities that are out there and they Twitter and they constantly try to drum up press because they're narcissists. ~ Geoff Stults,

377:We have to be successful at the cutting-edge industries of the future like Twitter. But we also have always been a country that makes stuff. ~ Barack Obama,

378:A similar sound, especially light, tremulous speech or laughter.” This is it, he thought. “Agitation or excitement; flutter.” A verb. Twitter. ~ Nick Bilton,

379:I would say is that kids know about Bernie Sanders and they`re off the radar.In the same way kids knew about Twitter before their parents did. ~ Killer Mike,

380:...some say Twitter seems trite and lacks weightiness - but in actuality, it lends itself to poetry - it can be very compressed and intense... ~ John Geddes,

381:Strapping, blue-eyed brothers, harvesting corn in 2012! No incessant Instagramming, no real-time Twitter updates: Jacob’s got the reins, FML. ~ Kent Russell,

382:Anthony Weiner and his wife, Huma, have given birth to a baby boy. He posted a photo of the new baby on Twitter, but people are afraid to open it. ~ Jay Leno,

383:I hate writing about personal stuff. I don't have a Facebook page. I don't use my Twitter account. I am familiar with both, but I don't use them. ~ Elon Musk,

384:I'm starting to get a following on Twitter. That's a really awesome power to have. It gives me the opportunity to make any kind of art I want. ~ Ansel Elgort,

385:I suggest that people make an effort to reach out to five people a month. Not just by Facebook or email or Twitter. I'm talking hard-copy note. ~ Dana Perino,

386:“I trust the unfamiliar Close to the stranger As far away I put my hands in yours.” ~ Hannah ArendtLeonardo da Vinci (circa 1478) twitter.com/cschachner/sta…,

387:NC passed law against global warming science, therefore it's not happening. So I'm ignoring Twitter's 140-character limit, so it's not happ ~ Stephen Colbert,

388:No matter your sector, chances are that people are already twittering about your products, your brand, your company or at least your industry. ~ Tim O Reilly,

389:What do you think Jesus would twitter, 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone' or 'Has anyone seen Judas? He was here a minute ago.' ~ Chris Cornell,

390:I particularly like Twitter, because it's short and can be very funny and informative. It's a little bit like having your own radio program. ~ Margaret Atwood,

391:she hopped and darted to and fro like a bird in a berry bush, trilling and twittering a series of notes as liquidly bright as a cardinal’s song, ~ Philip Roth,

392:The past one year saw people turning Twitter into a battlefield of clashing opinions by creating hashtags against the enemy and making them trend. ~ Anonymous,

393:I’m awesome, Sam. Have you not gotten the memo recently? It’s supposed to go out every Friday morning with Twitter alerts. #Logansawesomenooneforgetit. ~ Tijan,

394:Twitter seems like a busman's holiday: just more writing. I have no plans to do it. I'll just stick with my 24/7 webcam. I'm old-fashioned that way. ~ Tina Fey,

395:When I see Twitter feeds, when I see words that are people are using to describe Donald Trump, it is incredibly disrespectful to the office. ~ Kellyanne Conway,

396:I communicate with fans on Twitter. I enjoy the ability to impulsively write something and ship it out to the fans and fellow tweeters out there. ~ Neil Diamond,

397:I'm very active on Twitter and Instagram. I'm always posting pictures from set, and little clues and teasing people with fun things. It's awesome! ~ Tyler Posey,

398:The plague that every person carries with them is transmitted as much in the breath of our words as in a cough or sneeze. ~ A. Camus twitter.com/rebeca6169/sta…,

399:Did you hear that? I think a dog is talking. Someone grab a camera, hit record, and we’ll be trending on Twitter if you post it. It’s a miracle. ~ Laurann Dohner,

400:I got Twitter like two months ago, checked it out a bit more, and I concluded the only thing Twitter I'm interested in following is Nick Stoller. ~ Evan Goldberg,

401:The effects of Twitter and Facebook and all those things on people's psychologies is a really interesting question to which nobody knows the answer. ~ Paul Bloom,

402:Twitter has been my life's work in many senses. It started with a fascination with cities and how they work, and what's going on in them right now. ~ Jack Dorsey,

403:According to reporting by the New York Times, the going rate for fake people on Twitter in early 2018 was $225 for the first 25,000 fake followers. ~ Jaron Lanier,

404:I'm a friend of the CEO of Twitter and he showed me how to be on it, but it causes such an uproar if what you post is perceived in a negative light. ~ Dana Carvey,

405:I think it will be very challenging for someone who has not been in prominent public life in the age of Twitter to go out on the campaign trail. ~ Daniel Pfeiffer,

406:I've had moments of thinking maybe I should go on Twitter. It's something that I've been shy about, and I've thought that maybe I should do it. ~ Michelle Dockery,

407:#SoulNestingChat (A5) ”With life as short as half-taken breath, don’t plant anything but love.” ~ Jalaluddin Rumi#poetry #mysticpoetry twitter.com/SoulNesting/st…,

408:The garden of #love is green w/o limit & yields many fruits other than sorrow & #joy. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi pic.twitter.com/vwvkIFXbHE #JoyTrain RT @VegyPower,

409:Any celebrity that goes on Twitter and spouts off, as if we should care what they say, is opening himself or herself up to ridicule by anyone else. ~ Joshua Malina,

410:Fuck Twitter yo. I hate Twitter. I love Twitter. I need it to get through a day, but it is also systematically messing with my health and sanity. ~ Gabourey Sidibe,

411:Nah. I got the Zeus Berger charm going on. Somewhere under all these feelings and the fucking fairy princesses twitterpating that muscle in my chest. ~ Pippa Grant,

412:What's cool about Twitter is that you can make a joke about something very of-the-moment or random that I wouldn't be able to joke about in stand-up. ~ Aziz Ansari,

413:When Taylor had called Mark to explain the situation, Facebook's CEO had given clear instructions to shut Twitter down the second it tried to launch. ~ Nick Bilton,

414:You young people with your twittering and your creating of content. Or what is it - queefing? I don't know what you young people are calling it. ~ Janeane Garofalo,

415:For startups, SM is now crucial: it has never been cheaper and easier to reach one's customers. Entrepreneurs should thank God for Twitter, Facebook. ~ Guy Kawasaki,

416:I try and stay away from my comment section on Twitter. But for the most part, the response that I get usually is very positive - and so it's nice. ~ Candice Patton,

417:A bird may twitter a better song. But should you consider abortion wrong or that the quacks ask too high a fee, come to this wall, and see. ~ Joseph Brodsky,

418:Twitter is one of those dangerous toys that if it gets in the hands of the wrong person you'll have the mind of a 12-year-old masquerading as an adult. ~ Colin Quinn,

419:With Twitter people oddly feel accountable for what they write. When someone is unkind, the community rallies like you wouldn't believe to shut it down. ~ Demi Moore,

420:I love social media and the ability to connect to new people through Twitter and Facebook and share my real time experiences with my mommy network. ~ Soleil Moon Frye,

421:I'm never, I hope, stupid enough to believe that Twitter or blogging or any of this stuff is a substitute for actually doing the work or writing a book. ~ Neil Gaiman,

422:I've been told that I'm the best looking brother. Yeah I'm pretty sure the other day some girl tweeted that I was the best looking Subban on Twitter. ~ Malcolm Subban,

423:I ended my Twitter account a week after I got on the show. I felt like, "This is not a good tool for me to keep my narcissism at bay," so I cut it off. ~ Mireille Enos,

424:Espero la cosecha de mi sueño sirva como inspiracion a todos!” he enthused via Twitter. “I hope the harvest of my dream serves as inspiration to all! ~ Gustavo Arellano,

425:I'm on Facebook and Twitter, and occasionally I will tweet something. Somehow my problem is that I don't think I have anything interesting to tweet about. ~ Gordon Bell,

426:In this Sunday 10amET hour on #InternationalYogaDay join a special online #meditation event with #SantRajinderSinghJiMaharaj ~ ~ #SpiritChat twitter.com/SOSmeditate/st…,

427:Turn all things to honey; this is the law of divine living. ~ Sri Aurobindo.ஒவ்வொன்றையும் இனிமையாக மாற்றுங்கள்; தெய்வீக வாழ்வின் சட்டம் இதுவே. pic.twitter.com/yEOOk0oaB,

428:“But listen to me. For one moment quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms around you.” ~ Jalaluddin Rumi #poetry #mysticpoetry twitter.com/EstherHawdon/s…,

429:Every successful business, even Google, Facebook, Twitter, started with a combination of manual improvements and friends of the founders using the site. ~ James Altucher,

430:In 15mins at 9amET, join guest host Elisa @womenandbiz as she steps up to host the weekly #SpiritChat ~ Topic: Essence of Self Love #SelfLove twitter.com/AjmaniK/status…,

431:It's Twitter's combination of simplicity and complexity that is astonishing in the same way that minimalist sculpture was inspiring and enlightening. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

432:Participation in our democracy seems to be driven by the instant-gratification worlds of Twitter, Snapchat, Facebook, and the twenty-four-hour news cycle. ~ Bill Clinton,

433:I mentioned Ellen Page on Twitter in a tweet. It was like, "I met Ellen Page last night and she's so beautiful and lovely!" So then we started talking. ~ Evan Rachel Wood,

434:The creative part of oneself finds its way out. In this case, I got interested particularly in the medium of Twitter and looked for ways to use it creatively. ~ Teju Cole,

435:An abundance of Twitter users believe they can troll and rant with impunity, no matter how debasing or even threatening their 140-character posts pose. ~ Jonathan Capehart,

436:Jack had continued to see Twitter as a way to talk about what was happening to him. Ev was starting to see it as a view into what was happening in the world. ~ Nick Bilton,

437:Well, really, how would you like to make love with someone who kept twittering about his pure mystic modality and wanted to stick flowers in your navel? ~ Malcolm Bradbury,

438:“When I am silent I fall into that place where everything is music.” ~ Jalaluddin Rumi#poetry #mysticpoetry#silence #meditation#SpiritChat (A1) twitter.com/AjmaniK/status…,

439:Like Twitter, which faced much skepticism early on, Jelly has plenty of folks raising an eyebrow in its direction while trying to figure out what it’s good for. ~ Anonymous,

440:Always beware of the fact, that the only thing hindering an all out revolution is your fear of losing the scraps they throw at you.--Twitter post, July 29, 2012 ~ Gore Vidal,

441:Twitter brings you closer. I mean, we see this over and over again from our users. It brings them closer to the action. It brings them closer to their heroes. ~ Dick Costolo,

442:Here's what I know: if you wait upon the Lord, you will always, without fail get what you're waiting on: the Lord Himself. Beth Moore Twitter Account 07062018 ~ Beth Moore,

443:I am not on Facebook and on Twitter because the purpose of my life is to avoid messages. I receive too many messages from the world, and so I try to avoid that. ~ Umberto Eco,

444:"No eres una gota en el océano.Eres el océano en una gota."- ~ Jalaluddin Rumi ❤️💐vía @ramblingsloa @PardueSuzanne @Havenlust @GajHaj @adrianare78 twitter.com/ramblingsloa/s…,

445:When you're a woman, you have to work harder to get a laugh... I follow so many hilarious women on Twitter. It's a daily reminder that women get to be funny. ~ Rainbow Rowell,

446:Fred wasn't convinced, telling Charlie that such a service would never work and that other companies that had tried to make Twitter-like products had all failed. ~ Nick Bilton,

447:If Twitter ceased operations tomorrow, not only would Trump not be able to tweet, obviously, but also I believe he’d become a nicer, better person at all hours. ~ Jaron Lanier,

448:The big success stories - Facebook, Zynga and Twitter - are leading to investing in ideas on a napkin, because no one wants to miss out on the next big thing. ~ Eric Lefkofsky,

449:The main mistake most marketers make is to use Twitter primarily as an extension of their blog, a place to push a link to content they have posted elsewhere. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

450:Back in the day, I used to call them names when someone pissed me off. Now, I just unfollow them on twitter. That’ll show those motherfuckers! -Mercy to Miller ~ Lani Lynn Vale,

451:The fear of missing out. It’s the affliction that drives obsessive checking of Twitter feeds, Facebook updates, Instagram stories, WhatsApp groups, and news apps. ~ Jason Fried,

452:BP wants Twitter to shut down a fake BP account that is mocking the oil company. In response, Twitter wants BP to shut down the oil leak that's ruining the ocean. ~ Jimmy Fallon,

453:Don't text or twitter during the show. Just live your life. Don't keep telling people what you're doing. Just, because also - also - it lights up your big dumb face. ~ Louis C K,

454:I hate to break this to you: One of these days I'm going to die. I expect that when I croak I'll no longer be using Twitter, unless I can do it from the grave. ~ Margaret Atwood,

455:in 2004 declaring that the world was flat, Facebook didn’t even exist yet, Twitter was still a sound, the cloud was still in the sky, 4G was a parking space, ~ Thomas L Friedman,

456:From the follower side of the equation, the more Twitter users curate the list of people they follow, the better the service will be at delivering interesting content. ~ Nir Eyal,

457:If you're interested in expanding your network, you can't go wrong with Twitter. You don't need to be a celebrity to have fun and grow your network with Twitter. ~ Raymond Arroyo,

458:Viewers all over the world, whatever medium you are using to view us, on Emmanuel TV, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, I command a new dream to come true, in Jesus' name! ~ T B Joshua,

459:Hundreds of social networks and websites such as Facebook and Twitter are trying to weaken people's morale and decrease their participation in the elections. ~ Mahmoud Ahmadinejad,

460:I don't even know why somebody's Twittering as me. I don't understand it, and I wish that it would stop. But there's nothing that can be done. It's so terrible. ~ Janeane Garofalo,

461:I think Twitter is becoming remarkably intolerant and heavily liberal. As in, anything that is perceived as being "pro Trump" is scolded and mocked. ~ Christopher Michael Cillizza,

462:I think we definitely want to focus on the simplicity aspect because it's something that's built into the culture even here at Twitter. Constraints inspire creativity. ~ Biz Stone,

463:all busy with his fake life in his fucking gadgets, tinderokcupidinstagramtwitterfacebookvinebullshitnarcissism incorporatedonlinepetitionsfantasyfuckingfootball. ~ Caroline Kepnes,

464:I think if you use Twitter and social media as your main source of information you are an idiot, but I think most people who use it know better, so I kind of enjoy it. ~ Dave Barry,

465:I've never gone on Facebook and am not sure I understand it. The same goes for Twitter. I have someone sending tweets and pretending to be me, but I don't know why. ~ David Sedaris,

466:People on Twitter can follow tech if they're interested in tech, or business if they're interested in business, or they can follow celebrities that they're fans of. ~ Jonah Peretti,

467:There was no Twitter when I was in high school, so I can't even imagine the pressures or the expectations of pursuing likes or living life in that kind of mentality. ~ Tyler Oakley,

468:On Twitter, Donald Trump has called me a "poor journalist, stupid, a very dumb guy, the dumbest political commentator on television, and the dumbest man on TV." ~ Lawrence O Donnell,

469:There's certainly a portion of my brain that is always tuned to making wry observations about the world, but that portion of my brain was alive and well before Twitter. ~ Roxane Gay,

470:The young are of age when they twitter like the old; they are driven through school to learn the old song, and, when they have this by heart, they are declared of age. ~ Max Stirner,

471:Time spent chatting with other people on Twitter is one of the best investments you can make in your publishing business. It’s free, it’s fun, and it’s super-effective. ~ Rayne Hall,

472:We didn't have anything before Twitter that allowed a group of people roaming around a city to communicate instantly, in real time, and in a coordinated way, in a group. ~ Biz Stone,

473:[According to Twitter] 24 percent of American Twitter users are African-American. That's about twice as high as African-Americans are represented in the population. ~ Ethan Zuckerman,

474:I think at all social networks, be it Facebook or Twitter or whatever it is, there's an ecosystem that exist there. But there's also an ego system that exists there. ~ Ashton Kutcher,

475:I've been trolled lots on Twitter. But I understand trolls for what they are and I don't let them get to me. They take my bait, so I'm in charge of the discourse. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

476:Learn more about Marcus Phillips, CTO and Head of Instruction at Hack Reactor Learn more about Hack Reactor. Learn more about the Twitter Chat on this topic on 2/12/2014. ~ Anonymous,

477:Twitter is about the democratization of access to a platform that allows anyone in the world - who has a mobile phone and access to SMS - to have a voice and be heard. ~ Shailesh Rao,

478:With Twitter and other social networking tools, you can get a lot of advice from great people. I learn more from Twitter than any survey or discussion with a big company. ~ Daniel Ek,

479:The idea of Twitter started with me working in dispatch since I was 15 years old, where taxi cabs or firetrucks would broadcast where they were and what they were doing. ~ Jack Dorsey,

480:Twitter allowed me to talk about parenting in short snippets and find out what I really wanted to say about it, which is that I'm a dad who had no idea what he's doing. ~ Jim Gaffigan,

481:Twitter is a deliberate abstention. Somehow I hate the idea of there always being, in the back of my mind, this little voice saying: 'Oh, I should tweet about this.' ~ George Saunders,

482:forecasts, far short of the 1billion once expected. Consulting firm eMarketer suggests that Twitter's user growth will plateau in major developed markets within five years. ~ Anonymous,

483:I'm a jokester, so when I was joking on Twitter, it kinda rubbed people the wrong way. And I was like, I didn't make these up. I'm just letting you know they're there. ~ Gilbert Arenas,

484:In these exciting times for people who thrive on chaos, Trump had emerged from the polluted waters of Twitter like a mutant fish, and the world could not believe its eyes. ~ Jon Ronson,

485:I see a lot of comments on Twitter and stuff about how ugly I am, how bad I am at the drums, how awkward I look, and I'm like, yeah, I agree with most of those things. ~ Patrick Carney,

486:It was a heartbreaking story. He closed his eyes tightly as he told it, so I took the opportunity to quickly check Twitter. I hate not knowing what’s happening on Twitter. ~ Jon Ronson,

487:~ Jalaluddin Rumi: Very little grows on jagged rock. Be ground. Be crumbled, so that wildflowers will come up where you are. #poetry #mysticpoetry #humility twitter.com/SOSmeditate/st…,

488:I'd spent five minutes looking at Twitter once and felt I'd wandered into a poker game where everyone immediately displayed their hands against the cool green of the felt. ~ Jeff Abbott,

489:If we compare the two, Facebook is currently a superior place to market a product like Slide. Twitter is more like a general distribution agent. It's like broadcast radio. ~ Max Levchin,

490:I'm glad that as a 33-year-old working mother, I can still choose to wear a Hello Kitty T-shirt or stay up late scrolling through the Twitter feed of my junior-high crush. ~ Diablo Cody,

491:Me gusta analizar lo que Seth no hace tanto como lo que sí hace. Seth no tiene comentarios en su blog, no presta atención a las analíticas y no usa Twitter ni Facebook ~ Timothy Ferriss,

492:“Subtract the (play of the) infinite from the infinite, and the infinite remains” ~ Upanishad ~ yes, true of love, and of the energy of play 🙏🏽💜😇 #SpiritChat twitter.com/GThakore/statu…,

493:"I am not a man, nor a poet, nor a leaf, but a wounded pulse that senses the beyond." ~ Federico Garcia LorcaAssassinated by the fascists on this day, in 1936 twitter.com/zarandillo/sta…,

494:When a plane lands in the Hudson and there's a Twitter user on the ferry taking a picture of it, Boom. That's it. The water is still splashing. Here's the photo of the thing. ~ Biz Stone,

495:If you do a joke that's really old, then what happens is people on Reddit and Twitter just go, 'Real original, you're just doing old jokes!' But bands do it all the time. ~ Chris Hardwick,

496:"Las brisas al amanecer tienen secretos que contarte. ¡No vuelvas a dormir!"- ~ Jalaluddin Rumi ✅vía @ramblingsloa @PardueSuzanne @Havenlust @GajHaj @ma_martin twitter.com/ramblingsloa/s…,

497:Now I have close to a million followers on Twitter, which is crazy because I don't even know how to spell. But it definitely forces me to think more about the "we" factor. ~ Misha Collins,

498:I see a lot of young kids hit me on Twitter all the time, like, 'I want to be famous! Listen to my mixtape! I wish I could be like you!' But a lot comes with it. It's not easy. ~ Amber Rose,

499:But women aren't just bodies! ... boor! they're "companions" as well! what of their charms, their grace, their twitterings? sure, sure! if suicide appeals to you ... ~ Louis Ferdinand C line,

500:Kleos is sometimes translated as "acoustic renown" the spreading renown you get from people talking about your exploits. It's a bit like having a large Twitter following. ~ Rebecca Goldstein,

501:Los inversores esperan que Twitter sea capaz de capturar beneficios de monopolio durante la siguiente década, mientras que los días del monopolio de los periódicos han acabado. ~ Peter Thiel,

502:There’s always that one white boy who says stupid shit in the name of making his friends laugh. You can usually find them trolling on Twitter. We just spotted one in the wild. ~ Angie Thomas,

503:When I first started on Twitter, a relative asked, 'Aren't you concerned with giving away your jokes?' I don't think of it that way. That's my content, and that's what I do. ~ Julie Klausner,

504:When I write on Twitter, I do other things: I'm working, grading, or reading, and I'm procrastinating, and I'll pop on Twitter and be like, "Hey, what's up? Yogurt's delicious." ~ Roxane Gay,

505:I am a huge consumer of social networks, and I utilize Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. I'm interested and am learning more about Tumblr and other visually dominant sites. ~ James G Stavridis,

506:I have no Facebook page or Twitter - I don't participate in it, and I don't like it particularly. I mean, it's a form of interaction, which strikes me as extremely superficial. ~ Noam Chomsky,

507:You remember from watching the show, there are no "jokes." That's why if you see people on Twitter accusing me of being a "joke thief," I just tell them to come to one of my shows. ~ Jay Mohr,

508:You will always find an answer in the sound of water.— Chuang TzuSea of religionby Etsuro Takihara pic.twitter.com/4LA3kD7ECz"You will always find an answer in the sound of water." ~ Zhuangzi,

509:I don't necessarily need 400 pounds on my back in the squat rack, and then take a picture of myself and send it out to my Twitter followers, 'Part of the 400 pound club today.' ~ Ryan Reynolds,

510:I love to post behind-the-scenes photos of what is really going on. My twitter friends really seem to like that and the great thing is I can deliver them information right away. ~ Nancy O Dell,

511:I often tweet things that I would feel too horrified/embarrassed/ashamed to say to a friend or loved one, even though most of my friends and loved ones read my Twitter account. ~ Mira Gonzalez,

512:It makes me feel so amazing to know there's people out here that support me and follow me on Twitter and watch my shows on YouTube and come to my concert, so I'm very thankful. ~ Austin Mahone,

513:Melania Trump posted on Twitter -I have at all times been in full compliance with the immigration laws of this country. It's the same message she told MSNBC in February [2016]. ~ Melania Trump,

514:This was everyday life on social media, each side lurching toward mockery and attack — fanning the flames of the divisive chaos from which Trump, the Twitter candidate, had risen. ~ Jon Ronson,

515:Social media is interesting. It helps me connect with fans. It's immediate. It's a big part of my touring business - getting the word out via Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. ~ Hannibal Buress,

516:If you want to write a negative review, don't tickle me gently with your aesthetic displeasure about my work. Unleash the goddamn Kraken." [on Twitter, July 17, 2012] ~ Scott Lynch,

517:I love making YouTube videos. I love Tumblr, I love Twitter. I love talking with people I find interesting about stuff I find interesting, and the Internet is a great way to do that. ~ John Green,

518:I'm the kind of person, if I see something, like a funny video, I want to share it. With Twitter and Tumblr you can do that on a mass scale, and people get to know your personality. ~ Aziz Ansari,

519:The people I bring out of suspension to populate my town won’t have Facebook or iPhones, iPads, Twitter, next-day delivery. They’ll interact like our species used to. Face-to-face. ~ Blake Crouch,

520:All technological breakthroughs start with a small "elite". Think about cellphones, for example. Now just about everyone has one. The same will happen to innovations such as Twitter. ~ Helen Zille,

521:If I see something really nasty on Twitter, I will usually delete it or block the person because I don't want to see that every day Get to know me, and then you can talk about me! ~ Kendall Jenner,

522:in its early days, Twitter discovered that once new users followed 30 other members, they hit a tipping point which dramatically increased the odds they would keep using the site.[cxxx] ~ Nir Eyal,

523:I use Google+, and I find the quality of the comments are very sophisticated because there is more trust inside of Google+ than there is inside of Twitter and Facebook, for example. ~ Eric Schmidt,

524:The thing I really like about Twitter is the speed with which information reaches me. You find out things from Twitter long before they're on the news. That, I think, is valuable. ~ Salman Rushdie,

525:The urge to check Twitter or refresh Reddit becomes a nervous twitch that shatters uninterrupted time into shards too small to support the presence necessary for an intentional life. ~ Cal Newport,

526:Trong một dòng chia sẻ trên mạng xã hội Twitter, Yahoo! tóm tắt kế hoạch của Mayer là một chuỗi các phản ứng của "con người rồi tới sản phẩm, rồi lượng truy cập rồi mới tới doanh thu ~ Peter Thiel,

527:Twitter is a place where I can let people know what type of person I am, and I got some good feedback from it. More good than bad, so it's a good outlet to let people know who I am. ~ Kevin Durant,

528:I'm new to the Twitterverse and so I'm attempting to build my followers. I'm trying to be a better tweeter. I try not to tweet too much, just when I've got something worthwhile to say. ~ Eric Ladin,

529:I'm not one to go on blogs and things like that, but we do have our own personal Twitter profiles, so we get a lot of tweets, and they are pretty passionate. It's fun. I like it. ~ Katharine McPhee,

530:Now, two things happen. One is, people know people, whether that's on Facebook or Twitter. They feel closer to the event. Secondly, people see other people doing something about it. ~ Pete Cashmore,

531:Twitter Inc. has a proposition for app makers: Let’s start over. Two years ago, Twitter irked developers with stricter rules around applications that plug into the social-media service. ~ Anonymous,

532:A Twitter update is simple and fast and gets the information and news, and it spreads it very quickly, and it can contain links so you can then link to this whole context of information. ~ Biz Stone,

533:I do not believe that people want to work hard enough and they want to find the quick Twitter, SEO. Anybody who's obsessed with SEO has lost already, period. I believe that firmly. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

534:In many ways, the internet made me feel safe (...) especially on Twitter, with its knack for facilitating conversation between strangers along shared lines of interest and allegiance. ~ Olivia Laing,

535:I don't have Twitter or Facebook or MySpace or any of those things. I think there's a kind of risky thing privacy wise and I'm a private, guided person and don't want to get too open. ~ Hannah Murray,

536:I used to think Twitter was a waste of time and sort of ran counter to my ability to be productive and to write and now Twitter feels like a really cool part of the creative experience. ~ Lena Dunham,

537:One of the reasons that I'm a lurker on Twitter is that every time I tweet an idea, I feel like I'm delivering something to the competition that I ought to be giving to a reporter here. ~ Bill Keller,

538:I have a daily message, 'Stimumail,' which I use to stimulate the mind and heart. I have the opportunity to touch over 60,000 people I have never met. I also use Twitter and Facebook. ~ Iyanla Vanzant,

539:I'm a big consumer of news and I have my six newspaper sites booked. And what I like bout Twitter is it's almost, it allows me to make a comment about something that's just on my mind. ~ Albert Brooks,

540:Digital technology is both arousing and distancing. We don't look at the users on the other side as people. They aren't - they're just usernames, Facebook photos and Twitter handles. ~ Douglas Rushkoff,

541:Something changed between the two men, namely [Donald ] Trump started slinging mud on Twitter about [Ted] Cruz`s wife, Heidi, including a mean comparing her looks unfavourably to his own. ~ Chris Hayes,

542:You need to update your blog a couple of times a week. You need to post a Twitter here and there. It feels so dumb to say that stuff, but it's important for me to keep that presence going. ~ Nick Thune,

543:Anything you're interested in the world whether it be Charlie rose or JetBlue or a public figure or your local coffee shop, they're on Twitter and broadcasting what is interesting to them. ~ Jack Dorsey,

544:Facebook is massive in scale and scope. Twitter is a public communication forum, but if I'm following you, you're not necessarily following me. LinkedIn is, simply, a professional network. ~ Jeff Weiner,

545:For me, Twitter is a public persona. I don't interact. It's a lousy form for conversation and opinion, but a wonderful propaganda and sloganeering tool. I use it as a one-way street. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

546:No, you didn’t invent Twitter,” Ev replied. “I didn’t invent Twitter either. Neither did Biz. People don’t invent things on the Internet. They simply expand on an idea that already exists. ~ Nick Bilton,

547:The Twitter team took the exact opposite approach. They built the API first, and exposed all the data that was crucial to the service, and then they built Twitter.com on top of the API. ~ Steven Johnson,

548:When we feel overly stressed, we seek serenity, perhaps finding relief in sites like Pinterest. When we feel lonely, destinations like Facebook and Twitter provide instant social connections. ~ Nir Eyal,

549:For me, the most fascinating interface is Twitter. I have odd cosmic thoughts every day and I realized I could hold them to myself or share them with people who might be interested. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

550:I'm really glad I'm not on Twitter. Because I'd have to be answering things that I didn't really know anything about, and I'd rather just wait for the dust to settle and then say something. ~ Stewart Lee,

551:Social media, where I'm head and shoulders above everybody else. I've read now 22 million people on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. More than 22 million people. Nobody else is even close. ~ Donald Trump,

552:That is, a person’s style doesn’t change from medium to medium; there is no “dumbing down.” You write how you write, wherever you write. The linguists also measured Twitter’s lexical density, ~ Anonymous,

553:Here is a list of the top 100 users discussing social media and a list that Peg compiled of social-media tweets. To find more topics, search for Twitter lists. You can also create your own. ~ Guy Kawasaki,

554:I do see an interest in writing for Twitter. While publishers still do love the novel and people do still like to sink into one, the very quick form is appealing because of the pace of life. ~ Lydia Davis,

555:I think things like YouTube and Twitter are really cool and really good in some ways, but the fact that the news is cutting to a YouTube clip on national TV, I think is really weird. ~ Andrew VanWyngarden,

556:Our thoughts, feelings and whereabouts: Food we dish up on plates called photographs and status updates; to feed Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc.; beasts with insatiable appetites. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana,

557:Some people are mean, and when you look at their page, they only write mean things, but I have a great time with a twitter person. It's not even to promote myself, just to entertain me. ~ Kathleen Madigan,

558:Surrender itself is a mighty prayer. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi pic.twitter.com/NJKnFORFQ3Surrender means to open up to ur total self, to give in & let go of the things u think u’re supposed to be.. Bashar,

559:At the end of the day, how many ads did it take to convince you to use Facebook or Twitter? It wasn't marketing or advertising that convinced you to use these services. It was their value. ~ Alexis Ohanian,

560:I don't even understand why I have 1.7 million Twitter followers. Every day, I want to remind them and say, "Do you realize I'm an astrophysicist? Do you know what you're doing here?" ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

561:I love Twitter. Twitter for me is twofold. I can use it to get out important information about charity stuff and where Im going to be, and I can get feedback from the audience which I love. ~ Greg Grunberg,

562:I swore on screen when I got the Olivier for 'Legally Blonde,' I was so surprised. Awards where the public vote mean a lot. I'm a big Twitter fan and like talking to people who support me. ~ Sheridan Smith,

563:Sometimes I get frustrated in traffic. I typically start going deep with my cab driver and Twitter feed - simultaneously - to take my mind off the gridlock. I enjoy live-tweeting my cab rides. ~ Andy Cohen,

564:Twitter represents a collective collaboration that manifests our ability to unconsciously connect kindred voices through the experiences that move us. As such, Twitter is a human seismograph. ~ Brian Solis,

565:Clusters of bats hung like bunches of withered grapes from the roof and when, from time to time, either Kerim's head or Bond's brushed against them, they exploded twittering into the darkness. ~ Ian Fleming,

566:Facebook and Twitter and these other social sites bring every, I mean, 140 characters. I mean, I'm on Twitter and I have fun. But I don't think anybody learns anything about me as a person. ~ Sherman Alexie,

567:I feel like you can share as many jokes as you want to because no joke you do on Twitter is ever gonna be so big on Twitter, for the most part, that you can't say it on stage that same night. ~ W Kamau Bell,

568:I'm just really not even that huge of a UFC fan. If you go on my Instagram or Twitter, you will notice ... people that I've actually met and hung out with, you know, I'm not like a huge UFC guy. ~ Jon Jones,

569:The only people with power today are the audience. And that is increasing with Twitter, Facebook, and everything else. We cater to their likes and dislikes, and you ignore that at your peril. ~ Simon Cowell,

570:While I don't think that Twitter is really an appropriate place for someone who seriously needs help, it shows the impact that we can have when we collectively come together to support someone. ~ Demi Moore,

571:Nighttime Twitter was different from daytime Twitter only in that the content shifted from people in her timeline making dumb jokes about tech news to people making dumb jokes about TV. Katya ~ Doree Shafrir,

572:Today, models are able to share industry news, trends, and communicate with fans through Twitter, Instagram and blogs. So in a way, our position as models is way more personable and relatable. ~ Karlie Kloss,

573:Hillary Clinton has built a huge machine. Donald Trump's asset is people on Facebook and twitter. He can communicate with them eight or 10 times a day with no money. This is a different world. ~ Newt Gingrich,

574:Kids need to remember that when you put something on Twitter, it's not like whispering to your friend, you've put it on a billboard that the whole world, including your own kids someday, can see. ~ Bill Cosby,

575:Turkey has a very young, dynamic, curious population. In Europe, Facebook and Twitter are mostly about sharing daily experiences while for Turkish people, social networks are political platforms. ~ Elif Safak,

576:Twitter and Facebook and all of this stuff is, to me, I mean it's, for some reason - I'm probably not the youngest person using it. But for some reason, it works very well. I'm setting records. ~ Donald Trump,

577:I can't figure Twitter out. The way Twitter is formatted, I can't tell who is saying something and who's replying to something. I don't know who the tweeter is and who's responding to the twit. ~ Rush Limbaugh,

578:Making a nation awesome takes more than just Twitter outrage, street protests and a toppling of governments in elections. It asks for a fundamental shift in societal values, culture and habits. ~ Chetan Bhagat,

579:President Obama broke a world record after he reached a million followers on Twitter in just five hours. The only guys not following Obama? His Secret Service agents. They lost track months ago. ~ Jimmy Fallon,

580:I've stayed away from Twitter for a long time because I sort of didn't trust myself with such an intimate but very public way of relating to the world, but I feel like I've studied it enough. ~ Elizabeth Reaser,

581:The good folk of Twitter were extremely helpful when I needed to double-check how much blackjacks and fruit salad sweets cost in the 1960s. Without them I might have written my book twice as fast. ~ Neil Gaiman,

582:Twitter already has more than 250 million users today. It doesn’t need to add too many customized features in order to acquire more, and there’s no inherent reason why it should ever stop growing. ~ Peter Thiel,

583:I have six times as many Twitter followers as all the other candidates combined, but it didn't count because if it counted I'd still be a candidate; since I can't be a candidate that can't count. ~ Newt Gingrich,

584:Today, we need to listen more carefully. I read what people say on Twitter, my friends on Path, in addition to formal media. I look for patterns, and then I post questions back to my network. ~ Padmasree Warrior,

585:Far from being frivolous, recreational mathematics cuts to the heart of being a mathematician and is deeply linked to development of graduate-level mathematical skills. ~ Peter Rowlett, Twitter, September 9 2019.,

586:The drug lord is on the run. His name is El Chapo. Donald Trump is in a Twitter feud with this Mexican drug lord. It's historic - the first time Americans have ever sided with a Mexican drug lord. ~ Conan O Brien,

587:Writers are b*tc*ing about 140 characters. If you can't make a point in two sentences, how good is that book of yours really going to be? Taken from Twitter Titters Volume 1 edited by John Rice ~ A W Tozer,

588:On Twitter, when someone would die, I would write a joke. Or if there's a tragedy, I would write a joke and tweet it. That was my thing, and then at a certain point, people started demanding it. ~ Anthony Jeselnik,

589:I get on Twitter, one of my routines during the day, if I'm home is, I wake up, get a cup of coffee, turn on the Weather Channel and I'll look at what people are saying to me on Twitter on my phone. ~ Blake Shelton,

590:People are free or cheap. Marketing: using Twitter or blogs. Cheap or free. Infrastructure: call up Amazon, call up Rackspace, terabytes of data in the clouds, thousand dollars, two thousand dollars. ~ Guy Kawasaki,

591:Social media and music in general have been changing so fast. You can go on Twitter and go from one artist to another. What I really like about it is the opportunity to communicate directly with your fans. ~ Juanes,

592:The hard truth was that the press didn’t trust the police to bring them the best stories any more; they’d turned their attention to social media, teenagers on Twitter and middle-aged whistle-blowers. ~ Sarah Hilary,

593:I don’t believe in heaven, and even if I did I’d hope nonexistent-god they don’t have fucking twitter there. It’s heaven! Go play chocolate badminton on a cloud with Jerry Orbach and your childhood cat. ~ Lindy West,

594:I think Twitter is best when it sparks conversations elsewhere. To use YouTube and Facebook and all the tools we have available to us today to respond and also promote and answer and engage is awesome. ~ Jack Dorsey,

595:President Obama, by the way, has set a Guinness World Record as the fastest person to get a million Twitter followers. Obama now has as many followers as the Republicans have presidential candidates. ~ Conan O Brien,

596:The new contract between writers and readers is one I'm prepared to sign up to. I've met some fascinating people at events and online. Down with the isolation of writers I say! And long live Twitter. ~ Sara Sheridan,

597:I don't want to be one of those people that's constantly promoting myself on Twitter. I think the fun thing about Twitter is being able to share all the little random things that happen in my life. ~ Bridgit Mendler,

598:On Twitter, people like me regularly get called "sore losers" by Trumpeters. It just makes me roll my eyes. This is not about winning and losing. We all lost, even them, they just don't know it yet. ~ Gene Weingarten,

599:There's rumors in the Twittersphere. If I find out that any of my officer is giving out drug and alcohol I send their ass to prison with a snorkel duct-taped to their mouth and me s***ing down that Snorkel ~ Ice Cube,

600:To me, Twitter often feels like shouting things into a two-way mirror that I know has people behind it, maybe even people I know, and they are definitely listening, but mostly remain perfectly silent. ~ Mira Gonzalez,

601:I feel like Twitter was tailor-made for me, because I can do short spurts all day long. I loved my blog, but doing daily, then thrice weekly entries was really time consuming. 140 characters is perfect. ~ Sarah Dessen,

602:I have a dad-ager. My dad is really good at the business end of things. But it's really a family affair. My mother handles all my social media stuff - Facebook, Twitter, e-mails, that kind of thing. ~ Jencarlos Canela,

603:I like to get people talking. I am a provocateur, and I do like getting on Twitter and riling people up. You know what, after a while some sane dialogue and sane conclusions come of that kind of thing. ~ Roseanne Barr,

604:On stage and in person, I think I am nice, thoughtful, and empathetic. But for some reason when I'm online, I become super aggressive and unhinged. I should probably get off of Twitter and see a therapist. ~ Joe Mande,

605:Social media, especially Twitter, has completely changed the fashion and media industries - we now can go direct to consumers in a nanosecond - amazing way of distributing content - right to the point. ~ Kelly Cutrone,

606:I don't Twitter every day. I just think we should be more thoughtful with what we share. I don't care that you're turning a light on right now. That's great and all, but there's got to be a balance there. ~ Jeremy Camp,

607:The wetland created by the beaver, like the thriving platform created by the Twitter founders, invites variation because it is an open platform where resources are shared as much as they are protected. ~ Steven Johnson,

608:I love that I can talk to my fans through Twitter, to cut out the middle man. Because I've done interviews where my words have gotten twisted, so it's nice to be able to have things coming straight from me. ~ Bruno Mars,

609:In the back of my mind, I’m composing a tweet to make this funny somehow. Hashtag #awkwardparentmoments. It would probably trend on Twitter. I want to laugh at this to make the whole situation less real. ~ Janet Gurtler,

610:The only way to keep a show alive is to stay loyal to your fans and not betray them creatively or ignore them when it comes to extra content. I'm on Twitter because I'm trying to answer their questions. ~ Billy Lawrence,

611:Twitter is hard to evaluate. They have a lot of potential. It's a horribly mismanaged company — probably a lot of pot-smoking going on there. But it's such a solid franchise it may even work with all that. ~ Peter Thiel,

612:According to neuroscience research from 2012, it is intrinsically rewarding to talk about oneself. This is perhaps why Facebook, Twitter and blogging platforms like Tumblr have been such successful products. ~ Dan Ariely,

613:I think Twitter is kind of fun, it's not deep and it never will be, but it's a great way to communicate one-liners and to sort of see what people are laughing about. It's a terrific source of misinformation. ~ Dave Barry,

614:Nothing will ever replace good old fashioned police work, but Facebook and Twitter have been like a tool on our belt, In some ways it can help them in their investigations and in some ways it can hinder ~ William Bratton,

615:A weird sort of awareness set in, like, 'Wow. My stand-up isn't just separate from everything else I do anymore.' With Twitter and Face book, everything is universal that everything everybody says gets seen. ~ Colin Quinn,

616:I'm active on Facebook and Twitter professionally, then personally I have my own Facebook account, but nobody knows my name or anything. I don't use it to connect with my friends, but I love to play on it. ~ Glenda Bailey,

617:now, with Donald Trump spending about 20 percent of his new presidency at his own luxury golf clubs. I sometimes wonder: If you add together his time spent on golf, Twitter, and cable news, what’s ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

618:This may sound a little bit idealistic, but when I go to my blog, my Facebook page, my Twitter account, I talk to different people from all over the world, and you see how it's easy to establish a dialogue. ~ Paulo Coelho,

619:This week a group of activists, known as Anonymous, hacked the Twitter account of the KKK. The KKK is furious. They said Anonymous is just a bunch of cowards who don't have the courage to show their faces. ~ Conan O Brien,

620:It got to a point where there were so many apps and stuff on my phone that I started getting overwhelmed because there were so many things to check. Just Instagram and Twitter are what I stick to these day. ~ Kaitlyn Dever,

621:A student at the University of Wisconsin in Madison spent 90 days technology free. He went without a cell phone, Facebook, Twitter, or any social media of any kind. And you know what really improved? His driving! ~ Jay Leno,

622:I began my day as I often begin my days, by checking Donald Trump's Twitter feed to see how far the crazy has spread. And today, I really think he's off his meds, because today he went from crazy to cruel. ~ Stephen Colbert,

623:I only tweet about food and silly things, but it's really fascinating because I get a lot of response on Twitter, and I'm always looking at the type of people who write me on there, and it is such a variety. ~ Sutton Foster,

624:There is a wonderful interpretation for the word, 'mantra' ~ 'man' meaning the awareness, 'tra' meaning 'that which engages' ~ so, mantra becomes 'that which engages the awareness' :) #SpiritChat twitter.com/joanncorley/st…,

625:There's pressure to come up with something genius every time. I feel like I keep letting myself down with my Twitter posts. I have to start keeping a journal of rough drafts of prophetic ideas about the world. ~ Ari Graynor,

626:You curate information that you want to receive. It's a lot different because I'm not asking you if it's okay, I'm just saying I'm following your updates. That's why I don't think of Twitter as a social network. ~ Biz Stone,

627:According to The New York Times, more than half of President Obama's Twitter followers are fake. They don't even exist. Which is actually a good thing because if they did exist there wouldn't be any jobs for them. ~ Jay Leno,

628:a great business is defined by its ability to generate cash flows in the future. Investors expect Twitter will be able to capture monopoly profits over the next decade, while newspapers’ monopoly days are over. ~ Peter Thiel,

629:Don't you think it's a small mystery that birds can twitter so loudly that they can hear each other's song from several miles away? Those tiny bundles are like living flutes, playing non-stop on themselves. ~ Jostein Gaarder,

630:If J.G. Ballard had been on Twitter, I doubt he'd have cat-posted. Wm. S. Burroughs, on the other hand, probably would have. He loved cats. I received Christmas cards from Burroughs. All were cute cat cards. ~ William Gibson,

631:That's one of my favorite things about Twitter: You can tweak your feed into a fabulous novelty engine. That's only one thing you can do with it, but it's one of the things I find most entertaining about it. ~ William Gibson,

632:“The value of things is not in the duration, but in the intensity in which they occur. This is why there are unforgettable moments, inexplicable things and incomparable people. " ~ Fernando Pessoa twitter.com/coherence_e/st…,

633:Grab the work when it comes, my man. Your competition is now a fourteen-year-old in pajamas with the username Truth-ninja-12 who believes fact-checking a story is reading his subject’s Twitter feed. Be afraid. ~ Marisha Pessl,

634:I started using Twitter about year after its very early adoption and ended up investing in it around that same time. I'm involved with the Tech scene and companies ranging from Facebook, Stumbleupon and Twitter. ~ Tim Ferriss,

635:Twitter is a form of free speech, and I'm all for that. But if Cee Lo Green, a maverick of sorts, can't get on Twitter and say something outlandish or outrageous, then what is the whole point of Twitter at all? ~ Cee Lo Green,

636:I don't have Facebook or Twitter accounts yet. Being a compulsive storyteller, I always make up for myself discouraging stories about how such accounts will get me into embarrassing and time-consuming situations. ~ Etgar Keret,

637:People think that the digital age and social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter nurture oversharing, but in 1992 there was nothing stopping me from treating any piece of paper like a personal diary. ~ Carrie Brownstein,

638:Twitter was around communication and visualizing what was happening in the world in real-time. Square was allowing everyone to accept the form of payment people have in their pocket today, which is a credit card. ~ Jack Dorsey,

639:it wasn’t the money that made him turn down Facebook’s proposal. It was that Twitter and Facebook were two completely different companies, with different goals and, as Ev saw it, vastly different morals. Twitter’s ~ Nick Bilton,

640:I would say Diddy is the most interesting Twitter-er. I definitely will follow the hip-hop circle now that I have infiltrated the game, just so that I can be aware of my rivals and what my competitors are doing. ~ Spencer Pratt,

641:My feeling is, Twitter's free. If people want to have a political discourse with me on Twitter, and they disagree with me, I've got all the time in the world for that. It's when it gets nasty that I have problems. ~ Josh Groban,

642:What that meant to us was that a story that was of great interest to readers on a Tuesday afternoon is likely to be of interest to readers grazing Twitter on a Saturday night who didn’t see it the first time around. ~ Anonymous,

643:Tweeting happens to be a modern day form of communication. I mean, you can like it or not like it. I have, between Facebook and Twitter, I have almost 25 million people. It's a very effective way of communication. ~ Donald Trump,

644:I don't know if I'm a Twitter addict. That seems kind of harsh. I would say it's more that I'm seriously involved. That it's a long-term relationship - like a girlfriend, which my actual girlfriend loves to hear. ~ Chris Hardwick,

645:I don't think I'll ever get used to the pressures of fame. I have two-pointsomething million followers on Twitter, and if I say something, they all listen. It's crazy! I shouldn't be allowed that responsibility. ~ Josh Hutcherson,

646:If someone does something illegal on Twitter - like incite hatred, or make racist remarks, or threaten to rip someone's intestines out if they insult Justin Bieber - then there has to be some way of censuring them. ~ Tony Parsons,

647:I promoted myself on Twitter and Facebook as hard as possible, nonstop. People started realizing that if they commented on my videos, I'd reply to their comment, so I started getting a lot more views and comments. ~ Austin Mahone,

648:Ive made sure to always update my web properties constantly - Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, my Hypebeast blog making sure I divided content across all of them to keep each outlet fresh to keep people coming back. ~ Theophilus London,

649:La plupart considèrent que l’une des raisons principales de cet égocentrisme vient de l’usage des réseaux sociaux comme Myspace, Facebook et Twitter650, qui sont en grande partie consacrés à la promotion de soi. ~ Matthieu Ricard,

650:What's interesting about Twitter is the unmediatedness of it, the directness of it. I'm on a train somewhere in New York and I send out a tweet. Somebody sitting at dinner in Bombay checks their phone and they see it. ~ Teju Cole,

651:All things seem hard to man that are above his attained level and they are hard to his unaided effort; but they become at once easy and simple when God in man takes up the contract. ~ Sri AurobindoSABCL twitter.com/InevitableWord…,

652:So far, all of reality seems to be described by exquisite, elegant mathematical equations. We can’t stop now – it’s got to be beautiful all the way down! ~ Katie Mack, PhD Comic with attribution of quote at @astrokatie on twitter.,

653:What I pick for my blog and what I pick for Twitter are different things. One thing that is true for both, by and large, is that it has to feel like something that leaves you with more than just a moment of gawking. ~ Maria Popova,

654:For me personally, I don't go onto Twitter or Facebook, my hubby helps me out because sometimes I'm concerned that I'll see something that will upset me, and I don't have a way to work it out with that person. ~ Bryce Dallas Howard,

655:I don't tweet, Twitter, email, Facebook, look book, no kind of book. I have a land line phone at my home - that's the only phone I have. If my phone rang every day like everyone else around me, I would lose my mind. ~ Patti LaBelle,

656:I think of myself as still being about five. Maybe that's why my Twitter picture is of me at five. That's how I feel. I'm honored if I can inspire somebody else. I'm just still trying to figure it all out about myself. ~ Demi Moore,

657:Questions to Ask About Your Twitter Content: Is it to the point? Is the hashtag unique and memorable? Is the image attached high quality? Does the voice sound authentic? Will it resonate with the Twitter audience? ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

658:When I worked in theater, I was always writing things on Post-it Notes and sticking them on screens or desks. Twitter has given me a way of continuing to post those notes, only a lot of other people see them, too. ~ Maureen Johnson,

659:I was using Twitter a lot on my phone, and was realising there was a massive gap between the link on the tweet and the full story. If you could come up with a summary layer to show in Twitter, that would be awesome. ~ Nick D Aloisio,

660:There is no better source of real-time news than Twitter. With the constant sharing of news and information, if you're an active Twitter user, there's nothing happening, big or small, that you won't know right away. ~ Raymond Arroyo,

661:Twitter is a much more dangerous cauldron of group-think than happy hours or dinners. On Twitter, the reward comes from agreeing or loudly disagreeing with the joke, or the "smart take." In person you hash things out. ~ David Weigel,

662:Many people are noting the difference between Hillary Clinton's friendly public appearances and her blunt and direct Twitter account. Yeah, she's nice in person, and mean on the Internet. You know, kinda like EVERYONE. ~ Jimmy Fallon,

663:The reason I was able to grow my business was that every day, after producing 30 minutes of wine television, I spent 15 hours a day replying to every single person's e-mail and every single person's Twitter @ reply. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

664:I started so slowly and had so few followers and then it kind of sort of snowballed. I still feel an intimacy on Twitter, which I think a lot of us do. It feels intimate, doesn't it? I love it. I never thought I would. ~ Jennifer Ehle,

665:I wish writing were really like the way Andy staged it here: Me in a mania at a desk while a group of people stand around cheering in awe. More realistically, it's me pooping around on Twitter until I get an idea. ~ Lin Manuel Miranda,

666:Now we have so many more social outlets, so many ways to be stalked and bullied. If social media is too much for you to handle, then don't have a Twitter or Facebook account. Just be yourself. Be who you want to be. ~ Khloe Kardashian,

667:Only later, when the Twitter chat is over, do I have the chance to reflect that I just experienced being trolled, in space, by the second man on the moon, while also engaging in a Twitter conversation with the president. ~ Scott Kelly,

668:I am very active on Twitter and one thing that keeps popping up is "How do I balance having a kid and writing?" And I know it should not be as aggravating, but I know no one ever asks a male writer that. Or, any male that. ~ Celeste Ng,

669:The good thing about Twitter is that theres not so much of a wall between you and your fan base. They can interact with you, and it makes them more endeared to you when you interact with them. Its really fun in that way. ~ Sinqua Walls,

670:It appears to be among the laws of nature, that the mighty of intellect should be pursued and carped by the little, as the solitary flight of one great bird is followed by the twittering petulance of many smaller. ~ Walter Savage Landor,

671:Twitter reminds me of an era in French literature - Emile Zola and Honoré de Balzac - and the beginning of modernity and gossip. They had these fashion magazines of the time on display with all of the Emile Zola references. ~ Kim Gordon,

672:Last year, the single evening generated almost $12 million, was a trending topic on Twitter and attracted over 25 million page views on vogue.com the following day. This year, it will be part of a documentary by the filmmaker ~ Anonymous,

673:People would publish their websites; other people would read them. But there was no real back and forth other than through e-mail. Web 2.0 was what they called the collaborative web - Facebook, Twitter, the social media. ~ Edward Snowden,

674:I compose most of my tweets with care, as if they were aphorisms - they are not usually dashed-off. Sometimes I'm surprised by the high, poetic quality of Twitter - it lends itself to a surreal sort of self-expression. ~ Joyce Carol Oates,

675:I’m alarmed at how many creators gloss over creating. They fritter away their time on Twitter and Facebook—not killing time, but believing that they are building up followers to be the recipients of their unremarkable work. ~ Ryan Holiday,

676:When I am at work, that is my time to work. The workspace is not the appropriate arena for us to discuss your problems. When I am there I need to be left undisturbed to check what people are saying about me on Twitter. ~ Michael Ian Black,

677:When the Haiti earthquake happened, I registered with UNICEF to set up an account, and posted to Twitter for people to donate to it. In a matter of a couple of hours, $30,000 had been donated. That, to me, was eye-opening. ~ Misha Collins,

678:Critics first discounted Twitter’s 140-character message limitation as gimmicky and restrictive. But little did they realize the constraint actually increased users’ ability to create. A few keyboard taps and users were sharing. ~ Nir Eyal,

679:In a world where like everyone's so accessible now, to say something new in an article that you can't find out about a n--- through his Twitter or like Googling him or some s--- is rare. Just like how a good song is rare. ~ Earl Sweatshirt,

680:The Internet and Twitter and all these things are very powerful, but it also means sometimes that instead of having a dialogue we just start calling folks - calling each other names. And that's true on the left or the right. ~ Barack Obama,

681:Twittering and blogging and all that is fine, but there is no idea of how to phrase something beautifully; how to use language to create an emotion. It's just passing information and sometimes very superficial information. ~ Isabel Allende,

682:For new media reactionaries...the problem is technology, the endless distractions of the Internet, the breakdown of authority in an age of blogs and Twitter, the collapse of narrative in a hyper-linked, multi-networked world. ~ David L Ulin,

683:In this day and age of social media, where everything is so centred around how many Instagram and Twitter followers you have, what's keeping me afloat is the fact that my live performance is something that people can enjoy. ~ Cakes da killa,

684:Twittering just seemed to be people telling other people what they were doing--getting in the shower, making coffee. Who on earth wanted to know these things?...Babble and twitter. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. ~ Kate Atkinson,

685:Cruising the Internet doesn't count as writing. Neither does answering e-mail. Before you check Twitter & FB and do other similar tasks that get in the way of writing, write first. (I really need to take my own advice here!) ~ Terry McMillan,

686:Things like email, and Twitter, and Facebook, and text messaging - they all work reasonably well. But we use them because they're convenient, and cheap, and easy, not because they're the best way to communicate with somebody. ~ Palmer Luckey,

687:It's hard to predict what will happen as reading on screen becomes more of a universal norm, and when the formats dictated by social media - Twitter's 140-character limit, for instance - start to influence what we're used to. ~ Michael Bierut,

688:Our experience is that the sweet spot for posts of curated content is two or three sentences on Google+ and Facebook and one hundred characters on Twitter. The sweet spot for created content is five hundred to a thousand words. ~ Guy Kawasaki,

689:The IT people who have made such an effort to know and understand computer technology. They are frustrated that you cannot use Facebook, Twitter and YouTube in China. They are the first to recognize that the situation is terrible. ~ Ai Weiwei,

690:There's nothing like the discovery of an unknown work by a great thinker to set the intellectual community atwitter and cause academics to dart about like those things one sees when looking at a drop of water under a microscope. ~ Woody Allen,

691:Things have changed so much, with Facebook and Twitter. Everyone is so much more accessible these days: no British athlete has ever experienced what we are experiencing now. It's such a unique situation with the home Olympics. ~ Jessica Ennis,

692:Twitter's a funny one, I mean, it's good in some respects but I can't stand it in other respects. You know there are too many opinions, people get opinions mixed up and people get being rude mixed up with that's my opinion. ~ Dionne Bromfield,

693:Had Ben grown up in the old world, Ethan would probably have entered his son’s bedroom to find him glued to an iPhone. Texting friends. Watching television. Playing video games. Twitter and Facebook. Ethan didn’t miss those things. ~ Anonymous,

694:My dad finds Twitter just infinitely unrelatable. He's like, 'Why would I want to tell anybody what I had for a snack, it's private?!' And I'm like, 'Why would you even have a snack if you didn't tell anybody? Why bother eating?' ~ Lena Dunham,

695:When you think about Twitter, there are people all around the world reporting twenty-four seven, every second. They're reporting what they're seeing and what's happening around them. So there's a lot of potential for breaking news. ~ Biz Stone,

696:With the mere click of a mouse, I can be put in my place but good via Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Pinterest, or Google+, just to name a few. (But not MySpace, which has been a ghost town since 2008. I hope Tom’s okay.) ~ Jen Lancaster,

697:I remember when Twitter first came out. I was so against it, I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to keep my life to myself. I felt like I didn't want to just put things out to the world that were pointless and meaningless. ~ Vanessa Hudgens,

698:On the one hand Twitter gives you the opportunity to engage with people, which is great, but on the other there are people who feel they can say whatever they want, put poison out there, really, without fear of any repercussions. ~ Michael Sheen,

699:spokesman for the Afghan Taliban, who have pushed civilian casualties in Afghanistan to a new high in the past year, posted a Twitter message criticizing the attack as un-Islamic and expressing shared pain with the victims’ families. ~ Anonymous,

700:I love how I can see [on Twitter] some of the thoughts and ideas of my favorite cultural figures and still also chatter with my friends and family. It's a cocktail party with a fraction of the awkwardness of an actual cocktail party. ~ Roxane Gay,

701:All I want to do is be a gay icon. I was reading Lady Gaga's twitter, because she has like 12 million followers, or something like that. I feel like she has fans, gay, straight, bi, who would throw themselves off a building for her. ~ Mindy Kaling,

702:We spend so much time, these days, on forms of literature that don't rise to be literature, and I'm speaking about Twitter posts and quick and hot takes on different websites. We sort of zoom from thing to thing like a hummingbird. ~ Ben H Winters,

703:I'm always surprised that certain actors have Twitter accounts. I guess they use it in a way that works for them. But I'd rather that people had less access to my personal life. If I could keep it that way, I'd be a happy lady. ~ Scarlett Johansson,

704:Participation in our democracy seems to be driven by the instant-gratification worlds of Twitter, Snapchat, Facebook, and the twenty-four-hour news cycle. We’re using modern technology to revert to primitive kinds of human relations. ~ Bill Clinton,

705:The Web provides a very easy way to immediately grasp what's going on. It really offers the transparency, so you can see, especially with the search engine, how people are using Twitter at one glance. The phone doesn't allow for that. ~ Jack Dorsey,

706:Twitter is basically text messaging. Twitter is a guy you can always elbow in the side and say, "Hey, look, a guy in a clown suit just threw up!" And I don't have 400-800 words to say about that, I just wanted to say that one thing. ~ Chris Hardwick,

707:All the blogs, Facebook, Twitter are made by people who want to show their own private affairs at the price of making fakes, to try to appear such as they are not, to construct another personality, which is a veritable loss of identity. ~ Umberto Eco,

708:In foreign countries, when people see what Donald Trump is saying on Twitter since the election and seeing what he's saying in these calls with foreign leaders, they take everything very seriously and they take everything very literally. ~ Geoff Dyer,

709:Interestingly enough, if you search Twitter, you'd see I have been saying this for 3-plus years now. I cannot believe we are now in this position that Donald Trump is the Republican nominee for President. That he is in this position. ~ Chrissy Teigen,

710:In the world of Facebook and Twitter, you can treasure hunt for tidbits about somebody that you find interesting and pretty much find out everything you need to know - which is why I stay away from social media - I'm terrified of it. ~ Hilarie Burton,

711:I very often think about doing things that I would want other artists to do. Like, if I'm a fan of whoever, I want to be treated a certain way. So I realized it came off almost elitist to ignore the whole world of Twitter and Facebook. ~ Patrick Stump,

712:Set your heart on doing good. Do it over and over again, and you will be filled with joy. ~ BuddhaBuddha Heart ♥ by Wonderlane pic.twitter.com/vcM7aQITC7Set your heart on doing good. Do it over and over again, and you will be filled with joy. ~ Buddha,

713:Writers are the target audience for my Writer’s Craft books. I’m happy to answer questions about writing, publishing and related topics, and I’m delighted when people on Twitter advise one another, “Ask @RayneHall. She’ll know the answer. ~ Rayne Hall,

714:Archibald Maximus, wizard. Nothing. Wait! Something. No, never mind. Just another porn site. I really hadn’t expected an obscure alchemist to have a web page or even a Twitter account, although that would have certainly made my job easier. I ~ J R Rain,

715:Twitter is the most amazing medium for a comedy writer. I can't get in every idea I want on the show no matter how hard I try to bully the other writers, so it's a way of me getting out other comic ideas and immediately getting feedback. ~ Mindy Kaling,

716:You take out an injunction against somebody or some organisation and immediately news of that injunction and the people involved and the story behind the injunction is in a legal-free world on Twitter and the Internet. It's pointless. ~ Jeremy Clarkson,

717:This was getting disconcerting, Twitter seemed to have been overtaken by very ill people and spammers. There was message after message from hot women inviting him to come check them out via links they supplied. It genuinely was melting down. ~ Al K Line,

718:Living in a rural town really compelled me to start tweeting so much. Mostly, my Twitter usage is fueled by loneliness. I can go days without talking to another human being unless it's my mother, especially when I'm not teaching or on break. ~ Roxane Gay,

719:One is to get out of our echo chambers and sort of follow up people on Twitter and Facebook who do not agree with you. Make sure that you have friends disagree with you profoundly because if you have a friend who voted for somebody else. ~ Tucker Carlson,

720:I don't go on the Internet. I never go on the Internet. I don't go on Twitter. I'm not on Facebook. I've seen friends go into dark, dark holes of sadness because of that. Frankly, I don't have the time or the attention span for it. ~ Amy Sherman Palladino,

721:I flood the Internet with what I think is quality content. That's why I did things like giving out a song every 100,000 Twitter followers because I am just looking for ways to get my fans to hear all this music without over saturating things. ~ Mac Miller,

722:Twitter and Facebook are brilliant- tools, the journalistic uses of which are still being plumbed. They are great for disseminating interesting material. They are useful for gathering information, including from places that are inaccessible. ~ Bill Keller,

723:But people find it easy to take shots on Twitter, and to use racial slurs and bullying language far worse than what you'll see from me. It's sad and somewhat unbelievable to me that the world is still this way, but it is. I can handle it. ~ Richard Sherman,

724:I enjoy twitter accounts that are meticulously edited just as much as I enjoy twitter accounts that aren't edited at all, but it can feel kind of disappointing to me when I see that someone is editing their tweets out of self-consciousness. ~ Mira Gonzalez,

725:In 2009, the Twitter homepage attempted to boost motivation. But by 2012, Twitter had discovered that no matter how much users knew about the service, driving them to open an account and start following people resulted in much higher engagement. ~ Nir Eyal,

726:It is completely irresponsible, if not worse, for members of the media to be calling our press secretary a liar and worse. On Twitter and Facebook and elsewhere. And in articles. That is not the way to start relationships with the press. ~ Kellyanne Conway,

727:Social media is just a platform. Twitter is a very simple and immediate broadcast platform. Facebook is a very personal, when it comes to friends and when it comes to fan pages, a little bit less but still somewhat personal way to communicate. ~ Mark Cuban,

728:If you are twittering, innovate in order to find a way to describe your internal state instead of trivial external events, to avoid the creeping danger of believing that objectively described events define you, as they would define a machine. ~ Jaron Lanier,

729:It's a matter of invitations versus context. Twitter is really good at providing context, like, I''m having coffee at Third Rail Coffee.' Foursquare is about invitations to places. In this respect Foursquare has started to replace Yelp for me. ~ Jack Dorsey,

730:On Twitter, if you want to quote someone else, you say, RT, re-tweet, that person's name, and then what they said before. And it's a way of essentially saying, I'm not saying this, but my friend said this and I thought this was interesting. ~ Ethan Zuckerman,

731:I feel like I'm over-paid-attention-to. I'm not trying to be a GIF. I'm not trying to be a picked-up-on-Twitter quote. All I'm trying to do is act. And I have to promote movies. And I am, at the end of the day, I guess, a f - king lunatic. ~ Jennifer Lawrence,

732:I do have people who are like, "Yo, I think someone hacked into your Twitter account to talk about census forms." I'm like, "No, that's me." There are people who don't like celebrities who tweet about politics - to whom I say, don't follow me. ~ Rosario Dawson,

733:Separation anxiety is assuaged by constant connection. Young people announce every detail of their lives on services like Twitter not to show off, but to avoid the closed door at bedtime, the empty room, the screaming vacuum of an isolated mind. ~ Jaron Lanier,

734:The Mother is the Divine Consciousness - Force that makes Him manifested. It is She who forms all worlds and beings and things and souls for the Divine Inhabitant. She is the Divine Will that is one with Divine Truth. ~ Sri Aurobindo. pic.twitter.com/OCPV8JtpG,

735:I really like Twitter. It's a conversation and it reminds me of having stranger conversations on the train. I'm a New Yorker. I'm used to bumping into strangers, acknowledging them, them acknowledging me, even if it's just with an eyebrow lift. ~ Rosario Dawson,

736:I used to get my best ideas from being bored, and now, if I even think I'm being faintly bored, I have two million Twitter followers I can engage with. It's great, but I also think it's important to be able to let your thoughts flow and percolate. ~ Neil Gaiman,

737:We actually created Twitter and Odeo at the same time. When we realized we didn't really want to be running Odeo anymore we looked around for anyone who wanted to buy Odeo, but not acquire us as a technology. But people aren't as interested in that. ~ Biz Stone,

738:My twitter fans are all pretty weird. A lot of them are kind of weirdly sexually aggressive. Some of them made me laugh and then I instantly tried to forget them, because I'd hate to find myself in a bar kind of drunk and accidentally use one. ~ Stephen Merchant,

739:I spend a lot of time on Twitter, and it's a very interesting place. People are so driven to aggression. To me it's a funny thing. I grew up in an aggressive family, so I'm not at all intimidated by being verbally abused. I have no fear with words. ~ Alison Moyet,

740:On Facebook, Twitter, texting, e-mails, remember, it's a mode of communication, it is not communication. It's not real life. So step aside, make sure people see something other than the top of your head and live in real time, in the real world. ~ Kellyanne Conway,

741:When you go on your Twitter or look down your Timeline and it's all great positivity - I love that. But at the same time, it can really divert you from what your purpose is or what you're trying to do. And I've seen artists get caught up in that. ~ Kendrick Lamar,

742:For me, Twitter works best as a way of taking pictures of being stuck in traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge. If people really want to read really funny quips about life, parenting, and pop culture, then by all means read Michael Ian Black's tweets. ~ Michael Showalter,

743:I know this is obviously biased as well, but in my Twitter feed, on my Facebook, 90 percent are gushing, glowing, "Thank you for doing that" - type of reviews. "It's ballsy, it's honest, it's hilarious" - that kind of stuff. Obviously those are fans. ~ David Cross,

744:I've always enjoyed Twitter. I enjoy it a lot less now that I'm in WWE, I'll be honest. Because the number of idiots that have access to you is exponentially more. I feel like people shouldn't be able to tweet whatever they want without consequences. ~ Kevin Owens,

745:Moving forward, investigative journalists need to train themselves to be media amphibians - just as comfortable with the classic verities of great journalism as they are with video, Twitter, Facebook, and, most importantly, citizen journalism. ~ Arianna Huffington,

746:The nurse reached over and patted the stack of papers she had beside her before glancing back up at the blond again. “I’m plugging in meds and test results.” “Blah, blah, blah. Don’t let her fool you, she’s a Twitter whore. On it all the fucking time ~ Abbi Glines,

747:I said a long time ago that Foursquare can make cities better. You have these augmented realities like Foursquare and Twitter and Facebook that provide these virtual nodes and instant feedback from anywhere, adding annotation around a physical places. ~ Jack Dorsey,

748:Twitter is not art. But it inspires me in the way that art used to inspire me. Art used to make me see the world differently, think about things in a new way - it rarely does that for me anymore, but technology does that for me on a daily basis. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

749:Twitter isn’t designed to help you get in and get out with the best information as quickly as possible—it’s supposed to suck you into either a contentious world of argument and debate or an echo chamber that reassures you everyone thinks like you do. ~ Ryan Holiday,

750:I'm actually on the Twitter like all those crazy young kids are, and if I'm going to do an in-store appearance or I post something on my website, I tweet these followers, a word I don't like so much, and over 50,000 people go, like, 'Okay, I got it.' ~ Henry Rollins,

751:I’m always aware that under the spritely twitter of birds, bones are being crunched and ribbons of flesh are being stripped away, all of it the work of bright-eyed creatures without feeling or conscience. I don’t look to nature for comfort or serenity. ~ Sue Grafton,

752:I'm not on Twitter. I feel like it has a purpose because there are fans around the world that want to have some sort of interaction with you. But I feel like it is important to still keep some space and some distance, which is why I don't have a Twitter. ~ Megan Fox,

753:Twitter has allowed the conversation to broaden and become more inclusive. At times, the conversation is really tense but that's because we're talking about really important issues. It's not going to be easy but at least the conversations are happening. ~ Roxane Gay,

754:„Cei 5 P ai rețelelor sociale: Google+ este pentru pasiuni; Facebook este pentru persoane; LinkedIn este pentru prospectare; Pinterest este pentru poze; Twitter este pentru percepție. Hai să-l vedem acum pe Philip Kotler cum poate să o întreacă pe asta. ~ Guy Kawasaki,

755:Try listening to yourself sometime, alone in a transient room in a strange town. The worst is when you draw a blank, and the ash-blonde ghosts of the past carry on long twittering long-distance calls with your inner ear, and there's no way to hang up. ~ Ross Macdonald,

756:Twitter Terrorist, billionaire heir, ex-con, computer geek, bad boy—none of those terms came close to describing Kyle Rhodes. He was, simply, a good person, and a confident, intelligent man to boot, and she found that combination absolutely irresistible. ~ Julie James,

757:It's a great way of getting my word out. I love Twitter and tweeting, and I have - between that and Facebook, I have like 10 million followers. It's a great way. Now if you do something bad to me, I can tweet about Chris. And the world will be seeing it. ~ Donald Trump,

758:Trump is the Kim Kardashian of American politics, replacing substance with solipsism and issues debates with Twitter feuds, and showing a rare talent for grabbing the attention of an ADD nation round the clock as he tries to be Troll in Chief. “Celebrity ~ Maureen Dowd,

759:Twitter is great and it's glorious and it's easy, but if somebody comes up with something kind of like Twitter tomorrow, that's better or smarter or more useful, in three weeks time, Twitter could more or less be history because that's how fast things go. ~ Neil Gaiman,

760:And if our faith asks us to find the face of God in everyone we meet, that should include the politicians, media, and strangers on Twitter with whom we most violently disagree. When we desecrate their divinity, we desecrate our own, and we betray our faith. ~ Bren Brown,

761:for example, a student wants to learn about space, she doesn’t ask her teacher what space is like. She visits NASA.gov to read blogs by astronauts and scientists. She may even connect with astronauts, such as Commander Hadfield, directly through Twitter. ~ George Couros,

762:I got live tweeted once by someone who was opposite my home in some rented accommodation. He was actually describing on twitter what I was doing. 'I took a shirt off, I went to the window, I put a shirt back on... ' And I've got blinds in my flat! ~ Benedict Cumberbatch,

763:Social media has definitely changed the game for me. I am able to connect to my fans on twitter and interact with them, daily. YouTube has been a game changer as well - people around the world have been exposed to my comedy through my YouTube channel. ~ Gabriel Iglesias,

764:If I have the power to post 'Happy Birthday' on someone's Facebook page and make them feel really good, it feels really good to make other people feel really good. I love it. I'm a huge Facebook and Twitter person. And I love talking to my fans. It's fun. ~ Rebecca Mader,

765:If you’re famous, I don’t — for the life of me — I don’t understand why any famous person would ever be on Twitter. Why on God’s green earth would you be on Twitter? Because first of all, the worst thing you can do is make yourself more available, right? ~ George Clooney,

766:All the shows are immediately on the Internet, on Instagram, on Twitter, it's huge. Everything is live now, and for fashion, it's very important. It's not that it's good or bad, it's just like that and it's not going to change so we have to adapt to it. ~ Delphine Arnault,

767:I actually love Twitter, but I don't ... I never know what to ... I get a lot of my news from Twitter. But, I never ... I sometimes just don't think ... I think Twitter is full of a lot of talkers and not many listeners, so I'm happy to be one of the listeners. ~ Lee Pace,

768:I keep in touch with my fans by keeping a blog online and I try to answer questions every day. I also have a twitter and a facebook. I think that social networking gives authors a unique insight in the minds of their fans and for me that is very valuable. ~ Cassandra Clare,

769:I think that people in the phase between being someone's kid and being someone's parent have always been uniquely narcissistic, but that social media and Twitter and LiveJournal make it really easy to navel-gaze in a way that you've never been able to before. ~ Lena Dunham,

770:the time is ripe to step out from the Twittersphere and engage with people rather than their profiles. It seems ridiculous that so many of us are happy to engage in virtual conversations with strangers, yet remain silent in a group of real people. What ~ The School of Life,

771:I like trying jokes and seeing the response, and if I end up doing it in my act, it won't be 140 characters. Twitter is helpful that way to me. It's like a message in a bottle. But a lot of times I think I tweet the stuff I would like to say to teenage me. ~ Sarah Silverman,

772:In early-twenty-first-century America, when political debate is often confined to shouting on cable television or posting on Twitter, it's even more valuable to revisit an era when arguments over politics and culture were palpable, urged, even revolutionary. ~ Clara Bingham,

773:My popularity does not derive from me pandering to people. People came to me. I don't tell anyone to follow me on Twitter. I don't tell people to like my Facebook page. I don't tell people to fill the venue. I'm offered to people, and then people come. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

774:My prediction is that in the same way that Google is an intent revealing service that can be monetized that way, I would think that if I were at Twitter, I would focus on the search aspect of Twitter, because people are revealing intents when they do a search. ~ Jason Kilar,

775:The more complete your faith, sincerity and surrender, the more will grace and protection with you. ~ Sri Aurobindo.உனது நம்பிக்கையும், நேர்மையும் சரணமும், எந்த அளவிற்கு முழுமை பெறுகிறதோ அந்த அளவிற்கு தெய்வ அருளும் பாதுகாப்பும் உனக்குக் கிடைக்கும். pic.twitter.com/0eroNtwXT,

776:In many ways, the internet made me feel safe. I liked the contact I got from it: the small accumulation of positive regard, the favoriting on Twitter, the Facebook likes, the little devices designed and coded for maintaining attention and boosting client egos. ~ Olivia Laing,

777:I used to be mad on the games, but I had to ban myself. I used to spend three dollars on games, [but] it adds up, so now I'm on the social side of things like Twitter and Instagram. I love my weather apps. I guess because all the Brits are obsessed with weather. ~ Tom Felton,

778:Now we live in a time where the public and the private are completely fused and there isn't such a great distinction. We know our private lives are constantly made public. With Facebook and Twitter there isn't such a desire, it feels, to keep things private. ~ Felicity Jones,

779:raises an interesting question about the new corporate giants that are colonizing large swaths of virtual space. He asks, “how hard would it be to go a week without Google? Or, to up the ante, without Facebook, Amazon, Skype, Twitter, Apple, eBay, and Google? ~ Jeremy Rifkin,

780:Someone on Twitter sent me a page from a textbook. It had a picture of a football player next to a picture of me. The juxtaposition was meant to illustrate two meanings of "offensive." Seriously. It broke my heart. It's that accepted what I do is offensive? ~ Sarah Silverman,

781:Speaking of Twitter, I don't even know if I composed a blog entry in 2009, as I was too busy parceling my every thought into cute 140-character sound bites. I used to only worry about being pithy for a living; now some of my best lines are wasted on a free app! ~ Diablo Cody,

782:To use a word I never thought I'd apply to myself, I've sort of become a Luddite with regard to information. Where everyone else is getting their Twitter feeds from 'The New York Times' and their 'Huffington Post' emails, I live in a little bit of a bubble. ~ Mark Feuerstein,

783:I'm not really big into Twitter and stuff, but I like to post really cool music videos, just sort of spread a positive light on things that interest me. As opposed to, "I hate so-and-so because they were wearing the same hat as me." That's just so pointless. ~ Tyler Blackburn,

784:It was one of those cases where you approve the broad, general principle of an idea but can't help being in a bit of a twitter at the prospect of putting it into practical effect. I explained this to Jeeves, and he said much the same thing had bothered Hamlet. ~ P G Wodehouse,

785:The Internet with its sub-kingdoms of Google, Twitter, etc, can be a good servant for those who will use it as such. But for a vast percentage the Internet is the master, and the owner is a slave. The preacher/pastor needs to deal with this matter with his people. ~ Anonymous,

786:You know, I did start a Twitter account, but that's the only thing I do. I feel torn because I don't want to promo myself and force that down people's throats, but on the other hand, that's a component. There's some real interest in, "Hey, what are you doing next?" ~ John Cho,

787:In Michelle Obama attack on Donald Trump, she never mentioned Trump's name, but she made reference to the fact that this is much more important than just responding in 140 characters. And in the process she maligned the whole concept of Twitter, not just Trump. ~ Rush Limbaugh,

788:Prince's First Posthumous Tweet: “when u go on social media today please make sure to make my death all about u k thanks” (Retweeted from Bowie who retweeted from Lemmy who retweeted from Michael Jackson who is actually still alive and on Twitter) ~ Arthur Graham,

789:Stay open to as many new tools and think of as many ways you can to utilize them to your advantage. This not only includes equipment and hardware but also software or apps like Sun Seeker and social media outlets like Instagram and Twitter to build community. ~ Vincent Laforet,

790:Introverts don't like small talk conversation, but they typically don't mind writing. The more people can "see" you on Facebook, Twitter, Google+, or a blog, the more they will feel like they know you, even though you don't have one-on-one interaction with them. ~ Thom S Rainer,

791:Like civil-rights protesters who sang rousing hymns as they were carried off to jail, Twitterers are bearing witness to what's happening around them, and calling out into the darkness of cyberspace for confirmation. I'm here. You're here, too. We are present. ~ Douglas Rushkoff,

792:So you know, formally, what the government here is saying is that Israel's prime minister announced the appointment on Twitter. He didn't follow diplomatic protocol. But what we know is that it's about much more than that. It is about who Dani Dayan is. ~ Lourdes Garcia Navarro,

793:You get weird, funny requests on Twitter. With our fan club, I was seeing a lot of fans were having some issue with the way the fan club tickets were being handled in one of the shows. So I was able to correspond with that fan, and be like, 'Listen, we'll be on it.' ~ Luke Bryan,

794:Despite the constant clamor for attention from the modern world, I do believe we need to procure a psychological space for ourselves. I apparently know some people who try to achieve this by logging off or going without their Twitter or Facebook for a limited period. ~ Alan Moore,

795:Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches; little space they stop; But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. ~ John Keats,

796:I think as an actress before I was on Twitter I thought, I'm only doing drama [and dramatic roles]... but then as soon I started tweeting it was like, "Oh you're the funny girl!"... but that was never how I saw myself. It's changed how I seem in other people's eyes. ~ Jenny Mollen,

797:While I'm generally silent on the affairs of my biological mother, her recent tirade has taken a gross turn. I have never been approached by Dave Grohl in more than a platonic way. I'm in a monogamous relationship and very happy. Twitter should ban my mother. ~ Frances Bean Cobain,

798:Chronic malnutrition, or the lack of proper nutrition over time directly contributes to three times as many child deaths as food scarcity. Yet surprisingly, you don't really hear about this hidden crisis through the morning news, Twitter or headlines of major newspapers. ~ Cat Cora,

799:In the age of camera phones and screenshots and Twitter.... At the end of the day, I want to share my life with somebody, you know? I want picture albums. I want to look back at our time together. And I also want kids. And if you want kids, then you want marriage. ~ Joe Manganiello,

800:I wonder if Karl Ove Knausgård would've written the same books today had been using Twitter. It wasn't around when he was writing those books. Those books were written during the age of the blog, with its big verbiage. The landscape has completely changed today. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

801:As a result, we’ve built a culture in which most technological “innovation” is merely figuring out how to scale diversions in new, more efficient (and more intrusive) ways. As the venture capitalist Peter Thiel once said, “We wanted flying cars, instead we got Twitter. ~ Mark Manson,

802:It's just madness. First email. Then instant message. Then MySpace. Then Facebook. Then LinkedIn. Then Twitter. It's not enough anymore to 'Just do it.' Now we have to tell everyone we are doing it, when we are doing it, where we are doing it and why we are doing it. ~ Mark McKinnon,

803:My memories of last night may be a little fuzzy, but there are certain things that stand out in vivid Technicolor. Like coming up with a ridiculous password for the e-mail account GreerOneBadBitchKaras@rockyourface.com, and my new Twitter account with the same handle. ~ Meghan March,

804:Toward dusk, the black birds descend, millions of them, to sit in the branches of trees nearby. The trees grow heavy with black birds, branches like dendrites of the Nervous System fattening, deep in twittering nerve-dusk, in preparation for some important message…. ~ Thomas Pynchon,

805:If you look at companies with upside potential, Twitter's right there. They've established a brand in a world where it's extremely difficult to establish a brand. It's a global brand, people recognize it, people want to let you know what their Twitter handles are, etc. ~ Steve Ballmer,

806:I often get asked by people 'Is your Twitter real?' and things of that nature. I'm never sure how to respond to that. My Twitter account is completely 'real' in that everything I tweet is something I have earnestly thought or something that has actually happened to me. ~ Mira Gonzalez,

807:“I will not enter your heart to limit it’s memory. I will not hold your mouth to prevent it from opening on the blue of the air... I want to be for you... the wind of life that crosses the threshold forever before the night becomes untraceable.” ~ René Char twitter.com/crossmansusann…,

808:When I'm putting some communication out on Twitter or Facebook or Instagram, I think that it's helping me, my brain, you know, because it's always somehow stimulated by people who are sending things to me. And it works both ways. It's great. My brain is very happy about it. ~ Yoko Ono,

809:News of the decision rocketed around social media, with 3.8 million people in the United States making 10.1 million related likes, posts, comments and shares on Facebook. In the four hours after the decision, Twitter recorded more than 6.2 million messages about the ruling. ~ Anonymous,

810:According to research conducted jointly by experts from the University of California at Berkeley and Swansea University in Wales, no fewer than 150,000 Twitter accounts linked to Russia began to tweet inflammatory and divisive messages about Brexit, Muslims, and immigrants ~ Craig Unger,

811:But as far as Twitter, I'll be in a restaurant and I'll get home and somebody tweeted and they talked about what I ordered and what I was wearing. In some cases, that could be dangerous, because you don't want everybody to know where you are every second of every day. ~ Carrie Underwood,

812:Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and several other sites collectively provide over a billion people with powerful social rewards on a variable schedule. With every post, tweet, or pin, users anticipate social validation. Rewards of the tribe keep users coming back, wanting more. ~ Nir Eyal,

813:People got so many questions. Why you got so many questions when my whole life is on the Internet? If you wanna know about me, you can go on the Internet and look at my YouTube videos. I used to drop one every day. You can go on my YouTube channel, go on my Vine, my Twitter. ~ Riff Raff,

814:According to voluminous Twitter postings the day of the shooting by Caitie Parker, one of Loughner’s friends since high school, he was “left wing,” “a political radical,” “quite liberal,” and “a pot head.”2 If any public figure influenced this guy, my money’s on Bill Maher. ~ Ann Coulter,

815:While anonymity can be used to protect heroes, it is far more commonly used as a way to escape responsibility. That’s why most of the brutal harassment on Twitter, Yik Yak, Reddit, and other sites is delivered anonymously. A lack of responsibility unleashes the worst in us. ~ Kevin Kelly,

816:As Evan Williams, co-founder of Blogger and Twitter said, the Internet is, “a giant machine designed to give people what they want.”[48] Williams continued, “We often think the Internet enables you to do new things … But people just want to do the same things they’ve always done. ~ Nir Eyal,

817:I had gone away from Twitter because before people had been so mean to me. Talking about my lisp and my enormous forehead and all these things. I do have a lisp, I do have a forehead I know you could land a plane on, it's no mystery to me. I just didn't have the skin for it. ~ Sarah Paulson,

818:I think of Twitter as a messaging system that you didn't know you needed until you had it. Think about when cell phones first started coming out. People said, "Why would I carry my phone around?" And now you'll drive back to your house thirty miles if you forget your cell phone. ~ Biz Stone,

819:I thought if I had a Twitter feed and say I had a following of a 100,000, that means 100,000 of them would be interested in my book. It was logical, but it didn't turn out to be true. It turned out if I had a Twitter feed of a 100,000, four of them were interested in my book. ~ Steve Martin,

820:The PC is successful because we're all benefiting from the competition with each other. If Twitter comes along, our games benefit. If Nvidia makes better graphics technology, all the games are going to shine. If we come out with a better game, people are going to buy more PCs. ~ Gabe Newell,

821:This horde of rubes strolled into Tokyo thinking it holds hope and possibility!! They totally believe they're gonna be respectable human beings!! But in mere months, all these scumbags will run dry of confidence and hope and become broken wrecks whining incessantly on twitter!! ~ Inio Asano,

822:What's interesting about Twitter and the influencers that someone follows - like, say, Shaquille O'Neal - is that they see someone who is using the exact same tools that they have access to, and I think that inspires this hope to be able to really engage with someone like him. ~ Jack Dorsey,

823:With Twitter and Instagram and all of these vehicles where fans can directly interact with you and get your attention, there's a little bit of an entitlement. Like, "Why won't you follow me or write me back?" Well, if I write you back, then I have to write everyone back. ~ Ingrid Michaelson,

824:available in the Republic had been paltry, a telephone, a flat with some air and light, the all-important permission to travel, but perhaps no paltrier than having x number of followers on Twitter, a much-liked Facebook profile, and the occasional four-minute spot on CNBC. ~ Jonathan Franzen,

825:Hoping that a hardware company can be as capital-light as a consumer Internet company or trying to get Yelp to grow as fast as Twitter doesn’t make sense and can be quite destructive. CEOs should be evaluated against their company’s opportunity—not somebody else’s company. Let ~ Ben Horowitz,

826:I have to say that Adam Levine is truly a daring young man to go on Twitter to bash Fox News. He's so rebellious, so subversive. I mean, for a musician, seriously, could you find a more predictable stance than that? He's as edgy as a hacky sack, which also describes his music. ~ Greg Gutfeld,

827:Social cohesion was built into language long before Facebook and LinkedIn and Twitter - we're tribal by nature. Tribes today aren't the same as tribes thousand of years ago: It isn't just religious tribes or ethnic tribes now: It's sports fans, it's communities, it's geography. ~ Peter Guber,

828:a warning to young entrepreneurs: take money from a venture capitalist, and you’ll end up working for some smug, sarcastic, know-it-all prick like this guy, who will constantly tell you that you’re not working hard enough while he spends his days getting into arguments on Twitter. ~ Dan Lyons,

829:Everybody is continuously connected to everybody else on Twitter, on Facebook, on Instagram, on Reddit, e-mailing, texting, faster and faster, with the flood of information jeopardizing meaning. Everybody's talking at once in a hypnotic, hyper din: the cocktail party from hell. ~ Maureen Dowd,

830:I'm estranged from social media and I don't really deal with it. I tried to work on a website and it took up all my time. People wanted me to have a Twitter account and I spent the whole day figuring out what would be the first message. I still haven't wrapped my head around it. ~ Patti Smith,

831:The whole Twitter phenomenon is really indicative of what's happening in this country. And I say this in condemnation of myself as much as anyone else - we are growing into a nation that has no time, desire or capacity for truth. All we can handle is 140 characters of knowledge. ~ Kurt Sutter,

832:Diplomacy is, perhaps, one element of the U.S. government that should not be subject to the demands of 'open government'; whenever it works, it is usually because it is done behind closed doors. But this may be increasingly hard to achieve in the age of Twittering bureaucrats. ~ Evgeny Morozov,

833:I can go into LinkedIn and search for network engineers and come up with a list of great spear-phishing targets because they usually have administrator rights over the network. Then I go onto Twitter or Facebook and trick them into doing something, and I have privileged access. ~ Kevin Mitnick,

834:It felt like a vast left-wing conspiracy to pretend to have found Eric André’s performance funny. This was everyday life on social media, each side lurching toward mockery and attack — fanning the flames of the divisive chaos from which Trump, the Twitter candidate, had risen. But ~ Jon Ronson,

835:One of the things about being on Twitter, for me, is mostly about just being on the pulse of what people are interested in, what people are doing and what people are looking for. I look at entertainment projects and storytelling and I really try to think about what people want. ~ Ashton Kutcher,

836:Writing is a deep-sea dive. You need hours just to get into it: down, down, down. If you're called back to the surface every couple of minutes by an email, you can't ever get back down. I have a great friend who became a Twitterer and he says he hasn't written anything for a year. ~ Dave Eggers,

837:He did not seem interested in raising his game beyond Twitter insults and ill-advised retweets (including one about Megyn Kelly as a “bimbo” and some that originated on white-supremacist message boards). Even the quietly supportive Melania told Donald to knock off the retweets. He ~ Maureen Dowd,

838:A lot of people say, "Ah, Rush, don't read the comments. You can't. This is loony..." You can't ignore this stuff. These people vote, and they are huge in number, and every social media app you can find from Twitter to Facebook, to LinkedIn, whatever the hell it is, they dominate. ~ Rush Limbaugh,

839:People are not even going to have time to listen to radio in their cars because they are going to be talking on their phones or twittering, or BBM'ing. So I feel like the only time people are going to hear music is when your phone rings, so that's the whole market I'm going after. ~ Spencer Pratt,

840:You can make something big when young that will carry you through life. Look at all the big startups like Microsoft, Apple, Google, Facebook, Twitter, etc. They were all started by very young people who stumbled on something of unseen value. You'll know it when you hit a home run. ~ Steve Wozniak,

841:Having a Facebook and Twitter profile allows me to keep more in touch with people, particularly young South Africans and those who are part of the online community. I was amazed that anyone might be interested in what I do and who I meet. Now I know what people will be interested in. ~ Helen Zille,

842:So many people want to live their lives and their dreams through their own Facebook page or their Twitter page. They want to show every detail of their life to everyone in the world. That scares me because I don't have any Facebook page or Twitter I don't like it, I don't want it. ~ Emmanuel Petit,

843:Hundreds of these companies I've seen since the beginning stages - including Dropbox and Airbnb - one of them has actually been crushed by an incumbent. The Googles, the Twitters, the Facebooks, they might be someone to acquire you, which is not necessarily a bad position to be in. ~ Alexis Ohanian,

844:We're living at a time when attention is the new currency We're all publishers now, and the more we publish, the more valuable connections we'll make. Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, Foursquare, Fitbit and the SenseCam give us a simple choice: participate or fade into a lonely obscurity. ~ Pete Cashmore,

845:I'm not very active on social media. I'm not on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram, or anything like that. But I think it's wonderful that they're out there. They're fantastic. I have a lot of siblings and friends that use it, and it's great for them. It's such a connected world. ~ Alexander Skarsgard,

846:In this age of omniconnectedness, words like 'network,' 'community' and even 'friends' no longer mean what they used to. Networks don't exist on LinkedIn. A community is not something that happens on a blog or on Twitter. And a friend is more than someone whose online status you check. ~ Simon Sinek,

847:There's no first impressions anymore. You go to a job interview, and they'll probably Google you. It's a shame - people should play it a little closer to the chest as far as what information they release to the world. If I'm angry about something, I'm not going to take to my Twitter. ~ Patrick Stump,

848:I don't have a Facebook or a Twitter account, and I don't know how I feel about this idea of, "Now, I'm eating dinner, and I want everyone to know that I'm having dinner at this time." or "I just mailed a letter and dropped off my kids." That, to me, is a very strange phenomenon. ~ Scarlett Johansson,

849:There's a fake Facebook me. There's a fake me Twittering. Sometimes, when it was at the height of right-wing nonsense picking on me, there would be a fake me writing letters to the editor. Just totally not even something I've ever said, that will then become part of the echo chamber. ~ Janeane Garofalo,

850:At every turn you have to find a new kind of self-sovereignty over your environment. Every kid I see is at the mercy of Periscope, Twitter, or an Angry Bird of some description. People are shackled to their mediocrity by companies and businesses who want to consume your life with theirs. ~ Daniel Gillies,

851:I love Twitter. It doesn't keep me from writing and I think it's a really convenient scapegoat when the truth is that the real issue is self-control. I am totally fine admitting i have none. I'm not going to blame Twitter for affecting my writing. And also, Twitter doesn't affect my writing. ~ Roxane Gay,

852:What I've become good at is bringing things that aren't necessarily mainstream to the mainstream. What I did see on Twitter was a potential for mass publication; it's a mainstream consumer broadcasting device. It transforms customers and companies. You have to be transparent or you fail. ~ Ashton Kutcher,

853:“I advance slowly, dead, and my vision is no longer mine, it is nothing: it is only the vision of the human animal that, inadvertently, inherited Greek culture, Roman order, Christian morality and all the other illusions that constitute civilization in which I sit.” ~ F. Pessoa twitter.com/zarandillo/sta…,

854:Our go-to source is no longer dictated by a small group of cable news outlets. We have to expand our view. Sometimes, a story is made and breaks on Twitter. We have to find a way to react to that, to consume and also disseminate the information from Twitter, which is not an easy thing to do. ~ Trevor Noah,

855:We live in an age where people are like, "I'd love to catch up. Maybe text me later? But don't call because I don't really listen to my messages. But if you text me..." We've displaced interaction into sound bites and untethered phrases and sentences that come up on the phone as Twitter feed. ~ Marc Maron,

856:Consider these current rough estimates: Each day, we compose 154 billion e-mails, more than 500 million tweets on Twitter, and over 1 million blog posts and 1.3 million blog comments on WordPress alone. On Facebook, we write about 16 billion words per day. That’s just in the United States: ~ Clive Thompson,

857:I think the most important thing is to take the long view on things. We live in such a 24/7, Twitter-fed, constant news cycle, and everything's a crisis, everything is terrible, everything is doomsday, everything is - if it doesn't get solved tomorrow, your presidency is going off the rails. ~ Barack Obama,

858:Nearly everybody gets twitterpated in the springtime. [. . . ] You begin to get weak in the knees. Your head's in a whirl. And then you feel light as a feather, and before you know it, you're walking on air. And then you know what? You're knocked for a loop, and you completely lose your head! ~ Walt Disney,

859:We need to also act out, and anything that [Donald] Trump does, anything he's trying to do that we don't agree with or anything this country is doing in general that we don't agree with, we need to protest, we need to make our voices heard. And that has to go beyond Twitter - for me as well. ~ Ansel Elgort,

860:I don't think people are really breaking ground and getting new fans or anything. So, I just use it more in my personal life but obviously I'm in a business where people think that Twitter matters so I'll be like, "Yes, I will tweet out this show." But it is something that me, the human, uses. ~ Jen Kirkman,

861:It was but about a mile and a half to Broxton over the opposite slope, and their road wound very pleasantly along lanes and across fields, where the pale woodbines and the dog-roses were scenting the hedgerows, and the birds were twittering and trilling in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. ~ George Eliot,

862:There are people who follow me on Twitter and tell me how much they don't like me, how much they don't want me on the show, and that they hope I die. And it's not just about the character. They tell me how they've never liked Scott Foley, and that he's a stupid, white, plain-bread looking fool. ~ Scott Foley,

863:We've been texting for weeks. Surely it's rather like in Jane Austen's day when they did letter-writing for months and months and then just, like, immediately got married?' 'Bridget. Sleeping with a twenty-nine-year-old off Twitter on the second date is not "rather like Jane Austen's day". ~ Helen Fielding,

864:I love Twitter! At first I made fun of it, because it is very narcissistic, and there's already so much narcissism flowing in this industry, I was like, 'Really, one more?' So I was against it at first. But I really love the idea of the direct connection - there's no middle man muddling it up. ~ Kelly Clarkson,

865:We should look at the Twitter records of Andrew Fraser. Clearly, the ship was on remote control, because he spent all of his time on Twitter. He used to Twitter in the chamber. He used to Twitter at night. He used to Twitter probably in bed at home, but I am not going to go any further there. ~ Campbell Newman,

866:After reading the news, I go on Twitter. I don't have an account but I find it interesting - all the different voices, the squabbles, the arrogance of certainty, the ignorance, the occasional, but wonderful, compassion, and watching the evolution of language head towards a new kind of hieroglyphics. ~ Matt Haig,

867:After reading the news, I go on Twitter. I don’t have an account but I find it interesting – all the different voices, the squabbles, the arrogance of certainty, the ignorance, the occasional, but wonderful, compassion, and watching the evolution of language head towards a new kind of hieroglyphics. ~ Matt Haig,

868:I'm not a big fan of that kind of stuff - of Twitter and Facebook. I just feel like I'm a very private person and I do enjoy personal interaction. It is nice to be able to talk with the fans, in person. I don't know if it's 'cause I'm just old-fashioned, but I'd rather a face-to-face conversation. ~ Ksenia Solo,

869:It's hard when the worst people in the country are cheering, the people with the confederate flag, the people that do anti-Semitism on Twitter, that's difficult for a lot of people in this country. But, you know, I do think an inaugural, for example, is almost always an act of national healing. ~ Michael Gerson,

870:A habit is at work when users feel a tad bored and instantly open Twitter. They feel a pang of loneliness and before rational thought occurs, they are scrolling through their Facebook feeds. A question comes to mind and before searching their brains, they query Google. The first-to-mind solution wins. ~ Nir Eyal,

871:For me, Twitter is a public persona. It's UbuWeb or Kenneth Goldsmith (as opposed to Kenny Goldsmith). I don't interact. It's a lousy form for conversation and opinion (what can you really say in 140 characters?), but a wonderful propaganda and sloganeering tool. I use it as a one-way street. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

872:The blogs have been great and everything, but I think, for me, it's better to have a central place on the Internet for all my fans to go and show their friends my YouTube, Twitter, and social networking sites. To have that spread all on its own and have a central station to get everything Mac Miller. ~ Mac Miller,

873:The dead are hard to look at. Their faces shimmer. They all look slightly angry or confused. they will come up to you and speak, but their voices sound like chatter, like bats twittering. Once they realize you can't understand them, they frown and move away. The dead aren't scary. They're just sad. ~ Rick Riordan,

874:The respected New Yorker staff writer George Packer captured this fear well in an essay about why he does not tweet: “Twitter is crack for media addicts. It scares me, not because I’m morally superior to it, but because I don’t think I could handle it. I’m afraid I’d end up letting my son go hungry. ~ Cal Newport,

875:It gets crazy in my mind sometimes but the reason why I like to express so much positivity on my Twitter is because I think we all are battling evil thoughts. I think it's important to not ignore them but to try to understand where they are coming from and get through them instead of suppressing them. ~ Jhene Aiko,

876:The notion of people commenting on you, the notion of people saying things about you, people liking or disliking you and getting into your business, has become more of a reality for the general public over the last years, as people have dipped further into Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and social media. ~ Eric Bana,

877:All of my music, my stage show, my personality, my blog, my twitter feed, anything that's made me me, and a huge part of why people like and respect me, is that I just don't spend much energy on that other stuff. It's not worth it. It's a losing battle too. You're just screwed the minute you engage. ~ Amanda Palmer,

878:The dead are hard to look at. Their faces shimmer. They all look slightly angry or confused. they will come up to you and speak, but their voices sound like chatter, like bats twittering. Once they realize you can't understand them, they frown and move away. The dead aren't scary. They're just sad. ~ Rick Riordan,

879:I’ve wed his two empty boots.’ ‘That you havena,’ said Janet, Lady of Buccleuch, lowering her voice not at all in the presence of two hundred twittering Scott relations as they gazed after their vanishing husbands. ‘They aye remember their boots. It’s their empty nightgowns that get fair monotonous. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,

880:Poetry of all the forms of literature I think is the most suited for the digital age and for the shorter attention spans and all of that. It Twitters very easily, some lyric poems and it's very easy to zip a poem to someone, so that's one of the things I think is wonderful about poetry in the digital age. ~ Rita Dove,

881:The head of the government ethics ought to be careful, because that person is becoming extremely political. Apparently, may have made a - publicly supported Hillary Clinton as calling out the president with information on Twitter about our disentangle - disentangling of the business over a month ago. ~ Reince Priebus,

882:Businesses must recognize that the voice of the customer is now more powerful than ever before. Whether Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Yelp, review sites, product forums, blogs, or Pinterest, your customers are sharing their experiences on platforms where audiences can find what others are saying about you. ~ Brian Solis,

883:'Digiphrenia' is really the experience of trying to exist in more than one incarnation of yourself at the same time. There's your Twitter profile, there's your Facebook profile, there's your email inbox. And all of these sort of multiple instances of you are operating simultaneously and in parallel. ~ Douglas Rushkoff,

884:With everybody having a Facebook and a Twitter, I feel like regular people consider themselves stars. It's a live, real-time upload of every time we buy a pair of socks, the most telling sign that we're losing our politeness. When you know everything about somebody, you can talk to them any way you please. ~ Jeff Ross,

885:I would argue heavily that the time that has been allocated to social used to come from television, and people are benefitting from it. People who are saying, 'Aw, you're spending all your time on Facebook, or all your time on Twitter,' I'd like to understand what the person used to do with that time. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

886:Last year in a library in Alaska I read a folk tale in a random book on a random shelf & have been thinking about it since & today I wrote the librarian w/ no book title or author & in 2 hrs I had a scan of the story & cover in my inbox -- Librarians should be running everything. [Twitter] ~ Jon Klassen,

887:The other day, I saw a blog post where a woman wrote about why she was unfollowing me and that made me feel incredibly self-conscious and embarrassed about my tweets. I also feel more exposed now that I've become a more visible writer but then I try to get over all that and just use Twitter the way I want. ~ Roxane Gay,

888:There's the sound of one of them twittering yellow birds do be coming in the spring-time from beyond the sea, and there'll be a fine warmth now in the sun, and a sweetness in the air, the way it'll be a grand thing to be sitting here quiet and easy smelling the things growing up, and budding from the earth. ~ J M Synge,

889:953 likes Like Facebook icon Twitter icon “Love isn't always pretty. Sometimes you spend all your time hoping it'll eventually be something different. Something better. Then, before you know it, you're back to square one, and you lost your heart somewhere along the way. ~ Colleen Hoover,

890:We're in a world of truncated sentences, soundbites and Twitter... [Language] is being eroded -- it's changing. Our expressiveness and our ease with some words is being diluted so that the sentence with more than one clause is a problem for us, and the word of more than two syllables is a problem for us. ~ Ralph Fiennes,

891:I cannot control what you bring into the theater when you see the film. I can't control what my parents bring in. I can't control what some random person on Twitter brings in to the theater. All I can control is the hour and 50 minutes that the movie lasts, and try to give it absolutely everything I can. ~ James Ponsoldt,

892:I don't know whether we'll have another Michael Jackson or Elvis, because the world's too quick to level the playing field in that regard. For example, if Michael Jackson did the moonwalk for the first time now, and it debuted on Twitter, the third comment would probably be: "He's just walking backwards." ~ Matthew Healy,

893:I like [George] Benson because I just like it. I like that kind of style. I don't like the broken up kind of style. I don't like where you play for 16 bars and then break it up into what somebody's version of what birds twittering sounds like, or what the sound of the city is, or what New York sounds like. ~ Van Morrison,

894:I wrote a blog post about how the book is different from the blog and why I chose to go the self-publishing route. I wrote guests posts for blogs like Techcrunch, which helped immensely and for which I’m very grateful. I used my social networks: Twitter, Facebook, Linkedin, Google+, Quora, and Pinterest. ~ James Altucher,

895:The comments on YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter instantly switched from a small, friendly, supportive community to a selection of the loudest, most over-the-top opinions one could imagine. I was a traitor to my species. I was ultra-fuckable. I was a space alien. I was an ultra-fuckable space alien. And so on. ~ Hank Green,

896:Curtis will be here in ten minutes because he’s supposed to get here at six and he’s never been on time because he’s part of Generation Benji, all busy with his fake life in his fucking gadgets, tinderokcupidinstagramtwitterfacebookvinebullshitnarcissism incorporatedonlinepetitionsfantasyfuckingfootball. ~ Caroline Kepnes,

897:It felt as if the people on Twitter had been invited to be characters in a courtroom drama, and had been allowed to choose their roles, and had all gone for the part of the hanging judge. Or it was even worse than that. They all had gone for the part of the people in the lithographs being ribald at whippings. ~ Jon Ronson,

898:It's weird doing a show on a Saturday, because we get the news after everybody had their way with it. We still have to find a way to get something fresh out of the story, but also keep the integrity of it. A lot of times the obvious take is so obvious it's already been on Twitter, so we gotta find a new thing. ~ Michael Che,

899:Joseph thought he knew the plants that had sought out the twitterers, and those that had risen for the wren, or a fern that turned, not to the sun, but toward the chatter of the chickadee, so quick were the petals of its song, so sharp so plentiful so light, so showy in their symmetry, so suddenly in shade. ~ William H Gass,

900:When I was a kid you didn't have Twitter or Instagram where as soon as you walk out of a building a photo of you is up within two minutes or a million people are commenting and saying nasty things. I found a different confidence because I realized that you can't base your self-worth on the opinions of others. ~ Rumer Willis,

901:If you just look at the fact that a woman was central in twittering the Cairo revolution, and women were central to the Tunisian uprising. Women are at the center of everything right now and moving everything forward. And I do think in the next year or two, we are going to see such a woman spring, such a rising. ~ Eve Ensler,

902:I just got on Twitter because there was some MTV film blog that quoted me on something really innocuous that I supposedly said on Twitter before I was even on Twitter. So then I had to get on Twitter to say: 'This is me. I'm on Twitter. If there's somebody else saying that they're me on Twitter, they're not.' ~ Anna Kendrick,

903:I really think that the planet is growing a new nervous system. I mean, when you think of Facebook as the third largest nation in the world, that's so unprecedented, so amazing. Think of how many people are texting and twittering. The planet has created a nervous system for massive, rapid connectivity. ~ Barbara Marx Hubbard,

904:The way leadership gurus try to demonstrate their legitimacy is not through their scientific knowledge or accomplishments but rather by achieving public notoriety—be it the requisite TED talks, blog posts, Twitter followers, or books filled with leadership advice that might or might not be valid and useful. ~ Jeffrey Pfeffer,

905:If you ask me can you explain the success of Facebook or Twitter, its very simple. People want to have the right to speak, people want the right to say what they feel. They don't want to wait for the question to be asked, they want to say before asking the question, they want to say everything that they feel. ~ Emmanuel Petit,

906:We had a general awareness, for example, of Russian use of social media - Facebook ads, use of Twitter, fake news implants - we had a general understanding of that. But now, as time has elapsed and time has gone on, I've certainly learned a lot more about the depth and breadth of what the Russians were about. ~ James R Clapper,

907:I guess Twitter is the first thing that has been attractive to me as social media. I never felt the least draw to Facebook or MySpace. I've been involved anonymously in some tiny listservs, mainly in my ceaseless quest for random novelty, and sometimes while doing something that more closely resembles research. ~ William Gibson,

908:Instead, the situation has sparked an efflorescence of social media (Facebook, Youtube, Instagram, Twitter): basically, of forms of electronic media that lend themselves to being produced and consumed while pretending to do something else. I am convinced this is the primary reason for the rise of social media... ~ David Graeber,

909:When it was announced that Spider-Man was going to be in Captain America: Civil War, "Miles Morales" was trending on Twitter for like a week. More people than I ever thought had heard of it. Listen, people go to Build-a-Bear and make your Miles Morales Build-a-Bears and tell everybody that's what we want! ~ Brian Michael Bendis,

910:Our generation, unfortunately, is stuck to our phones - and, like, Twitter - constantly, which I have no problem with. I'd say we're not describing the children of America or anything like that, but there is something to take from it: It is kind of sad how we can't go thirty minutes without checking our phone. ~ Israel Broussard,

911:Twitter and Facebook. Ethan didn’t miss those things. Didn’t wish that his son was growing up in a world where people stared at screens all day. Where communication had devolved into the tapping of tiny letters and humanity lived by and large for the endorphin kick from the ping of a received text or a new e-mail. ~ Blake Crouch,

912:China didn't want to lose the cutting edge of technology. So the idea of having a Sina Weibo was an attempt to compete with Twitter. However, it has no soul - which is freedom of expression. Nevertheless, I think the government regrets having Sina Weibo, but they cannot shut it down. That would definitely be suicidal. ~ Ai Weiwei,

913:This is my megaphone,” Trump said again. “Let’s not call it Twitter. Let’s call it social media.” Though the White House had Facebook and Instagram accounts, Trump did not use them. He stuck to Twitter. “This is who I am. This is how I communicate. It’s the reason I got elected. It’s the reason that I’m successful. ~ Bob Woodward,

914:We overvalue nonessentials like a nicer car or house, or even intangibles like the number of our followers on Twitter or the way we look in our Facebook photos. As a result, we neglect activities that are truly essential, like spending time with our loved ones, or nurturing our spirit, or taking care of our health. ~ Greg McKeown,

915:Before, revolutions used to have ideological names. They could be communist, they could be liberal, they could be fascist or Islamic. Now, the revolutions are called under the medium which is most used. You have Facebook revolutions, Twitter revolutions. The content doesn't matter anymore - the problem is the media. ~ Ivan Krastev,

916:I don't have a Facebook, I never have. I don't have Twitter, I never have. I think my parents are very protective, so they didn't want us to have any more exposure. But Instagram is a photo that you control. And you can talk to your fans, or talk about the movies you do - slices of your life. It is what you make it. ~ Elle Fanning,

917:I got on Twitter because it was a way to express guitar and surfing, and who I was, but now - it's still fun, and I can do that - but I think it's more of a business. I thought it was a personal thing that actors could do themselves, but now it's become a tool that studios are trying to use to sell their movies. ~ Brenton Thwaites,

918:Watch what happens on Twitter. One thing leads to another very quickly. And in an ironic sense, even though it's such a democratic form of communication, there's a funny way in which it leads to a hardening of a conventional wisdom much more quickly than might happen if you were reflecting on it a little more. ~ Donald Verrilli Jr,

919:I never got really into Twitter until more recently when I started doing the Dirt Nasty thing, and created that other character. I think it's almost essential now. I don't think Leonardo DiCaprio necessarily needs to do it, but someone like me, who's somewhere in the middle of nowhere and a shitstack, I need to do that. ~ Simon Rex,

920:Brokenness is not trending on Twitter. It’s not written on anyone’s résumé, and it’s no business strategy at all. It is, however, the one hope Jesus holds out for us, the inside-out, upside-down way that is somehow the only path that ultimately is right side up. Embrace the paradox: brokenness is the way to wholeness. ~ Kyle Idleman,

921:Chatta.” Låter det som en värdig kommunikationsform för människor? En schimpans kan chatta, men en människa. För att inte tala om ordet ”twitter” – vilket låter som något som tjejer gör på toaletter, men som för den skull inte bör nå ut till offentligheten. Och ”blogg” – vad låter det som? Ska man ge sådant offentlighet? ~ Anonymous,

922:We had lunch that day [with Chris Ellis], and I was talking about this idea. I toyed with it a little bit on Twitter in story form at one point. And he thought it was a great idea, and he thought, "Well, let's bring my friend Harry Hannigan in, who's a wonderful writer, and let's see if we can put something together." ~ Brent Spiner,

923:Thiel has stood before countless audiences arguing that we no longer live in a technologically accelerating world, and that there haven’t been any true, futuristic innovations since the 1960s. In fact, his firm’s slogan, “We wanted flying cars; instead we got 140 characters,”3 is a slight to both innovators and to Twitter. ~ Amy Webb,

924:When Donald Trump - star of 'Celebrity Apprentice', the man who brought you Trump Vodka, Trump Steaks, and Trump "University" very likely fraud and fail; and Twitter-hands extraordinaire - is setting up his bobblehead on the desk of the Oval Office and shredding through nuclear codes, you only have yourself to blame. ~ Chrissy Teigen,

925:How can a country be home to sectarian militias and yet also to people who are educated, sophisticated, and pluralistic? This is not a simple matter. It's the kind of dialectical inquiry that's impossible to present in the world of Twitter feeds and newspapers where stories are shorter and shorter and more simplistic. ~ Annia Ciezadlo,

926:The 140-Character Mission Statement Let’s break down the planning process into a very simple exercise: defining the mission statement for your business (or your business idea) in 140 characters or less. That is the maximum amount of text for an update on Twitter and a good natural limit for narrowing down a concept. ~ Chris Guillebeau,

927:There are many benefits to a sports entity breaking news directly to their recipients: the entity has full control over the message and how it is shared versus previously relying on a media outlets to translate or distribute as they choose. Also, there's no quicker place for valuable information to spread than Twitter. ~ Amy Jo Martin,

928:It was a very, very strange experience to go through on social media. Before that, my social media life had been very tame. I had only just dipped my toes in the world of Twitter and was throwing out a tweet, here and there, of very boring and normal stuff. All of a sudden, Pornstache just turned my world upside down. ~ Pablo Schreiber,

929:The White House New Media team circulates multiple highlights each day of what people are looking for online - Twitter trending topics, popular Google searches, etc. - and it gives us a sense of what's breaking through, what isn't, and a sanity check for what the larger online population cares about at any given time. ~ Daniel Pfeiffer,

930:America pays its bills. It always has. It always will. The fact that Washington is now debating whether to honor its debts and obligations, then, should come as a surprise. But playing political football with a necessary vote to raise the nation's debt ceiling has become as predictable as a Twitter rant from Charlie Sheen. ~ Peter Welch,

931:Donald Trump insult women. We've seen him rate women on their appearance, ranking them from one to ten. We've seen him embarrass women on TV and on Twitter. We saw him after the first debate spend nearly a week denigrating a former Miss Universe in the harshest, most personal terms. So yes, this is who Donald Trump is. ~ Hillary Clinton,

932:I really don't have time "to Twitter," it's not something that should grab your day. That's a big misconception, actually, about the whole service. You don't go out of your way to tweet, you just post when you've got something. Hopefully, not while you're driving. It complements your life more than takes over your life. ~ Chris Hardwick,

933:I was on Facebook. I was on MySpace. And somebody said to me, You should check out this thing called Twitter. I knew five people that were on it, so I started following those people and seeing what they were doing, and then I applied my own sensibility to it. The more that I shared, the more people started following me. ~ Ashton Kutcher,

934:I just recently joined Twitter. It's very positive - I love all the accolades. If my ego is hurting, I can just open my Twitter account and see 'Oh, I love you! I love the show!' and it's great. I'm trying to find the balance between trying to be funny, being honest and just being a promoter as the guy on 'Royal Pains.' ~ Mark Feuerstein,

935:The only time I ever follow Twitter is if I'm in a restaurant or something, just before I leave, to see if people are waiting outside. It does make you a bit of a loser, especially when someone asks you, 'Hey, you want to go to dinner at this place?' and I'm like, 'Can we have dinner at this place? It has three exits.' ~ Robert Pattinson,

936:I hear [my Twitter followers] say, you know, 'Bob Rae, you're an asshole'. [...] I'm working my way and trying to represent the people and speaking in Question Period and here we have vox populi, the thoughtful man on the street, 'you are an asshole!'. Thank you very much. I read it on my Twitter and I get up and ask a question. ~ Bob Rae,

937:President Obama announced this week that he is going to start sending out his own messages personally on Twitter. And today Anthony Weiner said, “It’s a trap, don’t do it!” But President Obama’s tweets are a little different than Anthony Weiner’s. When Obama sends out pictures of something obscene, it’s the unemployment numbers. ~ Jay Leno,

938:Facebook didn’t even exist yet, Twitter was still a sound, the cloud was still in the sky, 4G was a parking space, “applications” were what you sent to college, LinkedIn was barely known and most people thought it was a prison, Big Data was a good name for a rap star, and Skype, for most people, was a typographical error. ~ Thomas L Friedman,

939:Get out,” he said flatly. “I just got her normal again. Get out before you turn her into a sniveling, twitterpated…twit!” “Jenks!” I exclaimed, and Pierce put a calming hand on me. “That is my intent, Jenks,” he said gallantly, and I wondered if Pierce meant his intent was to leave or to turn me into a twitterpated twit. ~ Kim Harrison,

940:I feel like there isn't as much mystery to music anymore. That could be a good thing or a bad thing. There definitely is no seperation anymore. Your connection with your fans is like two clicks away on a phone with a Twitter or a blog. I think that's a good thing. It's a new music industry. You're really connected with your fans. ~ Jason Wade,

941:I think Trump's presidency represents a completely different model than what we're used to. And I think to your point, yes, he is a great communicator, you know? He uses Twitter to great effect. I just wish he could stick more to the truth, because it's a very effective way of communicating directly with the American people. ~ James R Clapper,

942:I treat Twitter like a news feed. I follow you guys, I follow every news organization - left, right, center, and everything in between - and it's like a ticker on my phone. For me it's that you have to wade through the people who wish you were dead - and I have to respect their opinions - but it helps me stay on top of the news. ~ Willie Geist,

943:It was incredible, Lady Gaga came to see the piece. She didn't sit with me, but it was all atwitter. Every single kid from 12 to 18 ran to see Lady Gaga and then Lady Gaga left and they stayed. And they stayed another day another day and it created a completely different culture, a different audience that I never had before. ~ Marina Abramovic,

944:She chuckled to herself, pressed send, and wandered around the airport for half an hour, sporadically checking Twitter. “I got nothing,” she told me. “No replies.” I imagined her feeling a bit deflated about this—that sad feeling when nobody congratulates you for being funny, that black silence when the Internet doesn’t talk back. ~ Jon Ronson,

945:The evolution of social media into a robust mechanism for social transformation is already visible. Despite many adamant critics who insist that tools like Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube are little more than faddish distractions useful only to exchange trivial information, these critics are being proven wrong time and again. ~ Simon Mainwaring,

946:When I first started looking at Twitter, I followed people like Steve Martin, who will just write the funniest non sequiturs now and then, which I thought was really fun. That's kind of the road I've taken. Every now and then, something comes into your mind and you put it out there. It's very innocuous. I think it's kind of fun. ~ Steve Carell,

947:You never understand how vulnerable you are in this age of social media until something breaks against you, and then . . . then it’s too late. You can shut down Facebook, Twitter, Instagram; you can change your phone number and your e-mail. Move to new places. But for dedicated tormentors, that isn’t a barrier. It’s a challenge. ~ Rachel Caine,

948:And though it seemed odd that she still didn't know his name, something kept her from asking. Those two little words, she knew, would inevitably set off a chain reaction: first Google, then Facebook, then Twitter, and on and on, mining the twists and turns of the internet until all the mystery had been wrung out of the thing. ~ Jennifer E Smith,

949:It amazes me that we are all on Twitter and Facebook. By "we" I mean adults. We're adults, right? But emotionally we're a culture of seven-year-olds. Have you ever had that moment when are you updating your status and you realize that every status update is just a variation on a single request: "Would someone please acknowledge me? ~ Marc Maron,

950:Little, Brown and Company Hachette Book Group 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017 littlebrown.com twitter.com/ littlebrown facebook.com/ littlebrownandcompany First ebook edition: November 2008 The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to hachettespeakersbureau.com ~ Malcolm Gladwell,

951:I felt like if I said something positive on Twitter, it got no play. But if I said something negative on Twitter, it was a billion retweets and so that was giving me a Pavlovian response to be mean, and I don't want to be mean. We all have mean thoughts. They should not be broadcast on Twitter. You don't need to see mean things. ~ Damon Lindelof,

952:We have become a society that can't self-correct, that can't address its obvious problems, that can't pull out of its nosedive. And so to our list of disasters let us add this fourth entry: we have entered an age of folly that - for all our Facebooking and the twittling tweedle-dee-tweets of the twitterati - we can't wake up from. ~ Thomas Frank,

953:When you think of a social network, you have these two-way interactions: "Are you my friend? Yes? No? Yes?" Like LinkedIn, it's business oriented, but it's all about establishing connections. You connect to me through my other connections, and that sort of thing, and you sort of define who your friends are. Twitter doesn't have that. ~ Biz Stone,

954:The first complaint we hear from everyone is: 'Why would I want to join this stupid useless thing and know what my brother's eating for lunch?' But that really misses the point because Twitter is fundamentally recipient-controlled - you choose to listen and you choose to leave. But you also choose what to put down and what to share. ~ Jack Dorsey,

955:We are training our brains to have an attention deficit. A lot of people simply cannot focus for an extended period of time anymore. I have heard that the average person looks at their mobile phone about 50 times a day. We are reading emails, the news, Facebook, and Twitter etc., during what should be family and relationship time. ~ Kevin Horsley,

956:Creativity doesn’t come from glancing quickly at your Twitter feed while in line at Starbucks. It comes from deep thought. It comes from voraciously reading books—long books that require focused attention. It comes from meaningful discourse with other intellectually curious people. It comes from listening and asking good questions. ~ Joshua Rogers,

957:I am the most concerned that we end up in a situation where your - everything is known about you and so therefore, not only Google, but Google, Facebook, Twitter - the whole set of companies - essentially knows all your weaknesses and therefore how to manipulate you in subtle ways in order to have you do things you might not otherwise do. ~ Tim Wu,

958:I was on Twitter and I saw that I had over 1,000 responses and I was like "OK, something happened," so I opened it and it was like "Charice on Glee!" I didn't get an e-mail from the show so I wasn't tweeting at that time. I just watched my fans tweet. And then after about 30 minutes the show e-mailed me and said congratulations. ~ Charice Pempengco,

959:I can’t believe you still do this,” Myron said. “Are we moralizing again?” Win asked with a smile. “How nice for us.” “Let me ask you something.” “Oh, please do.” “Something I always wanted to know.” “My ears are all atwitter.” “Putting aside my repugnancy for a moment—” “Not on my account,” Win said. “I so enjoy when you’re superior. ~ Harlan Coben,

960:Plus how much time have I given over to watching TV or staring out of windows or pursuing pointless relationships or looking at my Twitter mentions? Those hours all add up and are sadly deducted from the overall life total. They are not a break from life, these ‘harmless’ distractions, they are life. They are life and they are death. ~ Russell Brand,

961:The jagged mountains were pure blue in the dawn and everywhere birds twittered and the sun when it rose caught the moon in the west so that they lay opposed to each other across the earth, the sun whitehot and the moon a pale replica, as if they were the ends of a common bore beyond whose terminals burned worlds past all reckoning. ~ Cormac McCarthy,

962:Me and my friends, we do this little two-finger-on-two-finger thing when we talk to each other, because we're Twitterholics. Maybe #acceptance. I feel like we pay a lot of attention to the word "tolerance," and I don't really like it. I get it, but I don't need you to tolerate this. It is. When you accept something, it's much deeper. ~ Rosario Dawson,

963:A new software is being developed so the psychological operations guys and the Pentagon's strategic communications guys - and we don't really know who's running it - but this is all totally out in the open. It's this new program that will allow them to have like ten fake Twitter accounts and ten Facebook accounts so you can pretend. ~ Michael Hastings,

964:We'd all survive if Twitter shut down for a short while during major riots. Social media isn't any more important than a train station, a road or a bus service. We don't worry about police temporarily closing those. Common sense. If riot info and fear is spreading by Facebook and Twitter, shut them off for an hour or two, then restore. ~ Louise Mensch,

965:People put clips of me up. There are quotes from me. I've written books, of course. I'm on Twitter. There are dozens of ways to consume my offerings, and a lecture in a large venue is really only just one of them. So I have no concerns about how much access people would have to me no matter what is the capacity of your pocketbook. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

966:Twitter, Reddit, Tumblr, Instagram, all these companies are businesses first, but, as a close second, they're demographers of unprecedented reach, thoroughness, and importance. Practically as an accident, digital data can now show us how we fight, how we love, how we age, who we are, and how we're changing. All we have to do is look. ~ Christian Rudder,

967:By nature, I'm like a 90-year-old woman, so the whole internet and Twitter and Facebook, and all of that, I'm very new to. But, I am quite shocked at how much fun it is to be able to reach out to people, on a daily basis, and keep content out there, and how much it actually really does help promote things, in such a different way. ~ Jennifer Love Hewitt,

968:I think what's happening for me, it's fun to see other things besides Facebook and Twitter take hold. The maturity of Tumblr as a real player is exciting. I think Pinterest has proved to be a major player. It's fun to see Instagram become a major player. It's fun to watch things like SnapChat, and Vine, try to vie to be the next thing. ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

969:Mary Frances Berry, the former head of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, addressed the Politics and Prose Black Authors Race Panel discussion on January 15, 2018, saying that the Twitter platform is powerful, but not that powerful. “Some people think social media is a substitute for action. It’s not. You have to get out and do something. ~ April Ryan,

970:The designers usually don't like to say until we're on the runway. Like when I did Prada last year, I couldn't mention doing Prada or even Tweet or take a picture and put it on Twitter saying I was backstage at the Prada show. And Dolce was the same thing. They like to keep a little surprise, I guess, a little secret for everybody. ~ Alessandra Ambrosio,

971:I was running a traditional presidential campaign with carefully thought-out policies and painstakingly built coalitions, while Trump was running a reality TV show that expertly and relentlessly stoked Americans’ anger and resentment. I was giving speeches laying out how to solve the country’s problems. He was ranting on Twitter. ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

972:The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries. ~ Kenneth Grahame,

973:This is bizarre,” Dan said. “I find it really strange—the way you’re approaching this. You must be one of the very few people who have chosen to come on Twitter and use their own name as their Twitter name. Who does that? And that’s why I’m a little suspicious of your motives, Jon. That’s why I say I think you’re using it as brand management. ~ Jon Ronson,

974:Twitter is a place where you share your thoughts, yourself... you don't want a plain white backdrop for that. You want the entire page to say something about who you are. Designer or not, if the urge strikes you, go for it. Put up that watercolor you've never shown anyone. Take a photo of that hat you just knitted... whatever it is, share it. ~ Nate Berkus,

975:A lot of things, whether it's Brexit, the U.S. election, things that are happening on Facebook Live, the way that Twitter in many cases was weaponized, obviously for good but then obviously for bad, for proxy. Governments who use it to troll and give voice to conspiracy theories, white supremacists, et cetera. I think that's not going away. ~ James Ponsoldt,

976:I always had a Twitter account. I always had an Instagram account. I was always active on it, always spoke my mind. To me, it's really weird that I got so many followers and people that pay attention the way they do. It's hilarious, actually, because people didn't used to listen to me at all. I used to be like, "Does anybody hear me talkin'?" ~ Leslie Jones,

977:You have to be careful with fans, they'll turn on you. They turn quick. Twitter can go dark fast. If you talk about something serious on Twitter, you better be ready. If you try to pull out real facts or talk about political opinions or something religious, forget it. Like if people asked me who I was voting for, you couldn't touch that one. ~ Bruce Campbell,

978:[Donald] Trump has been very inconsistent on many things; on Twitter he's been all over the place, but some of it is very consistent. That is: Do nothing about climate change except make it worse. And he's not just speaking for himself, but for the whole Republican Party, the whole leadership. It's already had impact, it will have worse impact. ~ Noam Chomsky,

979:People really do identify with the characters they see on the show, but these days, social media allows you to interact with fans in a really interesting way. On my Twitter account, I'm Chris Carmack, not Will Lexington. I interact with fans and joke with them. I'll post pictures from my life. I think that helps drop the curtain of a character. ~ Chris Carmack,

980:Conventionally, a developer will create a piece of software, and once it’s finished, expose a small part of its functionality to outside developers via the API. The Twitter team took the exact opposite approach. They built the API first, and exposed all the data that was crucial to the service, and then they built Twitter.com on top of the API. ~ Steven Johnson,

981:It's crazy how your mind works because you can receive hundreds and thousands of all these love posts and all this good affirmation on Instagram or Twitter. And then that one person writes one thing that dims your light but that's the thing you can't let it dim your light, because what I've realized - it's really not your problem, it's theirs. ~ Danielle Brooks,

982:Sometimes as actors and artists, we don't really get to be an effective and integral part of the promotional process, other than doing interviews. With Twitter and Facebook now, and all of this stuff, it really allows us to play and have fun, vis-à-vis the pictures that I send out on Twitter every day, or little videos, or whatever it is. ~ Jennifer Love Hewitt,

983:The faux now of Twitter updates and things pinging at you - all the pulses from digitality that we try to keep up with because we sense that there's something going on that we need to tap into - are artifacts, or symptoms of living in this atemporal reality. And it's not any worse than living in the 'time is money' reality that we're leaving. ~ Douglas Rushkoff,

984:Did Donald Trump apologize for taking after somebody in a Twitter war and making fun of her weight? Did he apologize for saying African-Americans are living in Hell? Did he apologize for saying President Obama was not even a citizen of the United States? You will look in vain to see Donald Trump ever taking responsibility for anybody and apologizing. ~ Tim Kaine,

985:There's a lot of definitions flying around of what we mean when we say fake news. And there's also a lot of pitfalls and I think some misguided recommendations that are out there about what Facebook and Twitter and the others should and shouldn't do. It's very difficult and I, you know, recommend sort of very thoughtful slow going for everyone. ~ Vivian Schiller,

986:Artists are all giving so much of ourselves to the work and the people and the press and the media and Twitter and all that now. For me, being able to create from a genuine place is really difficult lately because there's so much going on all the time, but when all that stuff gets quiet, you can explore your ideas without any ego or mental chatter. ~ Flying Lotus,

987:hear this a lot but reviews are so massively important to authors. If you’ve enjoyed ‘Safe with Me’ and could spare just a few minutes on Amazon or Goodreads to say so, I would so appreciate that. You can also connect with me via my website, on Facebook or Twitter. If you’ve enjoyed this, my debut novel, you might be interested to know that I’ve been ~ K L Slater,

988:To me I think Twitter is a much more honest way to really connect with your fan base without it being the horrible magazines out there that might not get the truth right. At least this gives a little bit of an honest glimpse into someone's life without it being too overdone and too personal. You get to control it, which is what I like about it. ~ Tiffani Thiessen,

989:Comedians are - at the end of the day, we're just a bunch of people that lack a little bit of - we're very insecure, and we want to be loved and liked by everybody. And you know, I could check my Twitter and there could be 150 people that say wonderful things. There'll be one person who says something negative. And all we focus on is that negative. ~ Russell Peters,

990:Breakthrough ideas look crazy, nuts. It’s hard to think this way — I see it in other people’s body language, and I can feel it in my own, where I sometimes feel like I don’t even care if it’s going to work, I can’t take more change. O.K., Google, O.K., Twitter—but Airbnb? People staying in each other’s houses without there being a lot of axe murders? ~ Marc Andreessen,

991:I’ve been spending a ton of hours on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, Snapchat, Meerkat, Periscope, LinkedIn, and many other platforms, and from this man’s point of view we are living in an unbelievably interesting time. I haven’t felt this sense of disruption since 2006–2007, when Facebook and Twitter started to eat away at Friendster and MySpace. The ~ Gary Vaynerchuk,

992:There is a person that says they invented the podcast and they are suing Adam Carolla, because he is the top of the hill, for patent infringement. If this person wins, Adam Carolla, Marc Maron, Joe Rogan, Jay Mohr, Chris Hardwick, it will all go away. So, it's kind of like when someone takes your name so you can't get it on Twitter, magnified times a billion. ~ Jay Mohr,

993:The thing I really like about Twitter is the speed with which information reaches me. You find out things from Twitter long before they're on the news. That I think is valuable. In terms of actually tweeting myself, I have just lost enthusiasm for it. Maybe I'll do some of it this week to tell people about the PEN Festival and encourage them to show up. ~ Salman Rushdie,

994:Twitter isn’t built for collective action; it’s good at bringing people together but not good at letting them collectively communicate once they’ve arrived there. Ultimately, Twitter is built to encourage people to categorically self-assemble, to aggregate their data, and to then sell it to advertisers. Any politics done on Twitter should be mindful of that. ~ Anonymous,

995:An Elf-Woman went by him, seated in a chair that moved along by itself, humming as it went. An Elf-Man walked by the other way, talking into a—a far-speak, but one that had no leash fastening it to the wall. Two Elf-Women each carried huge bunches of giant, fiercely colored Elvish flowers. And all the time the air twittered and beeped and hissed and buzzed. ~ Susan Price,

996:when Twitter announced the number of permissible characters in a single tweet was being doubled from 140 to 280, Trump told Porter he thought the change made sense on one level. Now he would be able to flesh out his thoughts and add more depth. “It’s a good thing,” Trump said, “but it’s a bit of a shame because I was the Ernest Hemingway of 140 characters. ~ Bob Woodward,

997:As our kids are drawn into, you know, Facebook and twittering and having their own cell phone and iPod and all those things , all of those things will take up as much time as you give them. What our goal is is to help them find that natural balance so that the things of our culture don't just steal their hearts and their minds and just consume their lives. ~ Alex Kendrick,

998:I feel like today's culture seeks at every turn to place more and more power in the hands of the individual. Bookstores are lined with shelves filled with self-help books. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and every other social media outlets turn our focus inwards, allowing us to fall more and more in love with ourselves, our thoughts, our opinions, our voices. ~ Matthew West,

999:I try to be personal, but that's not me, either. What seems to work best, and the tweets I enjoy reading the most, are when comedians just give jokes. It's a great joke of the day thing, especially revolving around current events. But that's not my forte either, so I find myself in no man's land with Twitter. I don't particularly enjoy giving me out to everyone. ~ John Cho,

1000:All my days are themed. Monday is managementTuesday is product, engineering, and design. Wednesday is marketing, growth, and communications. Thursday is partnership and developers. Friday is company and cultureOn the days beginning with T, I start at Twitter in the morning, then go to Square in the afternoon. Sundays are for strategySaturday is a day off. ~ Jack Dorsey,

1001:I never had the desire to be a professional Twitterer. Every now and then something dumb pops into my head and I'll tweet it. I don't feel any obligation to respond to everyone. Not that I don't appreciate people sending me messages on there, but there are too many. Responding to everyone would take away time for all the stuff I'm actually in the business for. ~ Aziz Ansari,

1002:I think before Twitter people didn't think that way, not in any sort of meaningful or specific way, so what I'm trying to say, if we're trying a bunch of stuff, a lot of cool and great social stuff, a lot of platform stuff, then some of it will stick, and some of it will be junked over. Some of it will be just like the cell phone, you can't imagine not having it. ~ Biz Stone,

1003:Fortunately, at that time, Ireland wasn’t in the world. So we weren’t in the World War. Old Roundrims came up with that. Brilliant, really. World War II was toirmiscthe, he said, which people had to look up but basically turned out to be verboten in Irish. Twitter went crazy, saying it was shameful and backward, but back then twitter was only spoken by birds. ~ Niall Williams,

1004:I had to persuade a dog to swallow a pill. I twittered for advice and I got suggestion after suggestion. Most of them didn't work. 'Put the pill in the sausage.' No - that doesn't work. 'Cheese.' No. Then someone said: 'You wrap it in butter and it will slide down.' I tried it and it worked! And I'd learnt how to give a pill to a dog through the magic of Twitter. ~ Neil Gaiman,

1005:I knew it straight away when Twitter first came around, and also Facebook, where it was so easy to post, that this was another way to speak directly with people listening to my music. If they found my music and they like it, most likely they want to hear more from me and hear what I'm about. I've put an enormous amount of time into that and it's played out well for me. ~ Kaskade,

1006:I have a strong aversion to Twitter, and yet there is a social obligation that forces me to pop in and spy on celebrities now and then. I don’t get Twitter. It’s impossible to follow conversation threads, and it’s too easy to spend hours and hours clicking on random names, and the next thing you know, you've become infatuated with Tweet photos from the Kardashians. ~ Jessica Park,

1007:Here at home, we need to do two fundamental things. Number one, we need to recognize that technology has moved on. The Patriot Act was signed in 2001, roughly. The iPhone was invented in 2007. The iPad was invented in 2011. Snapchat and Twitter, all the rest of it, have been around just for several years. Technology has moved on, and the terrorists have moved on with it. ~ Ted Cruz,

1008:I like to read quotes that touch on how I am feeling [on social media]. If I am dealing with confusion, I will read quotes about clarity and peace of mind. I started posting these quotes on my Twitter page, and the fans responded so positively! I realized that many of them were dealing with similar issues, and the quotes helped to open up a genuine dialogue between us. ~ Keke Palmer,

1009:It's nice to be able to directly speak to fans and thank them for their support. The only time that it can get tricky is when they are unkind or say things that may not be so easy to say if they weren't behind a computer. Bullying is never ok. I personally have only experienced it very infrequently so overall I enjoy Twitter and Instagram but I'm definitely aware of it. ~ Claire Holt,

1010:When you see what is happening with the social network, with Facebook, Twitter and co it is becoming obvious that the reputation of ourselves is becoming more and more important everyday. Image is becoming too much for me, and we are living in a virtual world and sometimes it is very easy to make mistakes. It is more difficult to take responsibility for our mistakes. ~ Emmanuel Petit,

1011:Beautiful, seamless upgrade from Twitter today, making functionality smoother and cooler. We didn't have to lobby, didn't have to beg, didn't have to elect a new leader, didn't have to push or protest. Progress is built in to the structure of the mechanism itself: this company exists to please you and me. This is a far better system than any political system on earth. ~ Jeffrey Tucker,

1012:Those who use foul language on social networks (such as Twitter) are sending an expensive signal that they are free—and, ironically, competent. You don’t signal competence if you don’t take risks for it—there are few such low-risk strategies. So cursing today is a status symbol, just as oligarchs in Moscow wear blue jeans at special events to signal their power. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,

1013:When you think about email or IMing, why aren't you writing back? I can see your avatar, I know you're online, why aren't you writing me back? But with Twitter, everybody sends their responses to Twitter, and Twitter then sends them out to everyone. So there's not this constant connection. You can be hyperconnected, then you can take a break for a couple days and it's fine. ~ Biz Stone,

1014:In the event of a Law Enforcement Breach, a computer would the first thing the LEOs --law enforcement officers --would confiscate. I had a laptop upstairs in plain view, partially for that exact purpose. They were welcome to my Twitter account and my gallery of cute fluffy animals dressed in hilarious Halloween costumes. Nobody thought to check the dead-tree books anymore, ~ Ilona Andrews,

1015:I had to persuade a dog to swallow a pill. I twittered for advice and I got suggestion after suggestion. Most of them didn't work. 'Put the pill in the sausage.' No - that doesn't work. 'Cheese.' No. Then someone said: 'You wrap it in butter and it will slide down.' I tried it and it worked! And I'd learnt how to give a pill to a dog through the magic of Twitter. ~ Neil Gaiman,

1016:I think Twitter is the literature of the 21st century. I think it's an incredible art because when you make a book, you don't know who reads it. But every line, I write a million people, they read it, and then they insult me, they love me, they discuss, they give an opinion instantly, immediately. They are completely in communication, immediately. That is a real art. ~ Alejandro Jodorowsky,

1017:A lot of potential Hillary voters were infused with a not-great feeling about Hillary, or about voting at all. Were you one of them? If so, please think back. Were you seeing any information customized for you before the election? Did you use Twitter or Facebook? Did you do a lot of online searches? You were had. You were tricked. Your best intentions were turned against you. ~ Jaron Lanier,

1018:Ev and Jack had fundamentally different views of what Twitter was and how it should be used. Jack had always seen Twitter as a status updater, a way to say where he was and what he was doing. A place to display yourself, your ego. Ev, who was shy and had been shaped by his days building Blogger, saw it as a way to share where other people were and what other people were doing. ~ Nick Bilton,

1019:The challenge CEOs will face three to five years from now is the same one that they face today. That is engagement. It's hard to keep people engaged in what they are doing. As this generation grows up around social media like Twitter where things are 140 characters, how do you keep them engaged all hours every day at work? How do you keep them focused on the big goals you have? ~ Don Yaeger,

1020:The cushions of my friend's couch were some kind of rubberized velour, the windows were uncurtained, and at five a.m. the birds were all atwitter and the light, the L.A. light everyone goes on and on about, was right in my East Coast eyes. Give me New York any day, I thought. But when New York came, it was with fangs and claws, in a nightmare I now woke from screaming. ~ Garth Risk Hallberg,

1021:PR got to be much bigger because of the emergence of digital media. Now we have hundreds of people who are, in a sense, manning embassies for Facebook and Twitter for brands. So the business in effect has morphed from pitching stories to traditional media, to working with bloggers, Twitter, Facebook and other social media, and then putting good content up on owned websites. ~ Richard Edelman,

1022:Sometimes I will tweet things without an audience in mind at all, just because I want to say something that I don't feel I can say otherwise. Those tweets have a specific sense of desperation to them, because I write them when I feel like I don't have anyone else to talk to - as if Twitter is the only thing that will accept my insanely inappropriate thoughts without judgement. ~ Mira Gonzalez,

1023:Ultimately, I just felt like Twitter brought out the worst in me. It made me super defensive when I was attacked, because you're under a constant state of attack. No one should be able to check their @ mentions, because Twitter is the equivalent of "Hey, those three people over there that are whispering... They're whispering about you! Do you want to know what they're saying?" ~ Damon Lindelof,

1024:Short attention span is the new avant-garde. Everyone complains that we can no longer intake huge chunks of text. I find that a reason to celebrate. It's something that has deep roots in modernism, stretching from the Futurists' use of typography to Pound's use of ideograms to concrete poetry. David Markson feels particularly relevant now. Twitter is the revenge of modernism. ~ Kenneth Goldsmith,

1025:Corporations funding the abortion ban:- AT&T: $196,600 across 6 states- Walmart: $57,700 across 6 states- Pfizer: $53,650 across 6 states- Eli Lilly: $66,250 across 5 states- Coca-Cola: $40,800 across 5 states- Aetna: $26,600 across 4 statesSpread their shame. twitter.com/JuddLegum/stat…Correcting oneself is correcting the whole world. ~ Sri Ramana MaharshiCorrection#sriaurobindo #autocorrect,

1026:People in the modern world are the most bored generation. They keep refreshing their Facebook, Instagram and Twitter pages to see if something interesting is happening. They would switch on their television sets every now and then with the hope to see some interesting content on it. If nothing works, they plan to dine out, go for a holiday or join a club to get rid of the boredom. ~ Awdhesh Singh,

1027:Get out,” Evan Williams said to the woman standing in his office doorway. “I’m going to throw up.” She stepped backward, pulling the door closed, a metal clicking sound reverberating through the room as he grabbed the black wastebasket in the corner of his office, his hands now shaking and clammy. This was it. His last act as the CEO of Twitter would be throwing up into a garbage can. ~ Nick Bilton,

1028:I feel like when you do Twitter, sometimes you just have an idea and you fire it off and don't really think too hard about the consequences of that. I think my reputation there is as a comedian and not someone to be taken seriously. But I like the idea of getting out false information and just muddying up the story and making it as confusing and, you know, schizophrenic as possible. ~ Tim Heidecker,

1029:The funny thing about Facebook and Twitter is, you can go on there and see what's going on in the world without watching the news. I get so much news off of social media. I think it's cool. It's changed everything, not just music. It's changed the world. It definitely is a good thing. I don't really know what I think of it yet more than that. I haven't really sorted that out for myself. ~ Macy Gray,

1030:A lot of the letters that are coming in - a lot of them are queries or comments - are one sentence long... These are from Twitter. And if you look at the nature of those one sentence letters, most of the time it's something that came to somebody's mind - somebody walking down the street had a thought and sent it out. If they thought about it for two minutes they would not have sent it. ~ Noam Chomsky,

1031:Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has. Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering through the woods? Do I astonish more than they? This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. ~ Walt Whitman,

1032:I've been very reluctant on the Twitter front. But I do Instagram now, so I'm slowly coming around. I'm quite a private person, so much of what I do for my job means that I have to be quite public so I'm just nervous about everything being public. I might turn around. Three years ago, I was against all social media but I actually really enjoy Instagram now. Who knows? I never say never! ~ Jeremy Irvine,

1033:We'll eradicate Twitter. I don't care what the international community says. Everyone will witness the power of the Turkish Republic. There is now a scourge that is called Twitter. The best examples of lies can be found there. To me, social media is the worst menace to society. They came to me with this case of Twitter ignoring case of smeared housewife. I said, let's solve this. ~ Recep Tayyip Erdogan,

1034:My life is split in three parts; I don't know the percentage. One could be called "chess" - the Kasparov Chess Foundation, promoting the game, training young players, playing on the internet, sometimes exhibitions. The second area would be "writing" - books, articles, Twitter, Facebook. And then "political activity" - fighting for human rights and democracy, so TV, interviews, speeches. ~ Garry Kasparov,

1035:The future of narrative? Built in, part of the human template. Not going away. The future of the codex book, with pages and so forth? A platform for transmitting narratives. There are others. The scroll is coming back (Twitter is a scroll.) Short forms are returning online. Interactivity is coming back; it was always there in oral storytelling. Each form has its pluses and its minuses. ~ Margaret Atwood,

1036:We have to learn to feed the heart, taking emotional impressions directly there. Rodney Collin pic.twitter.com/bhV5B2G5X8We have to learn to look & see, not just outwardly into the physical world, but straight into our own unconscious. And if we are going to do so we need the solid support, the grounding or foundation that the only Gnostics' unique insights into the unconscious can provice ~ Kingsley,

1037:I really believe that fact that I have such power in terms of numbers with Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, et cetera, I think it helped me win all of these races where others spending much more money than I spent. You know, I spent my money. A lot of my money. And I won. I think that social media has more power than the money others spent, and I think maybe to a certain extent, I proved that. ~ Donald Trump,

1038:The amateur has a long list of fears. Near the top are two: Solitude and silence. The amateur fears solitude and silence because she needs to avoid, at all costs, the voice inside her head that would point her toward her calling and her destiny. So she seeks distraction. The amateur prizes shallowness and shuns depth. The culture of Twitter and Facebook is paradise for the amateur. ~ Steven Pressfield,

1039:Let’s begin with the first ability. To start, we must remember that we’ve been spoiled by the intuitive and drop-dead-simple user experience of many consumer-facing technologies, like Twitter and the iPhone. These examples, however, are consumer products, not serious tools: Most of the intelligent machines driving the Great Restructuring are significantly more complex to understand and master. ~ Cal Newport,

1040:They adored each other; but still the permanent and the immutable subsist. We may love and laugh, pout, clasp hands, smile, and exchange endearments, but that does not affect eternity. Two lovers hide in the dusk of evening, amid flowers and the twittering of birds, and enchant each other with their hearts shinning in their eyes; but the stars in their course still circle through infinite space. ~ Victor Hugo,

1041:I don't think anything ever "needs" to happen. I don't think it's more positive to have a Twitter account, a Tumblr, and a blog. Someone without those things will use their time to do other things, like read books or swim or talk to their children or read websites or listen to music or write books or lie in bed or sit in a chair. I don't think any of these things are more positive than any other things. ~ Tao Lin,

1042:They [the Travelers] know everything about the year that they're coming into. But you can know everything and still be tripped up by the little stuff that you didn't notice. And one character's Facebook page is made up of lies. It's an interesting comment on what's been going on the last few months. We cannot rely anymore on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram. People are making up their own truths. ~ Eric McCormack,

1043:Network effects were supposed to help promote long tail content, not shut it out. And yet the current mechanisms of networks like Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube make it difficult for new players to break through. There’re high barriers of entry to online media, even if there’s a low cost to enter. Even if you make it, you need to figure out how to translate your likes, retweets, and clicks to real value. ~ Anonymous,

1044:Bad feminism seems like the only way I can both embrace myself as a feminist and be myself, and so I write. I chatter away on Twitter about everything that makes me angry and all the small things that bring me joy. I write blog posts about the meals I cook as I try to take better care of myself, and with each new entry, I realize that I'm undestroying myself after years of allowing myself to stay damaged. ~ Roxane Gay,

1045:Beneath all the unintelligent commentary about pop culture and what everyone had for dinner, the Twitterverse was a turbulent sea of vicious accusation, unsubstantiated rumor, and outright lies. The false facelessness of it gave people the freedom to strike out in ways they might never have dared in person. Even the meek became assassins on Twitter, drunk on the counterfeit confidence of imagined anonymity. ~ Tami Hoag,

1046:This is just what we saw in the Arab Spring. One of the defining features of the revolutions that swept the Middle East in early 2011 was their use of communication technologies. During the protests in Cairo, Egypt, that brought down President Hosni Mubarak, one activist summed this up nicely in a tweet: “We use Facebook to schedule the protests, Twitter to coordinate, and YouTube to tell the world. ~ Peter H Diamandis,

1047:If you say interesting stuff on twitter, people will follow you there. I think Jim Caruso, from MediaFirst, does this well. He’s been at every single technology event I’ve ever attended in Atlanta for the last 10 years. He knows what’s going on. He’s a technology geek at heart... And he’s on twitter, tweeting about local startups, global technology news, and of course, his own clients. I follow him on twitter. ~ Ben Chestnut,

1048:Prometheus was humming away in its custom-built computer cluster, which resided in long rows of racks in a vast, access-controlled, air-conditioned room. For security reasons, it was completely disconnected from the internet, but it contained a local copy of much of the web (Wikipedia, the Library of Congress, Twitter, a selection from YouTube, much of Facebook, etc.) to use as its training data to learn from.* ~ Max Tegmark,

1049:This is a time of tremendous ferment and experimentation that is scary and exciting at the same time. The biggest challenge for media remains economic. How will we pay for the kind of work that really makes a difference? The revenue model for news has been profoundly disrupted, and that is as much a challenge for Vox, Medium, Yahoo or Twitter as it is in some ways for The New York Times or a local newspaper. ~ Tom Rosenstiel,

1050:History teaches us that many breakthroughs were happy accidents. Whether that's penicillin coming from Fleming neglecting to clean his laboratory before going on vacation or the team at Odeon trying a little side project that allowed people to communicate in real time as long as their message was 140 characters or less (which ultimately of course became Twitter), the unintended is often the transformational. ~ Scott D Anthony,

1051:I don't think it's more positive to have a Twitter account, a Tumblr, and a blog. Someone without those things will use their time to do other things, like read books or swim or talk to their children or read websites or listen to music or write books or lie in bed or sit in a chair. I don't think any of these things are more positive than any other things. I don't think having an internet presence helps financially. ~ Tao Lin,

1052:The fans [of Vampire diaries] that we have now are the people who will watch it any day of the week. So, my first instinct was a little bit of an ego tap, but the second I processed it, I was fine. The only weird thing will be maybe not having as many people live tweeting because they're actually out doing something more interesting on Friday night. I'm not going to sit at home, reading Twitter on Friday night. ~ Caroline Dries,

1053:1260 Without This—there Is Nought 655 Without this—there is nought— All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird— Heard opposite the Sea— I could not care—to gain A lesser than the Whole— For did not this include themself— As Seams—include the Ball? I wished a way might be My Heart to subdivide— 'Twould magnify—the Gratitude— And not reduce—the Gold— ~ Emily Dickinson,

1054:Between Twitter and Facebook I have nearly 70,000 followers, so my colleagues receive the responses. They show some of them to me, and I am always interested to read what people have to say. I filter all the information that reaches me, from letters in the newspaper, to conversations. There are many influences that shape my decisions, and often people on Twitter are thinking along the same lines as I do on an issue. ~ Helen Zille,

1055:Bridget [Jones] was always, at heart, about the gap between how you feel you're expected to be and how you actually are and that gap has only widened. Young people now are entering an uncharted sea, where there's huge pressure to judge yourself on how many Likes or Followers you get on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram, rather than the on important things like being kind, honest, resilient, funny and a good friend. ~ Helen Fielding,

1056:Let's say Twitter existed during the Civil War. We would have a better understanding of people in the Confederacy who were against slavery, people in the North who actually felt we should just let the South be the South. Because the way it is now, it seems like we have this portrait where everybody in Georgia hated Yankees and everybody in the North was enlightened. That wouldn't seem as clear cut as it does now. ~ Chuck Klosterman,

1057:Digiphrenia - how technology lets us be in more than one place - and self - at the same time. Drone pilots suffer more burnout than real-world pilots, as they attempt to live in two worlds - home and battlefield - simultaneously. We all become overwhelmed until we learn to distinguish between data flows (like Twitter) that can only be dipped into, and data storage (like books and emails) that can be fully consumed. ~ Douglas Rushkoff,

1058:If you're happy with where the Internet, Facebook, and Twitter have taken you, I'm not the Grinch. Someone called me Sherry Turkle's "evil Luddite twin." I'm not that. I enjoy the bounties of this technology. But if you fear that your connected life is running away with you, read the book, reflect, talk to your family and friends. I think we deserve better than some of the places that we've gotten with this technology. ~ Sherry Turkle,

1059:Something really big happened in the world's wiring in the last decade, but it was obscured by the financial crisis and post-9/11. We went from a connected world to a hyperconnected world. I'm always struck that Facebook, Twitter, 4G, iPhones, iPads, high-speech broadband, ubiquitous wireless and Web-enabled cellphones, the cloud, Big Data, cellphone apps and Skype did not exist or were in their infancy a decade ago. ~ Thomas Friedman,

1060:Paid Triggers Advertising, search engine marketing, and other paid channels are commonly used to get users’ attention and prompt them to act. Paid triggers can be effective but costly ways to keep users coming back. Habit-forming companies tend not to rely on paid triggers for very long, if at all. Imagine if Facebook or Twitter needed to buy an ad to prompt users to revisit their sites — these companies would soon go broke. ~ Nir Eyal,

1061:I like Twitter, actually and I like Instagram and I like talking to people. Most weeks, I'll take a day, a morning or two out of my day and I'll sit and I'll just answer my tweets. You have to get back quickly. And I think that's important to let people know that you see them because they took the time to acknowledge me. And they took the time to if you want to be my fan and to follow me and appreciate what I do. ~ Vanessa Bell Calloway,

1062:If a thing can be said in ten words, I may be relied upon to take a hundred to say it. I ought to apologize for that. I ought to prune, pare and extirpate excess growth, but I will not. I like words—strike that, I love words—and while I am fond of the condensed and economical use of them in poetry, in song lyrics, in Twitter, in good journalism and smart advertising, I love the luxuriant profusion and mad scatter of them too. ~ Stephen Fry,

1063:I thought "I don't need to reach out to my fans, I don't need to have that dialogue with them." But as a musician, you have to constantly - especially since my music is not on the same level as my acting - you have to connect with your fans. I actually feel like I have developed friendships through Twitter, people that I've worked with I can kind of keep up with them. I've totally turned a corner. I get it. And Instagram. ~ Bryan Greenberg,

1064:The great thing about Twitter is, you get a lot back, and I read through a lot, and I want my fans to know that I do read a lot, and it's why I do respond or retweet clever posts, and I'm constantly amazed by the cleverness of people on Twitter. I just think it's a really great tool to communicate with fans and influence conversations and raise awareness about things I'm interested in, that I think deserve some attention. ~ Elizabeth Banks,

1065:Open your eyes. Block all escape routes. Eliminate all noise. The common will capture your attention as long as it’s allowed in the room. Whatever you are used to, whether cigarettes, shopping, or Twitter, must be eliminated in the quest to get into the ring. You must make a sacrifice on the altar of greatness and perform acts that others will not. If you aren’t willing to sacrifice your comfort, you don’t have what it takes. ~ Julien Smith,

1066:I always knew I wanted to make music and share music. I followed my dreams and my passion. Et voila! And now it means not just me, but our community, have a voice. There was no internet, twitter, facebook, or instagram back then; now people with shared passions can unite their voice to share their values and thoughts, be heard, and make a difference. It's amazing - everyone can have a voice - and, as ONE, it can be incredible. ~ David Guetta,

1067:and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree. She clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute and sing aloud herself ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,

1068:BE BRIEF. Brevity beats verbosity in social media. You’re competing with millions of posts every day. People make snap judgments and move right along if you don’t capture their interest at a glance. My experience is that the sweet spot for posts of curated content is two or three sentences on Google+ and Facebook and 100 characters on Twitter. The sweet spot for content that you create, such as blog posts, is 500 to 1,000 words. ~ Guy Kawasaki,

1069:Ujjwal Singh, Steve Crossan, and Abdel Karim Mardini partnered with engineers from Twitter following the Egyptian government’s shutdown of the Internet in early 2011 to create Speak2Tweet, a product that takes messages from a voice mailbox and transcribes them into Tweets broadcast around the world.35 This gave Egyptians a way to communicate en masse with the world and, by dialing into the voice mailbox, to listen to one another. ~ Laszlo Bock,

1070:Turn off the news, forget Facebook and Twitter. Don't read the paper. Let the world turn, and the seasons pass on their own. Then wake up in the middle of the night a year later and ask yourself if anything is amiss. If so, let go of more media. Let go of more light. Wake again and ask if anything is lacking. Repeat as necessary until you have remembered what it means to be a person, because this is the one thing everyone forgets. ~ Clark Strand,

1071:—Did he even grasp this himself, this cleverest of all self-outwitters? Did he tell himself this in the end, in the wisdom of his courage in the face of death? . . . Socrates wanted to die: not Athens, but he gave himself the poison cup, he forced Athens to give him the poison cup . . . “Socrates is no doctor,” he said to himself softly, “death is the only doctor here . . . Socrates himself has just been sick for a long time. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

1072:Entitlement is simply the belief that you deserve something. Which is great. The hard part is, you'd better make sure you deserve it. So, how did I make sure that I deserved it? To answer that, I would like to quote from the Twitter bio of one of my favorite people, Kevin Hart. It reads: My name is Kevin Hart and I WORK HARD!!! That pretty much sums me up!!! Everybody Wants To Be Famous But Nobody Wants To Do The Work! ~ Mindy Kaling,

1073:Everyone is on Facebook and age is not a determinant of whether a reporter is using Twitter as part of their newsgathering and marketing. Some of the transition is about money at this point - hiring younger reporters is cheaper. Often these reporters are more digitally savvy. But there are plenty of 50-plus journalists employers can find now who are excited about technology, not threatened. It is no longer an either/or proposition. ~ Tom Rosenstiel,

1074:If the actors speaking Dothraki or High Valyrian or Castithan or whatever make a mistake, who would know but the creator? Who would care? The truth is probably one in a thousand people will notice, and of those who do, maybe a quarter will care. In the 1980s that amounts to nothing. In the new millennium, though, one quarter of 0.001 percent can constitute a significant minority on Twitter. Or on Tumblr. Or Facebook. Or Reddit. Or ~ David J Peterson,

1075:Step 3: Modify Armed with new insights, it is time to revisit your product and identify ways to nudge new users down the same Habit Path taken by devotees. This may include an update to the registration funnel, content changes, feature removal, or increased emphasis on an existing feature. Twitter used the insights gained from the previous step to modify its on-boarding process, encouraging new users to immediately begin following others. ~ Nir Eyal,

1076:You talk about sexual abuse? Bill Clinton's wife ran the bimbo eruptions units when he was in the White House to seek and find the women who might accuse Bill Clinton of sexual abuse (and other things) and destroy them. And advertisers never leave the Clintons, and donors never leave the Clintons. Why is that? Because donors and advertisers never receive massive numbers of complaint emails from all of these Twitter and Facebook bots. ~ Rush Limbaugh,

1077:These advertisements, tweets, and Facebook posts were seen by as many as 150,000,000 Americans during the 2016 election. The Oxford Internet Institute studied the election and found that on Twitter and Facebook people shared almost as many fake news stories as they did real ones.8 By 2018, Twitter would be forced to notify 677,000 users that they were exposed to Russian propaganda during the campaign, but not what kind specifically. ~ Malcolm W Nance,

1078:Smart, dedicated people lost their lives all the time as they trained to be the best they could be to serve their country. Celebrities broke a nail and they immediately took to Twitter, alerting their millions of followers to the “injury,” which in turn elicited thousands of replies from people with apparently not enough going on in their lives. And all the while brave men and women died in silence, forgotten by all except their families. ~ David Baldacci,

1079:What we're trying to do as writers is rescue, preserve this space of thoughtfulness of language, of a deeper and more honest appreciation of our reality. And, so, we have to work even harder as writers against this tide of silliness, against this tide of superficiality, against this horrible Greek chorus on Twitter where everyone is insulting each other and now we have an insulter-in-chief, who's risen to the presidency by insulting people. ~ Hector Tobar,

1080:...when we "lose our mind" and "come to our senses" in the fullest possible way, the chattering, texting, e-mailing, twittering mind will eventually quiet down and almost silence itself. This is a sacred and connected silence...It's like a deep, still pond reflecting the stars of the night sky. I believe this is the baseline for human consciousness, and I'm convinced that the birds are the best mentors in the natural world for bringing us to it. ~ Jon Young,

1081:He asks, “how hard would it be to go a week without Google? Or, to up the ante, without Facebook, Amazon, Skype, Twitter, Apple, eBay, and Google?”33 Wu is putting his finger on a disquieting new reality—that the new communication medium a younger generation gravitated to because of its promise of openness, transparency, and deep social collaboration masks another persona more concerned with ringing up profit by advancing a networked Commons. ~ Jeremy Rifkin,

1082:Alex was growing in prominence. I noticed him trending on Twitter from time to time, for telling his now millions of fans that U.S. scientists were covertly creating “man-fish hybrids,” that atheists “worship Lucifer,” and that the government puts secret chemicals in juice boxes to turn Americans gay: “After you’re done drinking your little juices you’re ready to put makeup on, wear a short skirt, put together a garden of roses or something.” And ~ Jon Ronson,

1083:I'm not on Twitter for abuse. I don't think anyone's gotten on Twitter so that they can be abused, but people do go on Twitter to abuse people. When that becomes clear then Twitter has a moral duty to shut those people down when they see that somebody is there solely for the purpose of abusing others. Yeah you have free speech, but what you don't have is the right to wield your speech like a cudgel to somebody who has done nothing to earn it. ~ Anika Noni Rose,

1084:@SeanCassinova Where might one procure a shoe horn in NYC? @RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova I’ll loan you my horn any day of the week, baby ;-) @SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 Who is this and where did you get my number? @RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova Uh, this is Twitter. @SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 That’s a very strange name. What were your parents thinking? @EilishCassidy @SeanCassinova Stop being an arse. ~ L H Cosway,

1085:Unlike in the Action Phase of the Hook discussed in chapter three, investments are about the anticipation of longer-term rewards, not immediate gratification. In Twitter for example, the investment comes in the form of following another user. There is no immediate reward for following someone, no stars or badges to affirm the action. Following is an investment in the service, which increases the likelihood of the user checking Twitter in the future. ~ Nir Eyal,

1086:Do whatever you have to do, avoid whatever you need to avoid, protect yourself however you need to protect yourself in order to stay on course, write, send the work out, write more, send out more work. Because as wonderful as the rest of it may be, conferences, twitter, writing groups, and so on, if they are more than you can handle, that’s okay. But if you stop writing and stop sending your work into the world, that is not okay. That is giving up. ~ Robin Black,

1087:The nice thing about twitter is the architecture of visibility. Email is invisible unless you reach out to someone directly. With Twitter, anyone can follow you and this is one of the big changes that was really introduced by Flickr, was this wonderful idea that you can follow somebody without their permission. Recognizing that relationships are asymmetrical, unlike facebook where we have to acknowledge each other otherwise we can’t see each other. ~ Tim O Reilly,

1088:Whether it’s interviewing someone over Skype, developing an affable Twitter persona, learning how to publish an e-book, or experimenting with a new task management app, we must become adept at testing out new technologies that can benefit us in our personal and professional lives. Sometimes, we will choose not to integrate a new technology into our lives, and that’s okay. It’s the experimentation, and the awareness we gain through it, that’s key. ~ Jocelyn K Glei,

1089:I love you, Rylann." He cupped her face, peering down into her eyes. "And now I finally have a good answer to the one question everyone always asks me--why I hacked into Twitter. I didn't know it at the time... but I did it to find you again." She leaned into him, curling her fingers around his shirt. "That may be the best justification I've ever heard for committing a crime." She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "And I love you, too, you know. ~ Julie James,

1090:My record label, which is a huge record label who represents massive, massive stars - they've never done anything like this before, and they were so excited about this idea of an animated character which is singing legitimate music. It's not a comedy record, it's a legitimate record. And they really jumped on board. So, we've got our Facebook page up, we'll be jumping on Twitter very soon, and sort of be creating Haley outside of American Dad. ~ Rachael MacFarlane,

1091:The ones who show up to take, they show up and say, "Hi. My name is Steve. I'm an expert in this and I've studied this and I've worked with these clients." On every single power point presentation, it has their email, their Twitter handle and their Facebook account, so you can follow them. At the end, they tell you, "Please follow me." When you ask them a question, they say, "Well, I could tell you the answer, but you should really just read my book." ~ Simon Sinek,

1092:The newspaper industry when I came along in the mid-70s was rich and powerful and growing and hungry for material and open to new people. None of that is true in the newspaper industry today. Print in general is pretty rugged. The good thing is that you can gain a foothold on the Internet because everybody has access to it, even things like Twitter - I mean, you can get a reputation for being funny pretty quickly on Twitter, on a blog, that kind of thing. ~ Dave Barry,

1093:At first I was very anxious about starting Twitter, because I didn't really know what was expected of me. I now feel fairly relaxed, in that's it a way of telling people things that you are doing, without any attempt to be entertaining. To me, even funny people who are tweeting, it just gives a glib impression. You know that it's been constructed, that it's not a thing that's just happened in that moment. So whatever you read, the best you get is, "Eh." ~ Simon Amstell,

1094:When I was a student I did a report on Madagascar, and ever since then it was my biggest dream to go there. Three years ago I went, and it was so different. We live in this high tech world with Facebook, Twitter, and mobile phones, and there you land and you have nothing. Yet the people live and get by every day walking in the roads, living this super simple life, and they're still happy. It is an experience that keeps you humble, puts things in perspective. ~ Irina Shayk,

1095:Most kids come home from school. They don't go to their TVs first. They go to the Internet. They check their emails, or some blogs, or some sites. Then they go watch TV. Other people are at work all day 9-5 in front of a computer. They see certain clips. We're not going to hide the fact that people use the Internet. We're going to try to be as interactive as possible with our fans. I'm currently on Twitter and Facebook and Flicker and Dig. I'm on all that stuff. ~ Jimmy Fallon,

1096:I'm not a Twitter fan. I do it because I feel responsible to the two million people that follow me, but Twitter to me is just another thing I have do. And it's mostly a place for people to attack and abuse you. I don't really get much out of it, personally. I get hundreds of demands to answer the kind of medical questions that require three years of treatment to assess, yet people are furious when I don't solve their problems in 140 characters. It's really stunning. ~ Drew Pinsky,

1097:What social media has done - Facebook, Twitter - is show the audience. I don't have an audience. When I make my work, it just goes out into the ether. I have a thick skin and it just brings me down to earth, you know, to realize how out-there and far away and paltry the audience is that gets what I'm saying. It's depressing if I let it get to me. And it's the same with hanging a show, the way it's put up, like, three stories high and you can't read a single word. ~ Raymond Pettibon,

1098:You can maintain a giant number of weak ties to people on Facebook, Twitter, and whatever comes next, much like you can in a giant company. Strong ties, however, require constant grooming. People who use the number of friends they have on Facebook as a metric of their social standing are fooling themselves. You can share videos of fainting goats with hundreds of acquaintances and thousands of followers, but you can trust a secret only with a handful of true friends. ~ David McRaney,

1099:you get a good story about three times a year. It comes in the shower on a day you have time. Couple hours to crank out, couple more to edit and there you have it. But you aren’t responsible. It’s from some antenna you put out and it happens to pick up a signal. Ideas sit for years before the way to crack them hits you. You can’t force it. All you can do is try not to fuck it up. Stay out of its way. Don’t slack off and erase your mind reading about rape on Twitter. ~ Delicious Tacos,

1100:Carl sat musing until the sun leaped above the prairie, and in the grass about him all the small creatures of day began to tune their tiny instruments. Birds and insects without number began to chirp, to twitter, to snap and whistle, to make all manner of fresh shrill noises. The pasture was flooded with light; every clump of ironweed and snow-on-the-mountain threw a long shadow, and the golden light seemed to be rippling through the curly grass like the tide racing in. ~ Willa Cather,

1101:Dehumanizing and holding people accountable are mutually exclusive. Humiliation and dehumanizing are not accountability or social justice tools, they’re emotional off-loading at best, emotional self-indulgence at worst. And if our faith asks us to find the face of God in everyone we meet, that should include the politicians, media, and strangers on Twitter with whom we most violently disagree. When we desecrate their divinity, we desecrate our own, and we betray our faith. ~ Bren Brown,

1102:July had already been a busy month as Twitter had also moved into new offices: a fancy, modern, loftlike space with lots of windows and room to grow. Among the fun features they had added to the office (a living-room setup with a couch and video games, a large red phone booth, and a fully stocked kitchen with cereal and other snacks), Jack had suggested putting in a Radiohead room. “It can play Radiohead twenty-four hours a day!” he said excitedly when suggesting the idea. ~ Nick Bilton,

1103:Yet even in the best of cases, the need to be on call, to spend at least a certain amount of energy looking over one's shoulder, maintaining a false front, never looking too obviously engrossed, the inability to fully collaborate with others —all this lends itself much more to a culture of computer games, YouTube rants, memes, and Twitter controversies than to, say, the rock 'n' roll bands, drug poetry, and experimental theater created under the midcentury welfare state. ~ David Graeber,

1104:Formerly I believed books were made like this: a poet came, lightly opened his lips, and the inspired fool burst into song – if you please! But it seems, before they can launch a song, poets must tramp for days with callused feet, and the sluggish fish of the imagination flounders softly in the slush of the heart. And while, with twittering rhymes, they boil a broth of loves and nightingales, the tongueless street merely writhes for lack of something to shout or say ~ Vladimir Mayakovsky,

1105:Social media is a great thing, especially Twitter. They record all the threats, incriminating evidence, and fake news cyberbullies and their gangs put out there to harass an individual. It's out in public. It's traceable. And it's all for law enforcement to see. The act of harassing an individual online through "cybergangs" is a worse crime than what they are posting about that individual. - Strong by Kailin Gow about Social Media's Role in Aiding Law Enforcement Against Crime ~ Kailin Gow,

1106:Twitch!” No, that would never work, he thought. So he continued flipping through the tw’s in the dictionary. Twister. Twist tie. Twit. Twitch. Twitcher. Twitchy. Twite. And then, there it was. “The light chirping sound made by certain birds.” Noah’s heart started to pound as he continued to read. “A similar sound, especially light, tremulous speech or laughter.” This is it, he thought. “Agitation or excitement; flutter.” A verb. Twitter. Twitter. Twittered. Twittering. Twitters. ~ Nick Bilton,

1107:Don't slag off other creators or companies. We'll cheerfully mock dumb politicians on Twitter, but we try to never slam another creator's work or make fun of another company's projects or initiatives. First, because life's too short. We'd rather use that time to celebrate the fantastic work of colleagues and friends. Second, because it's a small world, and people have long memories. A few snarky words today can ruin a chance for an incredibly rewarding creative partnership tomorrow. ~ Greg Pak,

1108:Five years ago the Library of Congress began a project that collects every utterance on Twitter, in the name of preserving the nation’s digital heritage. That is billions weekly, sucked up for storage in secure tape archives, and the Library has yet to figure out how to make any of it available to researchers. Divorced from a human curator, the unfiltered mass of Twitter may as well be a garbage heap ["What Libraries Can (Still) Do," The New York Review Daily, October 26, 2015]. ~ James Gleick,

1109:There’s sort of a collective AI in Google Search, where we’re all sort of plugged in like nodes on the network; like leaves on a big tree. And we’re all feeding this network with our questions and answers. We’re all collectively programming the AI. And Google, plus all the humans that connect to it, are one giant cybernetic collective. This is also true of Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, and all these social networks. They’re giant cybernetic collectives. ~ Elon Musk, Human Civilization and AI,

1110:I draw a distinction between freedom of the internet and freedom via the internet. In the first case, it's making sure cyberspace is not over regulated and people can say what they want without fear of repercussions. But that's different from this freedom via the internet notion, which is often touted by all sorts of conservatives and neoconservatives who want young people in the Middle East and elsewhere in the world to use Facebook and Twitter and then go oppose their governments. ~ Evgeny Morozov,

1111:We’re being outdone both in terms of content, quality and quantity, and in terms of amplification strategies,” said Sasha Havlicek of the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, a London-based research organization, in a presentation at the meeting. She used a diagram of a small and large megaphone to illustrate the “monumental gap” between the Islamic State, which uses social media services like YouTube, Facebook and Twitter, and other groups and governments, including the Obama administration. ~ Anonymous,

1112:...and suddenly it occurred to him that the birds, whose twitters and repeated songs sounded so pretty and affirming of nature and the coming day, might actually, in a code known only to other birds, be the birds each saying 'Get away' or 'This branch is mine!' or 'This tree is mine! I'll kill you! Kill, kill!' Or any other manner of dark, brutal, or self-protective stuff—they might be listening to war cries. The thought came from nowhere and made his spirits dip for some reason. ~ David Foster Wallace,

1113:I'm also lonely. I'll admit it. I go to Twitter because I'm lonely. I get my coffee in the morning, and I live alone. I get on Twitter, and I sit and have my coffee. Sometimes I'll look at it for 30 minutes. I will waste a lot of time on Twitter. I do! But it's my guilty pleasure. And I'll look for some happy stories to retweet, and I'll say some uplifting things to people. I try not to get caught into - I used to get tangled up into some crazy stuff. But I try not to do that anymore. ~ Andie MacDowell,

1114:It is true that authoritarian governments increasingly see the internet as a threat in part because they see the US government behind the internet. It would not be accurate to say they are reacting to the threat posed by the internet, they are reacting to the threat poised by United States via the internet. They are not reacting against blogs, or Facebook or Twitter per se, they are reacting against organizations like the National Endowment for Democracy funding bloggers and activists. ~ Evgeny Morozov,

1115:I think it's good for the fans, as well, because they get to connect with you directly. You know, in the old days, if I wanted to, like, write to (Steven) Spielberg or Sam Raimi or whatever, I'm not sure I could actually write a fan mail and (I'd) have no idea where to actually send it. Nowadays, you can just, like, follow Ashton (Kutcher who still has among the most followers on Twitter) or, like, friend someone, you know, on Facebook, and you can actually just say, "Hey, I like your stuff." ~ James Wan,

1116:I think that people in the phase between being someone's kid and being someone's parent have always been uniquely narcissistic, but that social media and Twitter and LiveJournal make it really easy to navel-gaze in a way that you've never been able to before. People taking pictures of what they eat and showing them on their Facebook. People assume that people have a level of interest in what they're doing that's maybe far greater than it is, although there is an audience for all that stuff. ~ Lena Dunham,

1117:We don’t know our unconscious personality. We have hints, we have certain ideas, but we don’t know it really. Nobody can say where man ends. That is the beauty of it... The unconscious of man reach God knows where. There we are going to make discoveries. ~ Carl Jung"We don't live in a timeline any more."Our phenomenology of time is breaking down. Good. Breakdown of time-as-line affords us an opening, renews how we inhabit and relate to time. We should be asking what is possible. twitter.com/Unwise_Trouser…,

1118:We live in a society of social networks, with Twitter pages and Facebook, and that’s fine, but we have contact with our work associates, our family, our friends, and it seems like half the time we are more preoccupied with our phone and other things going on instead of the actual relationships that we have right in front of us. Hopefully, people can learn from this and try to actually help if someone is battling something deeper on the inside than what they are revealing on a day-to-day basis. ~ Brady Quinn,

1119:Koopsta Knicca, Gangsta Boo, Lord Infamous and Crunchy [Black]. The name of the group is Da Mafia 6iX. So like I said we can't consider it a Three 6 Mafia reunion without all the members of the [group] being in it so we'll just say that it's a reunion of members of the Mafia that created a totally new group called Da Mafia 6iX. [Fans] are going crazy about it on Twitter, they happy as hell, they've been waiting on this for years, some of these members have been gone since 2000, you know, it's 2013. ~ DJ Paul,

1120:I made this bad joke on Twitter saying, "I want to put in my first no-bid contract to train the Libyan army and police force." These counter-insurgency guys like to say, "We don't do the big F-16 or big boondoggle projects, we're not pulling this stuff because it's good business." But in fact it turns out there are tons of business opportunities involving counter-insurgency operations - and it's not like we're getting rid of the boondoggle programs either, we're just doing more of everything. ~ Michael Hastings,

1121:investors, and perhaps even customers. As senior writer Austin Carr reports in “Under Fire,” beginning on page 64, failure will be an unavoidable part of defining that future. We also explain the clashing relationship between Twitter and Facebook (page 27), how TV and the web continue to merge (through the eyes of Katie Couric, page 80), and what the evolving science of microbiomes can teach us about human health (page 86). None of these topics would have been predicted by Fast Company’ s founders—a ~ Anonymous,

1122:I've got my laptop, but it troubles me in many ways. I don't have Twitter or Facebook or anything like that. It ruins a romantic idea, which might just be an illusion, a sense of depth or continuity. I know there are lots of positives in the evolution of technology, but I also think it will be responsible for the end of a unique character, of a specific kind of geographical culture. The world is getting so small, and mass production is getting so big. Everything is in danger of becoming the same. ~ Laura Marling,

1123:The reason knowledge workers are losing their familiarity with deep work is well established: network tools. This is a broad category that captures communication services like e-mail and SMS, social media networks like Twitter and Facebook, and the shiny tangle of infotainment sites like BuzzFeed and Reddit. In aggregate, the rise of these tools, combined with ubiquitous access to them through smartphones and networked office computers, has fragmented most knowledge workers’ attention into slivers. ~ Cal Newport,

1124:It used to be, if you were a reporter, you wrote a story and then you moved on to the next one. We were used to people coming to the New York Times. We waited for them to turn on our website or to pick up our print paper and see what we have. We now understand that we have to make our stories available to our readers. A lot of people get their news from Facebook or Twitter and we want to make sure that they see some of our best stories there, too. We do this more aggressively now than we did before. ~ Dean Baquet,

1125:I told you not to take off work for this." “And miss your big finale? No way.I’m all atwitter to see how things turn out.” “That’s cute, Jordo.” Then he frowned as Nick McCall was suddenly there, in their lives, and Kyle was therefore being a little…cautious before welcoming him into the family. “Be nice, Kyle,” Jordan warned. “What?” he asked innocently. “When have I ever not been nice to Tall, Dark, and You Can’t Be Serious About This Guy?” “I like him. Get used to it. ~ Julie James,

1126:Each time we check a Twitter feed or Facebook update, we encounter something novel and feel more connected socially (in a kind of weird impersonal cyber way) and get another dollop of reward hormones. But remember, it is the dumb, novelty-seeking portion of the brain driving the limbic system that induces this feeling of pleasure, not the planning, scheduling, higher-level thought centers in the prefrontal cortex. Make no mistake: E-mail, Facebook, and Twitter checking constitute a neural addiction ~ Daniel J Levitin,

1127:The president had disappeared to a secure location but had responded with the full force of his Twitter account. He posted: “OUR ENEMIES DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY STARTED! PAYBACK IS A BITCH!!! #Denver #Colorado #America!!” The vice president had promised to pray as hard as he could for the survivors and the dead; he pledged to stay on his knees all day and all night long. It was reassuring to know our national leaders were using all the resources at their disposal to help the desperate: social media and Jesus. ~ Joe Hill,

1128:Priebus, Porter and others continued to try to persuade Trump to curtail his use of Twitter. “This is my megaphone,” Trump replied. “This is the way that I speak directly to the people without any filter. Cut through the noise. Cut through the fake news. That’s the only way I have to communicate. I have tens of millions of followers. This is bigger than cable news. I go out and give a speech and it’s covered by CNN and nobody’s watching, nobody cares. I tweet something and it’s my megaphone to the world. ~ Bob Woodward,

1129:Oxford, designed part of an exhibition for the Yorkshire Museum, worked as a researcher for a BBC documentary presented by Ian Hislop, and worked at Polesden Lacey with the National Trust. She has a degree in History and English, and a Masters in Medieval Studies, both from the University of York. Emily has a medieval series, a Regency series, and a Western series published, and is currently working on several new projects. You can follow her on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find her on facebook ~ Emily Murdoch,

1130:For all my concerns, though, watching the Women’s March, I couldn’t help but be swept up in the joy of the moment and feel like the unmistakable vitality of American democracy was reasserting itself before our eyes. My Twitter feed filled up with photos of marchers holding funny, poignant, indignant signs: “So Bad, Even Introverts Are Here.” “Ninety, Nasty, and Not Giving Up!” “Science Is Not a Liberal Conspiracy.” One adorable little boy had this message around his neck: “I ♥ Naps but I Stay Woke. ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

1131:[On the Internet and activism:] The danger of the Internet is cocooning with the like-minded online - of sending an email or twitter and confusing that with action - while the real corporate and military and government centers of power go right on. In a way, the highest purpose of the Internet is to bring us together for empathy and action. After all, the reflector cells and empathy-producing chemicals in our brains only work when we're physically together with all five senses. You can't raise a baby online. ~ Gloria Steinem,

1132:The tweets are getting shorter, but the songs are still 4 minutes long. You're coming up with 140-character zingers, and the song is still 4 minutes long…I realized about a year ago that I couldn't have a complete thought anymore. And I was a tweetaholic. I had four million twitter followers, and I was always writing on it. And I stopped using twitter as an outlet and I started using twitter as the instrument to riff on, and it started to make my mind smaller and smaller and smaller. And I couldn't write a song. ~ John Mayer,

1133:Twitter was only the gateway, the portal into the endless city of the internet. Whole days went by on clicking, my attention snared over and over by pockets and ladders of information; an absent, ardent witness to the world, the Lady of Shalott with her back to the window, watching the shadows of the real appear in the lent blue glass of her magic mirror. I used to read like that, back in the age of paper, the finished century, to bury myself in a book, and now I gazed at the screen, my cathected silver lover. ~ Olivia Laing,

1134:What is a tremendous, unspeakable honor may feel insufficient for those who are used to being god of their own blogs and Twitter accounts. It feels insignificant to those who have erected their own shrines on Facebook and Instagram, filled with beautiful pictures of themselves. Herein lies the danger of clamoring for attention: we don’t realize that true joy comes from the opposite. Joy comes as we stand among those Jesus has redeemed and get lost in a sea of worship, becoming fully a part of something sacred. ~ Francis Chan,

1135:The media are used to being able to control the agenda of both their friends and their enemies, their buddies and their opponents, and Trump doesn't play by their rules because Trump is not afraid of them. And Trump knows that he doesn't need them. That's the big equalizer. Unlike most Republicans who think they can't get anywhere without at least some favorable treatment in the media or at least less criticism from the media, Trump doesn't need the media. He's got his Twitter account and he's got his rallies. ~ Rush Limbaugh,

1136:I consider us to be one of the first Internet-based bands, especially because we basically started our entire band via the Internet. Before MySpace Music even existed, we had a band MySpace page. We were one of the first fifty bands on PureVolume(.com), and we really built everything from the Internet. That's how we started talking to record labels, that's how we booked our first tours. Without the Internet social networking, like Twitter, we definitely wouldn't be where we are today. It is a huge part of the band. ~ Jack Barakat,

1137:It's funny, now that we have Twitter and Facebook and stuff, you can really see how you affect fans. Before all that, fans couldn't tell you exactly how they feel, unless they came up after a show, and even then you can't stand there and talk to everybody in the audience. So it's nice to see people tweet me and say, "Your music has changed my life," or "I had my baby to your music," or "I got married to your music." I've heard so many things, and it's amazing to hear people's stories and how you affect their life. ~ Robert Glasper,

1138:Valentine's Day Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream; I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth, And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream. I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky, And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest; And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die, With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best. ~ Charles Kingsley,

1139:Of course that was before reality TV, Twitter, Twaddle, and the like managed to reduce the average attention span of most of the world’s population to two minutes, wither our long-term memory to fourteen months, and convince us that the most admirable of all individuals are not the likes of George Washington, Albert Einstein, Marie Curie, Jonas Salk, Mother Teresa, and Nikola Tesla, but instead whatever celebrity just won Dancing with the Stars and whatever dancing cat just drew ten million hits for its YouTube video. ~ Dean Koontz,

1140:Everybody has something now. It's become very over-saturated, and it's hard to weed out what's good, what you should watch and what you have time to watch. And Twitter was much less crowded, at the time, and it was an easier way to reach people. So, the combination of having a great video, a lot more access to people through Twitter, and having Kickstarter be this new thing in. We tapped into it, at its inception, and got people interested in it just based on the concept of what Kickstarter was. The timing was right. ~ Simon Helberg,

1141:Today, all our wives and husbands have Blackberries or iPhones or Android devices or whatever-the progeny of those original 950 and 957 models that put data in our pockets. Now we all check their email (or Twitter, or Facebook, or Instagram, or) compulsively at the dinner table, or the traffic light. Now we all stow our devices on the nightstand before bed, and check them first thing in the morning. We all do. It's not abnormal, and it's not just for business. It's just what people do. Like smoking in 1965, it's just life. ~ Ian Bogost,

1142:Given that there are seven billion people living on this earth, there is a consistent quantity of imbecile or idiot, okay. Previously, these people could express themselves only with their friends or at the bar after two or three glasses of something, and they said every silliness, and people laughed. Now they have the possibility to show up on the internet. And so, on the internet, along with the messages of a lot of interesting and important people - even the Pope is writing on Twitter - we have a great quantity of idiots. ~ Umberto Eco,

1143:Paradise, blooded daughter of Abalone, First Adviser to the King, frowned at the screen of her Apple lappy. She’d set herself up here in her father’s library ever since he’d started working each night for Wrath, son of Wrath, because in the old rambling Tudor mansion, Wi-Fi was strongest at this desk. Not that a good signal was helping her at the moment. Her Hotmail account was full of unread messages, because, with iMessage on her phone and her Twitter, Instagram, and FB accounts, there was no reason to sign into it very often. ~ J R Ward,

1144:When social media companies are paid directly by users instead of by hidden third parties, then they will serve those users. It’s so simple. Someone will be able to pay to see poisonous propaganda, but they won’t be able to pay to have that poison directed at someone else. The incentive for poisoning the world will be undone. I won’t have an account on Facebook, Google, or Twitter until I can pay for it—and I unambiguously own and set the price for using my data, and it’s easy and normal to earn money if my data is valuable. ~ Jaron Lanier,

1145:The whole press thing and who you are in the media, or what you have to project yourself to be, it feels very much like another person. People say to me, "Oh, your life must be changing," and I'm like, "Uh, I guess?" For me, it's such a gradual change, and I don't see it from the outside like everybody else does. It's weird, I see my face on a bus or online or somebody has my picture as their picture on Twitter and it's all a bit weird and I feel very disconnected from it and very much, "I guess that's me." It's very surreal. ~ Tatiana Maslany,

1146:I want to lie beside you and know the weight of your dreams,” he said, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “I want to share whole worlds with you and write your name in the stars.” He moved closer and a chorus of songbirds twittered silver melodies. “I want to measure eternity with your laughter.” Now, he stood inches from me; his rough hands encircled my waist. “Be my queen and I promise you a life where you will never be bored. I promise you more power than a hundred kings. And I promise you that we will always be equals. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

1147:Twitter is the only brand of social media that I have ever taken to at all. I like the feeling of having my perception of the world expanded daily, 24/7, by being able to monitor the reactions of 100-and-some people throughout the world that I personally follow so I have some sense of who they are. There has never really been anything like that before, at least in terms of the digestible 140-character bandwidth that Twitter is based on. I am able to wake up, open Twitter, and sort of glance across the psychic state of the planet. ~ William Gibson,

1148:Mike Pence came out and said this was a courtesy call, then Donald Trump a few hours later went on Twitter, as is his wont, and essentially linked the call to Taiwan with a whole series of things he doesn't like about Chinese economic and foreign policies and implied that the U.S. views of the status of Taiwan are now up for negotiation, that he wants them to be part of a broader negotiation with China about a whole series of economic and foreign policy issues. So, we just don't really know what exactly they're planing to do with this. ~ Geoff Dyer,

1149:Here in America we have a man [Donald Trump] who is a master of a medium that is all about self-aggrandizement and/or cruelty to others. I have been off Twitter lately because I had this sudden sort of feeling of, this man is the president of this club and it's not a club that I want to be in. Sometimes I feel like, well, perhaps it's not right because as a political activist, this is where politics is happening right now. This is where the conversation is going on, but at the same time, I think there is something corrosive about it. ~ Ben H Winters,

1150:I have friends that I have made through Twitter or things like that, but they're all verified as real people - I've either seen them perform, or we're mutual fans of each other, something like that. I don't have any authentic. I have a lot of good people in my actual life, but I will say that it's a strange time that we live in - it's easy to make friends and to make connections through social media, and if you're a good-hearted person, sometimes you can just assume people are who they say they are, and that isn't always the case. ~ Katie Featherston,

1151:All the bad publicity they brought down on us, yes, it came, and yes, it hurt us—for a day. That’s how long the dirt clung, maybe a bit less. Twitter, Facebook, TV and internet news—you know how long a story stays up on a news website these days, unless it’s about some celebrity scandal? Guess. Go on—guess. Three hours. That’s how much we hurt. And then the world turned, and someone tweeted something new, and everyone retweeted it and moved on, and nothing fucking changes. That’s the world. That’s people power. That’s all it fucking means. ~ Claire North,

1152:I want to quit. Not performing, but being a woman altogether. I want to throw my hands in the air, after reading a mean Twitter comment, and say, 'All right! You got it. You figured me out. I'm not pretty. I'm not thin. I do not deserve to use my voice. I'll start wearing a burqa and start waiting tables at a pancake house. All my self-worth is based on what you can see.' But then I think, F*** that ... I am a woman with thoughts and questions and s*** to say. I say if I'm beautiful. I say if I'm strong. You will not determine my story - I will. ~ Amy Schumer,

1153:Baumeister and his group wrote in the social-exclusion paper that being part of society means accepting a bargain between you and others. If you will self-regulate and not be selfish, then you get to stay and enjoy the rewards of having a circle of friends and society as a whole, but if you break that bargain, society will break its promise and reject you. Your friend groups will stop inviting you to parties and will unfollow you on Twitter. If you are too selfish in your larger social group, it might reject you by sending you to jail or worse. ~ David McRaney,

1154:Donald Trump is the kind of guy that wants you to like him. He wants to be the centre of attention. A TV reporter is somebody who gives him a very grand stage, and I was the first national television correspondent following his campaign. So he wanted to charm me - and when he couldn't do that, he attacked. And it's the same thing he does every day with senators; he'll be charming with them and the next day he will go out and attack them on Twitter and if they don't fall in line. He toggles back and forth between these two aspects of his personality. ~ Katy Tur,

1155:Magazines in the traditional sense were aggregators of novelty. A good magazine was a lot of novelty, stuff you've never heard of before, clearly aggregated by people who have been able to travel further and dig deeper than you have been able to do. And that used to be really an important source of stuff for me. And now it is less important because the Internet has eaten it all up. But my Twitter feed as an aggregator of novelty is like... I don't know what I would do if it became any more powerful, I would have to start reining it in somehow. ~ William Gibson,

1156:I ate a lot of candy and engaged in light stalking: I prowled Blythe’s Instagram and Twitter, I read her reviews, considered photos of her baked goods and watched from a distance as she got on her soapbox – at one point bragging she was the only person she knew who used her real name and profession online. As my fascination mounted, and my self-loathing deepened, I reminded myself that there are worse things than rabid bloggers (cancer, for instance) and that people suffer greater degradations than becoming writers. But still, I wanted to respond. ~ Kathleen Hale,

1157:The popular social network Twitter is handing over to data scientists at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s famed Media Lab every message ever tweeted. It’s part of a five-year $10 million program to develop new ways to understand and use social networks. The school is setting up a Laboratory for Social Machines,where researchers will work on methods for understanding public opinion through the messages we post online. The lab will be able to analyze all new Twitter messages in real time, as well as the company’s archive of all previous tweets. ~ Anonymous,

1158:One day the air was mild, the Luxembourg was flooded with sun and shade, the sky was as pure as if angels had rinsed it that morning, the sparrows were twittering deep in the chestnut trees, Marius had opened his whole soul to nature, he was not thinking anything, he lived and breathed, he passed close by the bench, the young girl glanced up at him and their eyes met. What was there this time in the young girl’s gaze? Marius could not have said. It was nothing and everything. It was a strange lightning flash. She dropped her gaze and he went on his way. ~ Victor Hugo,

1159:Sneaking, Following & Escaping! I got in trouble the first time I went out on a mission. It was just myself and an agent named [name deleted]. As the two of us made dead drops, staked out enemy agents, and stopped for a quick shopping trip (I had a coupon for pickles!), I’d tweet our precise location. (I did this so my mother would know that her favorite child was safe.) But when [name deleted] found out what I was doing, she was NOT amused. She took away my iPhone, broke my Twitter account, and confiscated my pickle jar. Luckily, I had another coupon! ~ Bart King,

1160:Believing that God is not only watching you but has high expectations creates one kind of society. Believing that getting “likes” on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or Snapchat (or whatever comes next) undoubtedly creates another kind. The average iPhone user unlocks his or her phone at least eighty times per day, and that number is rising every year. 8 And yet, despite the fact each of us has access to more information in our pockets than any scholar in the world had twenty years ago, we don’t use it. We drown in information but we starve for knowledge. ~ Jonah Goldberg,

1161:Participation in our democracy seems to be driven by the instant-gratification worlds of Twitter, Snapchat, Facebook, and the twenty-four-hour news cycle. We’re using modern technology to revert to primitive kinds of human relations. The media knows what sells—conflict and division. It’s also quick and easy. All too often anger works better than answers; resentment better than reason; emotion trumps evidence. A sanctimonious, sneering one-liner, no matter how bogus, is seen as straight talk, while a calm, well-argued response is seen as canned and phony. ~ Bill Clinton,

1162:When people say, "Show your face, you're not ugly." I want to say, "I know. I'm not doing it because I think I'm ugly; I'm trying to have some control over my image. And I'm allowed to maintain some modicum of privacy. But also I'd like not to be picked apart or for people to observe when I put on ten pounds or I have a hair extension out of place." Most people don't have to be under that pressure, and I'd like to be one of them. I don't go on Twitter. Because when people say things like, I don't know, "I hope you get cancer and die," it hurts my feelings. ~ Sia Furler,

1163:Research shows that great artists, scientists, and other types of creators have an abundance of dopamine in their system that allows them to deal with novelty,” Kaufman explained. In other words, they are extra-motivated to seek out the new and can then channel that novelty seeking into being creative. Kaufman calls dopamine “the mother of invention” and explains that because we have a limited amount of it, we must be judicious about choosing to spend it on “increasing our wonder and excitement for creating meaning and new things like art—or on Twitter. ~ Manoush Zomorodi,

1164:A $200 million contract just got awarded to develop software to provide the Department of Defense with all these sock puppets who have fake Twitter and Facebook accounts. Why not create ten fake Libyan Twitter users and then get one journalist to follow them. But the problem is, of course, it corrupts the entire process. One of the caveats is that anything they write is going to be in a foreign language so it won't affect Americans. But that doesn't make any sense because: A) it can be translated pretty easily, and B) Americans also speak other languages. ~ Michael Hastings,

1165:It was the combination of EC2 and S3 - storage and compute, two primitives linked together - that transformed both AWS and the technology world. Startups no longer needed to spend their venture capital on buying servers and hiring specialized engineers to run them. Infrastructure costs were variable instead of fixed, and they could grow in direct proportion to revenues. It freed companies to experiment, to change their business models with a minimum of pain, and to keep up with the rapidly growing audiences of erupting social networks like Facebook and Twitter. ~ Brad Stone,

1166:For every video that swiftly satuated the internet-I'd mom-danced with Jimmy Fallon, Nerf-dunked on LeBron James, and college-rapped with Jay Pharoah- we'd focused ourselves on doing more than trending for a few hours on Twitter. And we had results. Forty-five million kids were eating healthier breakfasts and lunches; eleven million students were getting sixty minutes of physical activity every day through our Let's Move! Active Schools Program. Children were overall eating more whole grains and produce. The era of supersized fast food was coming to a close. ~ Michelle Obama,

1167:I can write anywhere really. I have a hard time writing when the birds are tweeting and the brooks are running outside. I've tried that several times, for months at a time, trying to write in a quiet, wonderful place where birds are twittering and coffee's brewing. And nothing happens. But if I'm in an old dump like my old apartment and I can't find my fingernail clippers and nothing's working except the old tea maker, that's just great. You always have to find and live in a place that's a little uncomfortable when you're a writer. You need a burr in your side. ~ James McBride,

1168:In 2009, the Twitter homepage attempted to boost motivation. But by 2012, Twitter had discovered that no matter how much users knew about the service, driving them to open an account and start following people resulted in much higher engagement. Recently, Twitter’s homepage has been modified slightly to encourage downloading of the company’s mobile apps (figure 17). The simplicity of the large sign-in or sign-up triggers on the 2012 version remain, but Twitter now knows that driving users to install the app on their phones leads to the highest rates of repeat engagement. ~ Nir Eyal,

1169:I mean,” Rosalie went on in a tone of renewed encouragement, “here’s Vormoncrief, for instance.” “Here is not Vormoncrief,” Ekaterin said firmly, grasping for the one certain anchor in this whirlwind of confusion. “Absolutely not. You’ve never met the man, Rosalie, but take it from me, he’s a twittering idiot. Aunt Vorthys, am I right or not?” The Professora smiled fondly at her. “I would not put it so bluntly, dear, but really, Rosalie, shall we say, I think Ekaterin can do better. There’s plenty of time yet.” “Do you think so?” Rosalie took in this assurance ~ Lois McMaster Bujold,

1170:No doubt there was some time-wasting in coffee houses, as their critics claimed. But coffee houses also provided a lively intellectual and social environment in which people could meet and ideas could collide in unexpected ways, producing a stream of innovations that shaped the modern world. On balance, the introduction of coffee houses did far more good than harm, which should give those concerned about the time-wasting potential of Internet-based social platforms pause for thought. What new ideas and unexpected connections might be brewing in Twitter’s global coffeehouse? ~ Tom Standage,

1171:Democrats need to catch up and leapfrog ahead. And this isn’t just about data. We need an “always-on” content distribution network that can match what the right-wing has built. That means an array of loosely connected Facebook pages, Instagram accounts, Twitter feeds, Snapchat stories, and Reddit communities churning out memes, graphics, and videos. More sophisticated data collection and analysis can support and feed this network. I’m no expert in these matters, but I know enough to understand that most people get their news from screens, so we have to be there 24/7. ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

1172:When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night be too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be. ~ Robert Frost,

1173:Having someone in your class call you fat, ugly, too tall and so on, you start to think all those things about yourself. And if you're like me, those words are played on repeat inside your head. When I was at home, I felt loved and safe. My sisters were always a safe haven for me. I knew they would always play with me and make me feel like I was one of them. Now we have so many more social outlets, there are so many ways to be stalked and bullied. If social media is too much for you to handle then don't have a Twitter or Facebook account, just be yourself. Be who you want to be. ~ Khloe Kardashian,

1174:MySpace is somehow more welcoming than Facebook. And Twittering, I just... Ugh. I like having radio silence. I think radio silence is an important part of any public figure's day. We haven't seen it yet, but there's going to be a generation that comes up where the new trend will be complete anonymity. It'll be cool to have never posted anything online, commented, opened a webpage or a MySpace. I think everyone in the future is going to be allowed to be obscure for 15 minutes. You'll have 15 minutes where no one is watching you, and then you'll be shoved back onto your reality show. ~ Patton Oswalt,

1175:Then what do you want form me?" "I want to lie beside you and know the weight of your dreams," he said, brushing his lips against my knuckles. "I want to share whole worlds with you and write your name in the stars." He moved closer and a chorus of songbirds twittered silver melodies. "I want to measure eternity with your laughter." Now, he stood inches from me; his rough hands encircled my waist. "Be my queen and I promise you a life where you will never be bored. I promise you more power than a hundred kings. And I promise you that we will always be equals. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

1176:With the communication internet, whole industries have been disrupted. You're in the publishing industry, you understand that. Before, we had newspapers, magazines - now you're on the web. I'm in book publishing. I don't have to tell you what's happened to us. Television has taken a hit. The music industry. But, thousands of new businesses have emerged on this new communication revolution platform. Not just Google, Facebook, and Twitter. There are thousands of operations. Businesses that are doing the platforms, the apps. They're mining the big data. They're creating the connections. ~ Jeremy Rifkin,

1177:Twitter to najbardziej charakterystyczne medium nowych czasów; medium posttelewizyjne, postradiowe i postgazetowe. Medium, które jednocześnie jest portalem informacyjnym, lepszej generacji serwisem SMS, systemem alarmowym, gdy dzieje się coś ważnego w naszym mieście bądź w świecie, czatem pomiędzy użytkownikami, wyszukiwarką tendencji, trendów, opinii, miejscem publikacji i promowania prac, wypowiedzi, nagrań, zdjęć, klasycznym serwisem społecznościowym z elementami — dlaczegóż by nie — znajdowania najbardziej kreatywnych, inteligentnych współpracowników po wsłuchaniu się w ich opowieści. ~ Anonymous,

1178:You're gonna die. You're gonna die. And nobody's gonna care which version of the iPhone you used to make something on Twitter, or to go and post about your bowel movement on Facebook. And I'm not even talking about legacy; I'm talking about the fact that I personally feel most alive when I'm making something, and I feel least alive when I'm being led around by some obnoxious use of my attention that I wasn't aware of. To me, that's the thing. You can buy the jogging shoes and you can buy the Runner's World, but until you put them on and walk out the door every day, you're just a fat man. ~ Merlin Mann,

1179:Use tools like Alexa and Klout that measure influence to get a rough metric for who’s dominating a particular space. Peruse Twitter for best-of lists and to see who’s most frequently retweeted, then become their most charming stalker. Connect to them in social media, listen to what they’re saying, and over time, weigh in. Once you know what would truly interest them, upgrade communications with a value-added email ping. Don’t worry if you don’t get a response; in a month, send another. Watch for opportunities to meet these people in person at conferences, book signings, and other events. ~ Keith Ferrazzi,

1180:Las compañías de inversiones de riesgo que invirtieron en Duolingo saben que la posibilidad de que no recuperen su dinero es de 95%, porque la posibilidad de que un start-up tecnológico falle es de 95%. Pero ésa es, precisamente, la idea de una inversión de riesgo”, me dijo Von Ahn. “Hacen la inversión con la idea —y eso es lo que falta en Latinoamérica— de que si invierten en 100 start-ups, y todas son de alto riesgo, 95 de ellas van a fallar, pero 5 de ellas van a ser el próximo Google o el próximo Twitter. Y con esas 5 van a pagar por todo el resto, y aún van a ganar mucho dinero.”24 ~ Andr s Oppenheimer,

1181:As an example, here are a few of the more popular social media IFTTT tasks that may help you organize your social media: • Send all your Tweets to a Google spreadsheet. • Update your Twitter profile picture when you update your Facebook profile picture. • Automatically Tweet your Facebook status updates. • Post all pictures posted to Instagram on Twitter. • Archive photos you are tagged in on Facebook to Dropbox. • Archive all links you share on Facebook to a single file in Evernote. • Archive all photos you “like” on Instagram to Dropbox. • Have your iPhone pictures emailed to you as you take them. ~ S J Scott,

1182:She rose and washed and dressed herself and braided her hair freshly, and having made her room neat for the day she went into the peach-tree garden. It lay in the silence of the spring morning. Under the early sun the dew still hung in a bright mist on the grass, and the pool in the center of the garden was brimming its stone walls. The water was clear and the fish were flashing their golden sides near the surface. The great low-built house that surrounded the garden was still in sleep. Birds twittered in the eaves undisturbed and a small Pekingese dog slept on the threshold like a small lioness. ~ Pearl S Buck,

1183:Loneliness Being apart and lonely is like rain. It climbs toward evening from the ocean plains; from flat places, rolling and remote, it climbs to heaven, which is its old abode. And only when leaving heaven drops upon the city. It rains down on us in those twittering hours when the streets turn their faces to the dawn, and when two bodies who have found nothing, dissapointed and depressed, roll over; and when two people who despise each other have to sleep together in one bed- that is when loneliness receives the rivers ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Loneliness ,

1184:When bored, many people seek excitement and turn to dramatic news headlines. When we feel overly stressed we seek calm, perhaps finding relief in sites like Pinterest. When we feel lonely, destinations like Facebook and Twitter provide instant social connections. To ameliorate the sensation of uncertainty, Google is just a click away. Email, perhaps the mother of all habit-forming technology, is a go-to solution for many of our daily agitations, from validating our importance (or even, simply our existence) by checking to see if someone needs us, to providing an escape from life's more mundane moments. ~ Nir Eyal,

1185:...a new day was starting, the things of the garden were not concerned with our troubles. A blackbird ran across the rose-garden to the lawns in swift, short rushes, stopping now and again to stab at the earth with his yellow beak. A thrush, too, went about his business, and two stout, little wagtails, following one another, and a little cluster of twittering sparrows. A gull poised himself high in the air, silent and alone, and then spread his wings wide and swooped beyond the lawns to the woods and the Happy Valley. These things continued, our worries and anxieties had no power to alter them. ~ Daphne du Maurier,

1186:Given the incredible power that new technologies give both governments and terrorists we need a strong American Civil Liberties Union and a strong National Security Agency. In a cyberage, you should want an A.C.L.U. watching the watchers. But you should also want an N.S.A. watching the superempowered, cyberempowered angry people. Civil liberties absolutists may think the 9/11 era is over, but do the jihadist fanatics who use Facebook, Twitter and WhatsApp as their command and control system? We need to worry about Big Terrorist and Big Criminal as much as Big Brother if we want to prevent another 9/11. ~ Anonymous,

1187:It somehow made sense to me to draw big, sweeping analogies between the modern-day cultural avoidance of real social contact in favor of reasonable facsimiles thereof—Facebook, Twitter, interactive video games—and our modern-day cultural avoidance of real, fulfilling nourishment in favor of reasonable facsimiles thereof—fast food, processed food, convenience food. Is modern society based on our collective desire to run away from consciousness/deep feeling/God? Is it possible that a practice of what Alex called “Holly Food” could represent the fledgling beginnings of a way back to … what? Spirituality? ~ Eve O Schaub,

1188:MarkBaynard: If you start hanging out over here, won't your Facebook Friends miss you? Abby Donovan: Those people weren't my friends. If they had been, they wouldn't have sent me all those annoying quizzes. MarkBaynard: A true friend never asks you to feed their imaginary fish. Or fertilize their imaginary crops. Abby Donovan: Although with a little coaxing, I might be persuaded to take home your imaginary kitten. So how is Twitter different from Facebook? MarkBaynard: Twitter is the perpetual cocktail party where everyone is talking at once but nobody is saying anything. ~ Teresa Medeiros,

1189:Before all this started, I was happier than I had been in years. I was engaged to the woman of my dreams, fulfilled in my career and friendships. I smiled at people on the Tube, and woke up excited at life. By the time of the final court hearing, I was on anti-schizophrenic medication, with a shot immune system and an adrenal system on its knees. My Twitter and Facebook feeds were being monitored round the clock and anything the opposing lawyers felt was inappropriate (a generic tweet about free speech after the Charlie Hebdo atrocity, for example) led to instant threatening letters demanding their deletion. ~ Anonymous,

1190:Maybe you saw this soft-drink commercial. The camera follows a pleasant-looking, college-age young man at a social event in a large house. It’s the holidays, and he is busy introducing you to his various friends and family, singing a song, and passing out soft drinks. There’s his mom, his sis, his brother, his “surprisingly cool stepmother,” and the two kids his stepmom had before meeting his dad, plus aunts, cousins, office mates, his best friend, his judo coach, his allergist, even his Twitter fans. It was the clearest example I have seen that the definition of the American family is changing. Rapidly. It ~ John Medina,

1191:The First Swallow The The The The The gorse is yellow on the heath, banks with speedwell flowers are gay, oaks are budding, and, beneath, hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, silver wreath, of May. The welcome guest of settled Spring, The swallow, too, has come at last; Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, I saw her dash with rapid wing, And hailed her as she passed. Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the gray dawn of day. ~ Charlotte Smith,

1192:This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning,   This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,   This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.   Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?   Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the           side of a rock has.   Do you take it I would astonish?   Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering           through the woods?   Do I astonish more than they?   This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. ~ Walt Whitman,

1193:Are you sure you’re not a witch?” he teased lightly, his teeth nipping at the sensitive lobe of my ear. My stomach twittered excitedly and I leaned into him. “If I’m a witch, you’re a devil,” I returned breathlessly, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t stop, that we could just continue on in our little bubble of oblivion. Jackson chuckled, a sound that sent chills racing down my back. “Now that’s entirely possible,” Jackson admitted, leaning back to grin down into my face. When his eyes settled on mine, his smile died and I fell headlong into the intensity of his sky blue gaze. “I love you. ~ Michelle Leighton,

1194:There must be a concerted effort to turn people away from fundamentalist Islam. Imagine a platform for Muslim dissidents that communicated their message through YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Imagine ten reformist magazines for every one issue of IS’s “Dibuq” or Al-Qaeda’s “Inspire”. Such a strategy would also give us an opportunity to shift our alliances to those Muslim individuals and groups who actually share our values and practices – those who fight for a true Reformation and who find themselves maligned and marginalized by those nations and leaders and imams whom we now embrace as allies. ~ Ayaan Hirsi Ali,

1195:BERNIE: I think America should get a pony. HILLARY: How will you pay for the pony? Where will the pony come from? How will you get Congress to agree to the pony? BERNIE: Hillary thinks America doesn’t deserve a pony. BERNIE SUPPORTERS: Hillary hates ponies! HILLARY: Actually, I love ponies. BERNIE SUPPORTERS: She changed her position on ponies! #WhichHillary? #WitchHillary HEADLINE: “Hillary Refuses to Give Every American a Pony” DEBATE MODERATOR: Hillary, how do you feel when people say you lie about ponies? WEBSITE HEADLINE: “Congressional Inquiry into Clinton’s Pony Lies” TWITTER TRENDING: #ponygate ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

1196:A story by Alice Park on the aging effects of fat on kids' bodies drew some pointed comments about parental accountability. "Your story is horrifying," wrote Susan Stafford of Berkeley, Calif. "But no one gains weight out of nowhere. People live in denial about food. Parents eat garbage and feed their kids the same." Diabetic Peter Baxter of Brighton, England, advocated for home cooking to combat ubiquitous ads for meals "that will kill children." Meanwhile Katy Steinmetz's TIME.com piece on state initiatives to ban big soda was widely shared on Twitter, where food writer Mark Bittman wrote, "The soda wars escalate. ~ Anonymous,

1197:They’re called sock puppets. We create armies of artificial online personas – user accounts that espouse views certain interested parties want espoused. We flood forums, online comment sections, social media. ... It’s amazing what a few people and a little money can accomplish online. Our puppets have turned whole elections. … Everything the public sees is managed. If there’s a valuable brand to protect – whether it’s a person or a dish soap – these fuckers are out there protecting it, shaping the narrative. I mean… who the hell follows dish soap on Twitter? How does anyone believe that shit’s real? (p. 292-294) ~ Daniel Suarez,

1198:Around 2010, Peter Thiel, the PayPal cofounder and early Facebook investor, began promoting the idea that the technology industry had let people down. “We wanted flying cars, instead we got 140 characters” became the tagline of his venture capital firm Founders Fund. In an essay called “What Happened to the Future,” Thiel and his cohorts described how Twitter, its 140-character messages, and similar inventions have let the public down. He argued that science fiction, which once celebrated the future, has turned dystopian because people no longer have an optimistic view of technology’s ability to change the world. I ~ Ashlee Vance,

1199:It’s super-important to have a strong social media presence, and Jane’s always going, When interviewers ask you about your Twitter, say you love reaching out directly to your fans, and I’m like, I don’t even know how to use Twitter or what the password is because you disabled my laptop’s wireless and only let me go on the Internet to do homework research or email Nadine assignments, and she says, I’m doing you a big favor, it’s for nobodies who want to pretend like they’re famous and for self-promoting hacks without PR machines, and adults act like teenagers passing notes and everyone’s IQ drops thirty points on it. ~ Teddy Wayne,

1200:When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night be too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be. ~ Robert Frost,

1201:Nicholas Was . . . older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die. The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensible rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories. Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves’ invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen into time. He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher. Ho. Ho. Ho. ~ Neil Gaiman,

1202:Conventional software assumes that API users are second-class citizens who shouldn’t get full access to the software’s secret sauce for fear of losing competitive advantage. Twitter’s creators recognized that there was another kind of competitive advantage that came from complete openness: the advantage that comes from having the largest and most diverse ecosystem of software applications being built on your platform. Call it cooperative advantage. The burden of coming up with good ideas for the product is no longer shouldered exclusively by the company itself. On an open platform, good ideas can come from anywhere. ~ Steven Johnson,

1203:Qwilleran, never an early riser by choice, now found himself routed out of bed at dawn when the birds convened for their morning singsong and the Siamese wanted to join them. Koko and Yum Yum would station themselves outside his bedroom door, the one yowling in an operatic baritone and the other uttering soprano shrieks until he got up and transported them to the gazebo. Yum Yum simply wanted to bat insects on the screens, but Koko was fascinated by the chorus of trills, chirrups, whistles, warbles, and twitters. The cacophony reminded Qwilleran of the Pickax high school band tuning up for Pomp and Circumstance. ~ Lilian Jackson Braun,

1204:When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries. ~ Kenneth Grahame,

1205:I thought of many an autumn I had known: Seemly autumns approaching deliberately, with amplitude. I thought of wild asters, Michaelmas daisies, mushrooms, leaves idling down the air, two or three at a time, warblers twittering and glittering in every bush ('Confusing fall warblers,' Peterson calls them, and how right he is): the lingering yellow jackets feeding on broken apples; crickets; amber-dappled light; great geese barking down from the north; the seesaw noise that blue jays seem to make more often in the fall. Hoarfrost in the morning, cold stars at night. But slow; the whole thing coming slowly. The way it should be. ~ Elizabeth Enright,

1206:The need for approval from Twitter users was something that her younger self probably would have sneered at, but now she saw it as the cost of doing business. It was fine to get likes, but what she really wanted was either a retweet or, even better, a completely original tweet commending her for a job well done, preferably one from someone in the tech world whose work she respected and who, ideally, had hundreds of thousands of followers. If the only people who liked the tweet were “eggs”—people whose Twitter presence was so lame that they hadn’t even bothered uploading avatars, or spambots, or both—she sometimes deleted the tweet. ~ Doree Shafrir,

1207:Griffin Scope looked puzzled. “Good news, Hoyt?” Hoyt tried a smile. “Very good news, I think.” “Wonderful,” Scope said. He glanced at Wu. Wu nodded but stayed where he was. Scope said, “So tell me this good news, Hoyt. I’m all atwitter.” Hoyt cleared his throat. “First of all, you have to understand. I never meant to harm you. In fact, I went to great lengths to make sure nothing incriminating ever got out. But I also needed to save my daughter. You can understand that, can’t you?” A shadow flickered across Scope’s face. “Do I understand the desire to protect a child?” he asked, his voice a quiet rumble. “Yes, Hoyt, I think I do.” A ~ Harlan Coben,

1208:Twitter The “feed” has become a social staple of many online products. The stream of limitless information displayed in a scrolling interface makes for a compelling reward of the hunt. The Twitter timeline, for example, is filled with a mix of both mundane and relevant content. This variety creates an enticingly unpredictable user experience. On occasion a user might find a particularly interesting piece of news, while other times, she won’t. But to keep hunting for more information, all that is needed is a flick of the finger or scroll of a mouse. Users scroll and scroll and scroll to search for variable rewards in the form of relevant tweets ~ Nir Eyal,

1209:These days, in the world of apps and social media and … idiot friends, it is literally impossible to avoid spoilers. If a character dies, it is gonna be the number one trending topic on Twitter, it is gonna be the top trending story on Facebook — and Reddit and Tumblr just turn into a completely uncensored memorial service of memes. This happens all the time with sports results, but — I shit you not — I once got a notification from the BBC News app saying that a character in a show I was watching had just died! I thought that news notifications are supposed to be for impending natural disasters, not for just ruining my bloody afternoon. ~ Dan Howell,

1210:Hacks. When consumers or companies are creating off-label uses for something such that it becomes more useful; or when someone finds an experience related to technology or digital media so frustrating that she builds something smarter, more intuitive, and easier to use. Although Twitter was invented to make it easier for people to connect with each other, in the beginning users had no easy way to tag topics or follow conversations as they did within chat and message boards. Early adopter Chris Messina proposed using the number sign, or hashtag, as a workaround.25 His hack not only completely transformed how we aggregate and share content across social media ~ Amy Webb,

1211:Jack and Ev looked at each other for a moment in the boardroom. At that moment neither realized that they were both fundamental to what Twitter had become. The perfect equilibrium of two different ways of looking at the world: the need to talk about yourself, compared with the need to let people talk about what was happening around them. One could never have existed without the other. That balance, or battle, had created Twitter. A tool that could be used by corporate titans and teens, by celebrities and nobodies, by government officials and revolutionaries. A place where people with fundamentally different views of the world, like Jack and Ev, could converse. ~ Nick Bilton,

1212:like to see more of Vivian and Luca and maybe other Italian bachelors follow in Rafe’s footsteps, too. ;) I’d love to write a new romantic adventure for Rafe and Ari, too (but is that allowed for Kindle Worlds? Mm..).   Oh, and you can also write to me directly. I love hearing from readers. You can reach me via my website, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, or you can also email me.   A list of my works (arranged according to reading order) can be found here and you can also visit my author page on Amazon for book links.   Lastly, for updates on my newest releases and exclusive excerpts for upcoming releases, please consider signing up for my newsletter.   Thank you! ~ Marian Tee,

1213:Participation in our democracy seems to be driven by the instant-gratification worlds of Twitter, Snapchat, Facebook, and the twenty-four-hour news cycle. We’re using modern technology to revert to primitive kinds of human relations. The media knows what sells—conflict and division. It’s also quick and easy. All too often anger works better than answers; resentment better than reason; emotion trumps evidence. A sanctimonious, sneering one-liner, no matter how bogus, is seen as straight talk, while a calm, well-argued response is seen as canned and phony. It reminds me of the old political joke: Why do you take such an instant dislike to people? It saves a lot of time. ~ Bill Clinton,

1214:The social Web is revolutionizing the way institutions operate, and the way people communicate, but in the end it might not have much of an effect on the core social group you depend on for true friendship. You can maintain a giant number of weak ties to people on Facebook, Twitter, and whatever comes next, much like you can in a giant company. Strong ties, however, require constant grooming. People who use the number of friends they have on Facebook as a metric of their social standing are fooling themselves. You can share videos of fainting goats with hundreds of acquaintances and thousands of followers, but you can trust a secret only with a handful of true friends. ~ David McRaney,

1215:En el mundo actual, esta idea trasnochada de qué hace a los hombres deseables para las mujeres es absurda y obsoleta: como demuestra el hecho de que normalmente sea gente de más de cuarenta años la que habla de ello. Para casi todo el mundo por debajo de esa edad, vivimos en una época en la que realmente lo que hace a un hombre «alfa» es evitar peleas (el sistema legal es un coñazo, además de caro), ser divertido (estamos sentados sobre cincuenta años de anécdotas increíbles. Si hasta ahora no has descubierto un par de técnicas para contar un chiste, entonces eres un retrasado) y, además, saber cómo reinstalar el Adobe AIR cuando se cae el Twitter en tu portátil. Hablando ~ Caitlin Moran,

1216:She attended the French performance, but the play's content now had a connection to her life. She read a book and the book invariably had lines with sparks from her mind, the fire of her emotions flickered here and there, and words spoken the night before were written down, as if the author had overheard how her heart beat. The forest held the same trees, but their sound had taken on special meaning; she had established a vibrant consonance with them. The birds did not simply twitter and chirp but were saying something to each other. Everything around her spoke and responded to her mood; a flower would blossom and she seemed to hear its breathing. pp. 256-257 ~ Ivan Goncharov,

1217:If the only thing I did for the rest of my life was treat others kindly, file manila folders, and sit on the porch watching the grass grow it would be enough. It had to be. I did the math. The number of people who actually achieve a significant legacy is trifling compared to the vast number who go from birth to death living relatively unremarkable lives (at least on the surface). And maybe that wasn't the failure I'd been conditioned to believe. Maybe there was something to be said in praise of an outwardly unremarkable life. Maybe there were deep everyday forms of magic that had nothing to do with profound acomplishments or a Twitter feed that resonated down through the ages. ~ Clara Bensen,

1218:Just like Creation author Steve Grand had predicted, the creatures were evolving in ways that Bezos could not have imagined. It was the combination of EC2 and S3—storage and compute, two primitives linked together—that transformed both AWS and the technology world. Startups no longer needed to spend their venture capital on buying servers and hiring specialized engineers to run them. Infrastructure costs were variable instead of fixed, and they could grow in direct proportion to revenues. It freed companies to experiment, to change their business models with a minimum of pain, and to keep up with the rapidly growing audiences of erupting social networks like Facebook and Twitter. ~ Brad Stone,

1219:I laid it all out there: the Twitter page, the hundreds of thousands of followers, the news articles, the book publishers, the TV producers, all of it. He sat quietly and listened. Then he laughed, stood up, ironing out his pants with his hands, and said, “Have you seen my cell phone? Can you call it? I can’t find it.” “So you’re…cool with all this? You’re cool with me writing a book, the quotes, everything?” I asked. “What do I give a fuck? I don’t care what people think of me. Publish whatever you want. I just got two rules: I’m not talking to anyone, and whatever money you get, keep. I got my own fucking money. I don’t need yours,” he said. “Now, call my cell phone, goddamn it. ~ Justin Halpern,

1220:Shutting off [Twitter] without warning was jarring and isolating, like having a friend you rely on just vanish with no explanation. Jordan was right: I didn't have to be there, be it for work or for personal gain. I didn't have to play. I realized, though, that I wanted to -- I like attention and I like being able to control my own narrative. Above all, I like bothering people. I like being present in spaces where I am not welcome because you do not deserve to feel comfortable just because you're racist or sexist or small-minded. Something about ceding this territory, this part of the digital world that I felt ownership over, felt so deeply unfair. It's my house; why should I leave? ~ Scaachi Koul,

1221:Cambridge or Boston. The same urban tech migration is playing out in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, and New York City as some of the hottest tech companies in those areas establish themselves in downtown offices. For example, Twitter Inc. is headquartered in the gritty Mid-Market neighborhood in San Francisco, and the crowdfunding site Kickstarter Inc. opened its headquarters in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn, N.Y. “It didn’t surprise me that young people wanted to move back to the city, because cities are fun,’’ said Richard Florida, director of the Martin Prosperity Institute at the University of Toronto. “What really surprised me was this move among tech firms back to the cities. ~ Anonymous,

1222:If you have to put the disclaimer, "My opinions are my own and not my employers" on your Social Media, which means Facebook, Twitter, and even Goodreads, then you are broadcasting to your employers, clients, future clients and anyone who can hire you that you deviate much from your work persona. The truth is, to anyone looking to hire you, they look at the whole person. You are who you are at work and off work. If you use your social media in a positive way, your clients and employer will see that. If you use your social media to bully and harass people, then they will see that too. Be responsible with your Social Media. It is an extension of you. At work and off-work. - Strong by Kailin Gow ~ Kailin Gow,

1223:IMPROVE YOUR AUTHENTICITY. Social media can also be called “Individual media” as opposed to “Group Media.” Instead of a large group broadcasting your effort, you can build up your own presence by establishing your Facebook platform, your Twitter presence, your LinkedIn, Quora, Pinterest, blogging, Amazon, SlideShare, Scribd, reddit, etc., presence. All of these channels are used to create authenticity for your offering. Each follower, fan, etc., you are personally able to sway over to your side of the world continues to establish your authenticity, regardless of who is “rejecting” you. This is how you choose yourself and build your own platform rather than relying on the whims of a meager few. ~ James Altucher,

1224:Not long afterward, Crowley saw the first version of an Internet start-up called Twitter. The company was run by Evan Williams, the cofounder of Blogger, who had sold that firm to Google in February 2003 but left in October 2004, unhappy at the relative neglect with which it treated his service. Twitter was a dead-simple Internet and phone service that let people broadcast 140-character messages to anyone who chose to “follow” the stray thoughts of a given user. Crowley began sending emails to people at Google telling them that this was important and Google should jump on it. “It all fell on deaf ears,” Crowley says. “They just weren’t interested in social at the time. It just wasn’t their thing. ~ Steven Levy,

1225:¿Por qué no creó Rupert Murdoch The Huffington Post? ¿Por qué no lanzó AT&T Skype, ni Visa creó PayPal? La CNN podría haber creado Twitter, visto que de frases cortas e impactantes como titulares se trata, ¿no? General Motors o Hertz podrían haber lanzado Uber, y Marriott, Airbnb. Gannett podría haber creado Craigslist o Kijiji. Yellow Pages podría haber fundado perfectamente eBay. Microsoft tenía la posibilidad de crear Google o cualquier modelo de negocio basado en internet más que en el ordenador personal. ¿Por qué no inventó la NBC YouTube? Sony podría haberse adelantado al iTunes de Apple. ¿Dónde estaba Kodak cuando se inventaron Instagram o Pinterest? ¿Y si People o Newsweek hubieran creado BuzzFeed o Mashable? ~ Don Tapscott,

1226:l. She dared one more quick look at the tat, but her attention soon moved to the size of the muscle on which it had been inked. Definitely leer-worthy. When he passed beside her on his way toward the back of the room, she caught a whiff of sexy aftershave and stifled a groan. Millicent was going to be all a-twitter over him. Tara just knew it. When she heard someone behind her whisper, “He’s sooo hot,” she couldn’t help but silently agree. But it was another girl’s answer that made her curious. “Yeah . . . but no one in her right mind would mess with him.” “Bethany did.” “But not for long.” “Yeah. Right.” Ahah. Bethany must be the girl glaring at him beside the teacher’s desk. ~ Sharon Sala,

1227:Someone sent me a Facebook post that summed up the dynamic in which we were caught: BERNIE: I think America should get a pony. HILLARY: How will you pay for the pony? Where will the pony come from? How will you get Congress to agree to the pony? BERNIE: Hillary thinks America doesn't deserve a pony. BERNIE SUPPORTERS: Hillary hates ponies! HILLARY: Actually, I love ponies. BERNIE SUPPORTERS: She changed her position on ponies! #whichhillary #witchhillary HEADLINE: 'Hillary Refuses to Give Every American a Pony" DEBATE MODERATOR: Hillary, how do you feel when people say you lie about ponies? WEBSITE HEADLINE: 'Congressional Inquiry into Clinton's Pony Lies' TWITTER TRENDING: #ponygate ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

1228:Birds Sing I Love You, Love Birds sing "I love you, love" the whole day through, And not another song can they sing right; But, singing done with, loving's done with quite, The autumn sunders every twittering two. And I'd not have love make too much ado With sweet parades of fondness and delight, Lest iterant wont should make caresses trite, Love-names mere cuckoo ousters of the true. Oh heart can hear heart's sense in senseless nought, And heart that's sure of heart has little speech. What shall it tell? The other knows its thought. What shall one doubt or question or beseech Who is assured and knows and, unbesought, Possesses the dear trust that each gives each. ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

1229:What a night it was! The jagged masses of heavy dark cloud were rolling at intervals from horizon to horizon, and thin white wreaths covered the stars. Through all the rush of the cloud river the moon swam, breasting the waves and disappearing again in the darkness. I walked up and down, drinking in the beauty of the quiet earth and the changing sky. The night was absolutely silent. Nothing seemed to be abroad. There was no scurrying of rabbits, or twitter of the half-asleep birds. And though the clouds went sailing across the sky, the wind that drove them never came low enough to rustle the dead leaves in the woodland paths. Across the meadows I could see the church tower standing out black and grey against the sky. ("Man Size In Marble") ~ E Nesbit,

1230:And the hot new things that were just starting out—Facebook and Twitter—certainly did not look like their predecessors—Hewlett-Packard, Intel, Sun Microsystems—that made physical products and employed tens of thousands of people in the process. In the years that followed, the goal went from taking huge risks to create new industries and grand new ideas, to chasing easier money by entertaining consumers and pumping out simple apps and advertisements. “The best minds of my generation are thinking about how to make people click ads,” Jeff Hammerbacher, an early Facebook engineer, told me. “That sucks.” Silicon Valley began to look an awful lot like Hollywood. Meanwhile, the consumers it served had turned inward, obsessed with their virtual lives. ~ Ashlee Vance,

1231:Yet lost in the debate about America’s true intentions in the Middle East was the fact that large majorities in every Muslim-majority state surveyed told pollsters they wanted to see their countries move toward greater democracy. A wave of democratic fervor across the Middle East created a renewed sense of hope for scores of people who had spent their lives in autocratic societies but who now looked forward to the possibility of having a say, even if in the most limited of ways, in their own political destinies. The Green Movement in Iran lit the fuse, employing new social media technologies like Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube to break the government’s monopoly over the media and to demonstrate to the world their aspiration for freedom and liberty. ~ Reza Aslan,

1232:Confidence is just entitlement. Entitlement has gotten a bad rap because it’s used almost exclusively for the useless children of the rich, reality TV stars, and Conrad Hilton Jr., who gets kicked off an airplane for smoking pot in the lavatory and calling people peasants or whatever. But entitlement in and of itself isn’t so bad. Entitlement is simply the belief that you deserve something. Which is great. The hard part is, you’d better make sure you deserve it. So, how did I make sure that I deserved it? To answer that, I would like to quote from the Twitter bio of one of my favorite people, Kevin Hart. It reads: My name is Kevin Hart and I WORK HARD!!! That pretty much sums me up!!! Everybody Wants To Be Famous But Nobody Wants To Do The Work! HARD ~ Mindy Kaling,

1233:The diversity of the Twitter platform is no accident. It derives from a deliberate strategy that Dorsey, Williams, and Stone embraced from the outset: they built an emergent platform first, and then they built Twitter.com. An open platform in software is often called an API, which stands for application programming interface. An API is a kind of lingua franca that software applications can use reliably to communicate with each other, a set of standardized rules and definitions that allow programmers to build new tools on top of another platform, or to weave together information from multiple platforms. When Web users make geographic mashups using Google Maps, they write programs that communicate with Google’s geographic data using their mapping API. ~ Steven Johnson,

1234:It was beginning to get late in the afternoon. On the edge of the earth, the sun slowly diminished. An unexpected calmness dropped in the atmosphere. In one short life, this drama would end. And that would be the end of it all; those, who suffered the worst, were the ones most deluded by the notion that this life was forever. Oh, how calm? How peacefully the River Murma flowed today? A mere twitter of a bird in the heavy groves, the shepherd’s distant tune caught in the flute wafted through the air. There appeared to be no grimy crimes threatening such delightful sensations of undulated serenity. The night forest illuminated by fireflies everywhere. Lights sparkled, as they flew ubiquitous around the slim, tall trees and the heavy bushes of the blue forest. ~ Mehreen Ahmed,

1235:Other factors strengthen or weaken a platform’s ability to pull users. One is the value of the currency available for exchange on the platform. As we’ve discussed, some platform exchanges are paid for in intangible forms of currency: attention, popularity, influence, and so on. Thus, one form of network effect is the increased attractiveness of the currency available on a platform that is growing in size. Because Twitter has achieved such an enormous user base, a successful tweet is likely to attract far more currency in the form of attention than the same message disseminated on some other platform. So Twitter’s huge size enlarges its pull, encouraging still more participant activity and making a competitive challenge to the platform increasingly unlikely. ~ Geoffrey G Parker,

1236:Sandra, I need one of the IT guys to send me the feeds for all of Everly Jensen’s social media accounts.” Wait. What? “She’s a senior at Penn. Grew up in Ridgefield, Connecticut. You should be able to locate her easily enough.” “What are you doing?” I interrupt, confused and annoyed. “Facebook, Twitter, Instagram,” he rattles off. “And whatever other sites college girls are currently using to post selfies on the internet. That will be all, Sandra.” He ends the call with a tap to a control on the steering wheel. “Hello, I’m sitting right here. Did you want me to friend-request you or something?” I wave the phone in my hand as I talk. “Because that”—I point in the direction of the speakers in the dashboard—“was a little melodramatic. ~ Jana Aston,

1237:In February 2018, the United States District Court for the District of Columbia filed an indictment in the United States versus the Internet Research Agency, Concorde Management and Consulting, LLC, and Concorde Catering. The indictment alleges that the internet research organization is a Russian organization engaged in operations to interfere with elections in political processes. According to the indictment, beginning in late 2013, the organization hired staff and planned to manipulate the US Presidential election by creating false personas of American citizens. They would set up social media websites, group Facebook pages, and Twitter feeds to attract US audiences. They name 13 Russians who are the key managers of the organization starting with Yevgeniy Prigozhin. ~ Malcolm W Nance,

1238:Yeah about the test... The test will measure wether you are an informed, engaged, productive citizen of the world, and it will take place in schools and bars and hospitals and dorm rooms and places of worship. You will be tested on first dates, in job interviews, in job interviews, while watching football, and while scrolling through your Twitter feed. The test will judge your ability to think about things other than celebrity marriages, whether you'll be easily persuaded by empty political rhetoric, and whether you'll be able to place your life and your community in a broader context. The test will last your entire life and it will be comprised of the millions of decisions that, when taken together, will make your life yours. And everything, everything, will be on it. ~ John Green,

1239:They're not just looking to be offended. They are hunting for opportunities to vilify people. These opportunistic attacks are impossible to anticipate because in many cases the target doesn't even know the SJW who complained to Human Resources or contacted the media, and even in the case of a public accusation on Twitter or a blog, he probably won't be aware of the attack until it has already blown up on social media because he doesn't follow his accuser. Sir Tim Hunt had probably made similar jokes about female scientists in laboratories before, but he had not made them in front of a status-seeking SJW like Connie St. Louis. Sensing an opportunity to make a name for herself by vilifying a Nobel Prize winner, she struck, and in doing so promptly put herself in front of the charge. ~ Vox Day,

1240:Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth,   This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth;   Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;   Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:   Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! Composition date is unknown - the above date represents the first publication date. The lyrical form of this poem is abcabc. ~ Robert Browning, Among The Rocks ,

1241:Yeah, about the test... The test will measure whether you are an informed, engaged, and productive citizen of the world, and it will take place in schools and bars and hospitals and dorm rooms and in places of worship. You will be tested on first dates, in job interviews, while watching football, and while scrolling through your Twitter feed. The test will judge your ability to think about things other than celebrity marriages, whether you’ll be easily persuaded by empty political rhetoric, and whether you’ll be able to place your life and your community in a broader context. The test will last your entire life, and it will be comprised of the millions of decisions that, when taken together, will make your life yours. And everything, everything, will be on it. ...I know, right? ~ John Green,

1242:When the plane landed at O’Hare Airport, the flight attendants asked the passengers to remain in their seats. Sitting eight rows back, Kyle watched as two men wearing standard-issue government suits—clearly FBI agents—boarded the plane and handed over a document to the pilot. “Yep, that would be me,” Kyle said, grabbing his backpack from underneath the seat in front of him. The elderly Hispanic man sitting next to him lowered his voice to a whisper. “Drugs?” “Twitter,” Kyle whispered back. He stood up, backpack in hand, and nodded at the FBI agents that had stopped at his row. “Morning, gentlemen.” The younger agent held out his hand, all business. “Hand over the computer, Rhodes.” “I guess we’re skipping the pleasantries,” Kyle said, handing over his backpack ~ Julie James,

1243:Summer Morn In New Hampshire All yesterday it poured, and all night long I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat Upon the shingled roof like a weird song, Upon the grass like running children's feet. And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed, Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed, Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist, And nestled soft against the earth's wet breast. But lo, there was a miracle at dawn! The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze, The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn, The songsters twittered in the rustling trees. And all things were transfigured in the day, But me whom radiant beauty could not move; For you, more wonderful, were far away, And I was blind with hunger for your love. ~ Claude McKay,

1244:The First Spring Day I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus fires are kindling one by one: Sing, robin, sing; I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring. I wonder if the springtide of this year Will bring another Spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will find out their Spring, Or if the world alone will bud and sing: Sing, hope, to me; Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory. The sap will surely quicken soon or late, The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate; So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom, Or in this world, or in the world to come: Sing, voice of Spring, Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

1245:I remember once after sharing an article on Twitter about racism in the US, when a white Canadian tweeted back, “You should move to Canada, we aren’t racist here.” I pointed out that, according to recent news of the reluctance of government officials to fully investigate the murders of dozens of indigenous women, the controversy over “carding” of black Canadians by police, and the testimony of my Canadian friends of color—Canada was plenty racist. This white Canadian stranger kept insisting that no, there was no racism in Canada because he had not seen it. When some of my Canadian friends chimed in with helpful links about high-profile incidences of racism and investigations into systemic racism in Canada, the white Canadian continued to insist that they were wrong, and that racism doesn’t exist in Canada. ~ Ijeoma Oluo,

1246:Of course, Ev didn’t have a chance to assuage anyone’s fears. As far as he knew, everything was just fine at Twitter. He held his weekly meetings with Campbell, receiving his boisterous pep talk. “You’re doing a fucking great job!” Campbell would bellow. At board meetings Campbell would appear to listen to Ev’s presentations on the state of the company. After Ev’s sermons were done, the coach would clap loudly and hug his protégé, proclaiming again to everyone in the room that Ev was “doing a fucking great job!” and asking them to clap (none of this was a usual occurrence in a corporate board meeting). Then, after Ev left the room, proud that his mentor thought he was doing such a great job, Campbell would shout at the group: “You gotta get rid of this fucking guy! He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing! ~ Nick Bilton,

1247:Whatever the perversion or barbarity, ISIS has a ready-made justification. The salability of its dark vision cannot be underestimated. Recently, the US State Department created a Twitter account called “Think Again Turn Away.” It tweets photographs of ISIS atrocities and casualties and links to news stories describing them. It also engages with pro-ISIS accounts, in effect trolling them. Thus, in opposition to @OperationJihad, who wrote to no one in particular, quoting a jihadist anthem, “We have nothing to achieve in this world, except martyrdom, [i]n the mountains we will be buried and snow will be our shroud,” the State Department rejoined: “Much more honorable to give a Syrian child a pair of boots than drive him from his home into snow w/your quest for death.” @OperationJihad didn’t bother to reply. ~ Michael Weiss,

1248:Every so often she’d see a reporter complaining on Twitter about how far the quality of journalism had tumbled, thanks to the internet, and that journalists with real skills and experience who knew how to write original stories were getting shoved aside in favor of young people who leeched off the hard work of these allegedly hardworking journalists, and it was all because their greedy overlords were obsessed with clicks and traffic—again, at the expense of “real” journalists. Aggregation had become a dirty word, and the people who suffered were the readers, who were now faced with piles of online news dreck, according to this line of thinking, and every story was the same, and no one checked sources, and eventually everyone was just going to die under a pile of clickbait, which was the dirtiest word of all. ~ Doree Shafrir,

1249:The tweets were not incidental to his presidency. They were central. He ordered printouts of his recent tweets that had received a high number of likes, 200,000 or more. He studied them to find the common themes in the most successful. He seemed to want to become more strategic, find out whether success was tied to the subject, the language or simply the surprise that the president was weighing in. The most effective tweets were often the most shocking. Later, when Twitter announced the number of permissible characters in a single tweet was being doubled from 140 to 280, Trump told Porter he thought the change made sense on one level. Now he would be able to flesh out his thoughts and add more depth. “It’s a good thing,” Trump said, “but it’s a bit of a shame because I was the Ernest Hemingway of 140 characters. ~ Bob Woodward,

1250:You’re right,” Phoebe said. “We both need coffee.” “And a change in subject. Come on. Zane sent me to find you and bring you back for breakfast.” She grinned. “Apparently he’s worried about you.” “He worries about everyone,” Phoebe said, trying not to be pleased by Maya’s words. “It’s his nature.” “That’s true. Zane would love to be in charge of the world. He gets off on bossing people around.” “It’s not that,” Phoebe said. “He takes his responsibilities seriously.” “Defending him again?” Phoebe waved goodbye to Manny and started down the path. “He doesn’t need me to defend him. He’s strong enough to take care of himself.” “Interesting.” Maya walked next to her. “So here’s this big, hunky guy who doesn’t need you to rescue him. No wonder you’re all atwitter around him. You don’t know what to do. ~ Susan Mallery,

1251:So Rhodes will go to his corner, leading a charge he can’t really control because his caucus twitches at each tweet. Some days, my side isn’t much better. Participation in our democracy seems to be driven by the instant-gratification worlds of Twitter, Snapchat, Facebook, and the twenty-four-hour news cycle. We’re using modern technology to revert to primitive kinds of human relations. The media knows what sells—conflict and division. It’s also quick and easy. All too often anger works better than answers; resentment better than reason; emotion trumps evidence. A sanctimonious, sneering one-liner, no matter how bogus, is seen as straight talk, while a calm, well-argued response is seen as canned and phony. It reminds me of the old political joke: Why do you take such an instant dislike to people? It saves a lot of time. ~ Bill Clinton,

1252: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,

1253:Markets can govern behavior through the use of mechanism design and various incentives—not money alone, but the trifecta of human motivations that may be summarized as fun, fame, and fortune. In fact, on many platforms, money is far less important than the more intangible, subjective form of value known as social currency. The idea behind social currency is to give something in order to get something. If you give fun in a photo, you can get people to share it. Social currency, measured as the economic value of a relationship, includes favorites and shares.39 It also includes the reputation a person builds up for good interactions on eBay, good news posts on Reddit, or good answers on Stack Overflow. It includes the number of followers a user attracts on Twitter and the number of skill endorsements she garners on LinkedIn. ~ Geoffrey G Parker,

1254:Most Web activities do not generate jobs and revenue at the rate of past technological breakthroughs. When Ford and General Motors were growing in the early part of the twentieth century, they created millions of jobs and helped build Detroit into a top-tier U.S. city. Today, Facebook creates a lot of voyeuristic pleasure, but the company doesn’t employ many people and hasn’t done much for Palo Alto; a lot of the “work” is performed more or less automatically by the software and the servers. You could say that the real work is done by its users, in their spare time and as a form of leisure. Web 2.0 is not filling government coffers or supporting many families, even though it’s been great for users, programmers, and some information technology specialists. Everyone on the Web has heard of Twitter, but as of Fall 2010, only about three hundred people work there. ~ Tyler Cowen,

1255:Bei Hennef The little river twittering in the twilght, The wan, wandering look of the pale sky. This is almost bliss. And everything shut up and gone to sleep, All the troubles and anxieties and pain Gone under the twilight. Only the twilight now, and the soft 'Sh! ' of the river That will last for ever. And at last I know my love for you is here; I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight, It is large, so large, I could not see it before, Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions, Troubles, anxieties and pains. You are the call and I am the answer. You are the wish, and I the fufilment. You are the night, and I the day. What else? It is perfect enough. It is perfectly complete, You and I, What more--? Strange how we suffer in spite of this. ~ David Herbert Lawrence,

1256:Absence My shadow -I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold in the early light in my room high over London. What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire so that I got up and looked out half-asleep at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below? Without fire Only the wind blew. But in the dream I woke from, you came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging to my elbow, your eyes spoke what I could not grasp -Nothing, if you were here! The wind of the early quiet merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels. The lights are out, the air is loud. It is an ordinary January day. My shadow, do you hear the streets? Are you at my heels? Are you here? And I throw back the sheets. Anonymous Submission ~ Edwin Morgan,

1257:The story here is not the old chestnut of living in a connected age where information flows more quickly than ever before. The information is not simply flowing in this system; it’s being recycled and put to new uses, transformed by a diverse network of other species in the ecosystem, each with its own distinct function. You write a tweet about what you had for lunch—the original sin of Twitter banality—and within minutes that information is being harnessed to assist a staggering number of different tasks: neighbors forging new personal connections, foodies seeking a delicious cup of potato and leek soup, restaurant owners getting unvarnished feedback from their patrons, Google organizing all the world’s information, newspapers improving their neighborhood coverage at lower cost, and local businesses seeking the attention of the people in their immediate community. ~ Steven Johnson,

1258:There's something about evening service in a country church that makes a fellow feel drowsy and peaceful. Sort of end-of-a-perfect-day feeling. Old Heppenstall was up in the pulpit, and he has a kind of regular, bleating delivery that assists thought. They had left the door open, and the air was full of a mixed scent of trees and honeysuckle and mildew and villagers' Sunday clothes. As far as the eye could reach, you could see farmers propped up in restful attitudes, breathing heavily; and the children in the congregation who had fidgeted during the earlier part of the proceedings were now lying back in a surfeited sort of coma. The last rays of the setting sun shone through the stained-glass windows, birds were twittering in the trees, the women's dresses crackled gently in the stillness. Peaceful. That's what I'm driving at. I felt peaceful. Everybody felt peaceful. ~ P G Wodehouse,

1259:Uber, a car service start-up founded by Travis Kalanick and Garrett Camp, has been giving out free rides during Austin’s SXSW conference for several years. During a single week, thousands of potential Uber customers—tech-obsessed, high-income young adults who cannot find a cab—are motivated to try out this service. One year Uber offered free rides. Another year, it offered BBQ delivery. Instead of spending millions on advertising or countless resources trying to reach these potential users in their respective cities, Uber just waited for the one week a year when they were all in one place and did something special. And Uber did this because a few years earlier they’d watched Twitter take SXSW by storm with a similar collaboration with the conference. This is thinking like a growth hacker—it’s how you get the most bang for your buck and how you get it from the right people. ~ Ryan Holiday,

1260:In 1948, long before the louder, faster, and busier world of Twitter and social media, Paul Lazarsfeld and Robert Merton wrote: The interested and informed citizen can congratulate himself on his lofty state of interest and information and neglect to see that he has abstained from decision and action. In short, he takes his secondary contact with the world of political reality, his reading and listening and thinking, as a vicarious performance…. He is concerned. He is informed. And he has all sorts of ideas as to what should be done. But, after he has gotten through his dinner and after he has listened to his favored radio programs and after he has read his second newspaper of the day, it is really time for bed.5 This is the exact reaction that web content is designed to produce. To keep you so caught up and consumed with the bubble that you don’t even realize you’re in one. ~ Ryan Holiday,

1261:Bei Hennef The little river twittering in the twilight, The wan, wondering look of the pale sky, This is almost bliss. And everything shut up and gone to sleep, All the troubles and anxieties and pain Gone under the twilight. Only the twilight now, and the soft “Sh!” of the river That will last forever. And at last I know my love for you is here, I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight, It is large, so large, I could not see it before Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions, Troubles, anxieties, and pains. You are the call and I am the answer, You are the wish, and I the fulfillment, You are the night, and I the day. What else—it is perfect enough, It is perfectly complete, You and I. Strange, how we suffer in spite of this! ~ D H Lawrence,

1262:I. All's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves! II. And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully -You know the red turns grey. III. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we,-well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign: IV. For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavour,- Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul for ever!- V. Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer! ~ Robert Browning, The Lost Mistress ,

1263:After a moment I turned back to Twitter and messages were flying past. It was clear now that something huge had just happened. I flipped on the TV and soon learned some of the basics. The quake was centered in the northeast and that we only got a small taste of the full force. People outside of Japan were asking what had happened. News hit of a huge earthquake in Japan, but there were few details. Rummaging through the mess on the floor I found my video camera and a laptop and set up a quick livestream broadcast of the news on TV. For hours I kept the video running as I started to clean up my apartment. I stayed on Twitter throughout the night, as aftershock after aftershock rocked my building, each threatening, then backing down. Soon hundreds of people had logged onto my video as I continued passing information on Twitter to people at work, walking home, or outside of Japan altogether. ~ Jake Adelstein,

1264:The air turned syrupy, slow, flecked with dust. The last few seconds before a battle. And with the last bow pulled free, he reached inside, and amidst a whirring, chaotic clatter of wings and feet and talons and a high-pitched twittering and it’s all happening at once, the man pulls an enormous, enormous hawk out of the box and in a strange coincidence of world and deed a great flood of sunlight drenches us and everything is brilliance and fury. The hawk’s wings, barred and beating, the sharp fingers of her dark-tipped primaries cutting the air, her feathers raised like the scattered quills of a fretful porpentine. Two enormous eyes. My heart jumps sideways. She is a conjuring trick. A reptile. A fallen angel. A griffon from the pages of an illuminated bestiary. Something bright and distant, like gold falling through water. A broken marionette of wings, legs and light-splashed feathers. ~ Helen Macdonald,

1265:Sometimes I want to quit - not performing, but being a woman altogether. I want to throw my hands in the air after reading a mean Twitter comment and say, "All right, you got me. You figured me out. I'm not pretty. I'm not thin. I don't deserve love. I have no right to use my voice. I will start wearing a burka and move to a small town upstate and wait tables at a pancake house." So much has changed about me since I was that confident, happy girl in high school. In the years since then, I've experienced a lot of desperation and self-doubt, but in a way, I've come full circle. I know my worth. I embrace my power. I say if I'm beautiful. I say if I'm strong. You will not determine my story. I will. I'll speak and share and fuck and love, and I will never apologise for it. I am amazing for you, not because of you. I am not who I sleep with. I am not my weight. I am not my mother. I am myself. And I am all of you. ~ Amy Schumer,

1266:BlockChalk is a virtual community bulletin board for neighborhoods in nearly nine thousand cities. In function, it is like a hyper-local version of Twitter. From your cell phone, you can leave a message for someone on your block or street, whether it is to report something you found, announce something happening in your neighborhood, ask to borrow an item, warn people of something to watch out for, or just chat. A typical “chalk” (BlockChalks’s word for a message) reads, “Found dog while running last night @River Bank De & Poppy Way in Edgewater . . . Please post on here if he’s yours, or you know who he belongs to.” It was created by Josh Whiting, who was formerly a senior engineer for craigslist and Del.icio.us, to make it easy for neighbors to interact with each other. Recognizing that some users will want to keep their identity and location anonymous, you can reply privately or respond publicly, “chalkback. ~ Rachel Botsman,

1267:From the follower side of the equation, the more Twitter users curate the list of people they follow, the better the service will be at delivering interesting content. Investing in following the right people increases the value of the product by displaying more relevant and interesting content in each user’s Twitter feed. It also tells Twitter a lot about its users, which in turn improves the service overall. For the tweeter seeking followers, the more followers one has, the more valuable the service becomes as well. Content creators on Twitter seek to reach as large an audience as possible. The only way to legitimately acquire new followers is to send tweets others think are interesting enough to warrant following the sender. Therefore, to acquire more followers, content creators must invest in producing more — and better — tweets. The cycle increases the value of the service for both sides the more the service is used. ~ Nir Eyal,

1268:No más de seis frases. De los cientos de miles de correos que la gente me ha enviado, no soy capaz de recordar ninguno que fuera demasiado breve. Por el contrario, el 95 % son demasiado largos. La extensión ideal son seis frases o menos, y no debe contener nada más que la siguiente información: 1) por qué te pones en contacto (véase «peloteo» en el párrafo siguiente); 2) quién eres; 3) cuál es tu causa; 4) qué quieres; 5) por qué debería ayudarte el receptor; y 6) cuál es el paso siguiente. Peloteo. Una manera políticamente más correcta de decirlo sería «Haz los deberes», pero el resultado es el mismo. Tu primera frase debe indicar que te pones en contacto con el receptor por una buena razón y que sabes algo de esa persona. Por ejemplo, «Te sigo en Twitter y me he fijado en que a menudo cuelgas tweets sobre fotografía. Mi empresa ha desarrollado una nueva manera para ayudar a los principiantes a tomar mejores fotografías». ~ Guy Kawasaki,

1269:Above the decorous walking around me, sounds of footsteps leaving the verandas of far-flung buildings and moving toward the walks and over the walks to the asphalt drives lined with whitewashed stones, those cryptic messages for men and women, boys and girls heading quietly toward where the visitors waited, and we moving not in the mood of worship but of judgement; as though even here in the filtering dusk, here beneath the deep indigo sky, here, alive with looping swifts and darting moths, here in the hereness of the night not yet lighted by the moon that looms blood-red behind the chapel like a fallen sun, its radiance shedding not upon the here-dusk of twittering bats, nor on the there-night of cricket and whippoorwill, but focused short-rayed upon our place of convergence; and we drifting forward with rigid motions, limbs stiff and voices now silent, as though on exhibit even in the dark, and the moon a white man's bloodshot eye. ~ Ralph Ellison,

1270:Because when we weaken all top-down authority structures and strengthen bottom-up ones; when we create a world with not only superpowers but also super-empowered individuals; when we put so many distant strangers into proximity; when we accelerate the flow of ideas and innovation energy; when we give machines the power to think, alter DNA to remove diseases, and design plants and new materials; when Greeks not paying taxes can undermine bond markets and banks in both Bonn, Germany, and Germantown, Maryland; when a Kosovar hacker in Malaysia can break into the files of an American retailer and sell them to an Al Qaeda operative who can go on Twitter and threaten the U.S. servicemen whose identities were hacked; when all of this is happening at once, we’ve collectively created a world in which what every single person imagines, believes, and aspires to matters more than ever, because they can now act on their imaginations, beliefs, ~ Thomas L Friedman,

1271:Of course, women are capable of all sorts of major unpleasantness, and there are violent crimes by women, but the-called war of the sexes is extraordinarily lopsided when it comes to actual violence. Unlike the last (male) head of the International Monetary Fund, the current (female) head is not going to assault an employee at a luxury hotel; top-ranking female officers in the US military, unlike their male counterparts, are not accused of any sexual assaults; and young female athletes, unlike those male football players in Steubenville, aren't likely to urinate on unconscious boys, let alone violate them and boast about it in YouTube videos and Twitter feeds. No female bus riders in India have ganged up to sexually assault a man so badly he dies of his injuries, nor are marauding packs of women terrorizing men in Cairo's Tahrir Square, and there's no maternal equivalent to the 11 percent of rapes that are by fathers or stepfathers. ~ Rebecca Solnit,

1272:Nowadays, being “connected” means 24/7 availability. Emailing, texting, Twittering, calling, keeping one’s website and Facebook status current seem essential to being and remaining relevant in the world. In addition to the positive impact of globally interconnecting humanity, the information era is also contributing to the creation of a high-tech, low-touch society. It is impacting language, the publishing world, education, and social revolts. Neurologists and other pundits, including Nicholas Carr in his Atlantic article, “Is Google Making Us Stupid?”, point out the paradoxical downsides of not setting healthy boundaries or applying discipline to how we engage technology. Some have gone so far as to suggest that it is making us “spiritually stupid” by keeping us too distracted to participate in spiritual practices. But how about this: can using technology with mindfulness lead to beneficial social and spiritual connection? ~ Michael Bernard Beckwith,

1273:Of course, women are capable of all sorts of major unpleasantness, and there are violent crimes by women, but the so-called war of the sexes is extraordinarily lopsided when it comes to actual violence. Unlike the last (male) head of the International Monetary Fund, the current (female) head is not going to assault an employee at a luxury hotel; top-ranking female officers in the US military, unlike their male counterparts, are not accused of any sexual assaults; and young female athletes, unlike those male football players in Steubenville, aren't likely to urinate on unconscious boys, let alone violate them and boast about it in YouTube videos and Twitter feeds. No female bus riders in India have ganged up to sexually assault a man so badly he dies of his injuries, nor are marauding packs of women terrorizing men in Cairo's Tahrir Square, and there's no maternal equivalent to the 11 percent of rapes that are by fathers or stepfathers. ~ Rebecca Solnit,

1274:Thomas Trevelyan Reading in Ovid the sorrowful story of Itys, Son of the love of Tereus and Procne, slain For the guilty passion of Tereus for Philomela, The flesh of him served to Tereus by Procne, And the wrath of Tereus, the murderess pursuing Till the gods made Philomela a nightingale, Lute of the rising moon, and Procne a swallow! Oh livers and artists of Hellas centuries gone, Sealing in little thuribles dreams and wisdom, Incense beyond all price, forever fragrant, A breath whereof makes clear the eyes of the soul! How I inhaled its sweetness here in Spoon River! The thurible opening when I had lived and learned How all of us kill the children of love, and all of us, Knowing not what we do, devour their flesh; And all of us change to singers, although it be But once in our lives, or change -- alas! -- to swallows, To twitter amid cold winds and falling leaves! ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

1275:But too many kids get to college and try to collapse it, to make it as comfortable and recognizable as possible. They replicate the friends and friendships they've previously enjoyed. They join groups that perpetuate their high school cliques. Concerned with establishing a "network" they seek out peers with aspirations identical to their own. In doing so, they frequently default to a clannishness that too easily becomes a lifelong habit. ....Open your laptops . Delete at least one of every four bookmarks. Replace it with something entirely different, even anti ethical. Go to twitter, Facebook etc start falling or connecting with views that diverge from your own. Conduct your social lives along the same lines, mixing it up. Do not go only to the campus basketball games....wander beyond the periphery of campus, and not to find equally enchanted realms-if you study abroad, don't choose the destination for its picturesqueness-but to see something else. ~ Frank Bruni,

1276:And yet how surprised we are to find ourselves faced today with widespread pollution, overpopulation, and global warming. The only surprise is that we find this surprising. Still, until very recently, we could probably have avoided the worst of it. Because in the late nineteenth century something happened that greatly accelerated our decline. Conservative social critics have sometimes lamented the loss of a religious consciousness in the age of TV, Twitter, and the Internet. But they are coming into the argument far too late in the game. That loss was already inevitable once the incandescent light bulb came into common use. That was the real tipping point that would eventually guarantee the excesses of the twentieth century—from world wars to climate change to the widespread pollution of rivers, lakes, and streams. For all these spring directly from the overflow of human consciousness, for which the flood of light is both the metaphor and the means. ~ Clark Strand,

1277:Social networking technology allows us to spend our time engaged in a hypercompetitive struggle for attention, for victories in the currency of “likes.” People are given more occasions to be self-promoters, to embrace the characteristics of celebrity, to manage their own image, to Snapchat out their selfies in ways that they hope will impress and please the world. This technology creates a culture in which people turn into little brand managers, using Facebook, Twitter, text messages, and Instagram to create a falsely upbeat, slightly overexuberant, external self that can be famous first in a small sphere and then, with luck, in a large one. The manager of this self measures success by the flow of responses it gets. The social media maven spends his or her time creating a self-caricature, a much happier and more photogenic version of real life. People subtly start comparing themselves to other people’s highlight reels, and of course they feel inferior. ~ David Brooks,

1278:Brené Brown, a social scientist and TED speaker who has researched shame, worthiness, courage, and vulnerability, recently published a book called Daring Greatly, which I fortuitously picked up at a Boston bookstore when I was just beginning to write this book. I was so blown away by the commonalities between our books that I twittered her, praising her work and asking her if she would give me a foreword for this book.3 She writes: The perception that vulnerability is weakness is the most widely accepted myth about vulnerability and the most dangerous. When we spend our lives pushing away and protecting ourselves from feeling vulnerable or from being perceived as too emotional, we feel contempt when others are less capable or willing to mask feelings, suck it up, and soldier on. We’ve come to the point where, rather than respecting and appreciating the courage and daring behind vulnerability, we let our fear and discomfort become judgment and criticism. ~ Amanda Palmer,

1279:"The most dangerous people are those who have passion but lack wisdom." ~ Haemin SunimThe most dangerous risk of all:-The risk of spending your life not doing what u want on the bet u can buy urself the freedom to do it later."The most decisive qualities in a person are often unconscious and can be perceived only by others, or have to be laboriously discovered with outside help." ~ Carl JungThe most difficult subjects can be explained to the most slow-witted man if he has not formed any idea of them already; but the simplest thing cannot be made clear to the most intelligent man if he is firmly persuaded that he knows already what is laid before him. TolstoyThe most difficult thing I have ever had to do is follow the guidance I prayed for. Albert SchweitzerThe most difficult times for many of us are the ones we give ourselves. ~ Pema Chödrön pic.twitter.com/bZBcf0IPkHThe most effective act is, once the mind is made up, to go on without looking backward. — D. T. Suzuki,

1280:The Wheatfield At Gettysburg THESE famous acres bear a mystic wheat That waits the Reaper’s scythe Alike in Summer shine and Winter sleet And when the May is blithe. Here phantom squirrels fenceward haste with grains Of gleeful-taken toll From waist-high stalks that hide meandering lanes Of phantom mouse and mole. Forever twittering wheat to nesting mate A spirit oriole cries, And ghostly bands of plundering crows elate Caw beneath long-past skies. In vain did Valor’s fiery onset tread The actual straw to dust, And steep the living grain in pulsing red From bullet and from thrust. The Field stands wealthy with immortal wheat Man never reaped for bread, Touched by funereal zephyrs passing sweet Where lay The Nameless Dead. Imperishably set as Round Top’s stones The wheat forever waves Peaceful as Gettysburg’s white steeple drones Over the host of graves. ~ Edward William Thomson,

1281:Normal people assume that SJWs are inclined to take on their ideological opponents, people like me. But the truth is that although they certainly don't like those they invariably label “right-wing extremists”, for the most part they leave us alone because we are impervious to their influence. Oh, they will certainly complain about us, take advantage of any tactical missteps on our part, and block us on Twitter, but they very seldom make the sort of concerted effort that one saw in the hounding of Brendan Eich or the metaphorical stoning of Dr. James Watson because they know their efforts will largely be futile. Instead, they prey on the naïve and the unsuspecting. They prey on the moderates, the middle-grounders, and the fence-sitters. They prey on people like you: good, decent individuals who try to treat everyone fairly and who can't even imagine having done anything that anyone could possibly find objectionable. Why? Because soft targets are always easier to destroy than hard ones. ~ Vox Day,

1282:The poet Robert Browning caused considerable consternation by including the word twat in one of his poems, thinking it an innocent term. The work was Pippa Passes, written in 1841 and now remembered for the line "God's in His heaven, all's right with the world." But it also contains this disconcerting passage: Then owls and bats Cowls and twats Monks and nuns in a cloister's moods, Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry! Browning had apparently somewhere come across the word twat--which meant precisely the same then as it does now--but pronounced it with a flat a and somehow took it to mean a piece of headgear for nuns. The verse became a source of twittering amusement for generations of schoolboys and a perennial embarrassment to their elders, but the word was never altered and Browning was allowed to live out his life in wholesome ignorance because no one could think of a suitably delicate way of explaining his mistake to him. ~ Bill Bryson,

1283:By timbre, temperament, and sheer force of personality, Donald Trump is the ideal manifestation of Facebook culture. Trump himself uses Twitter habitually both as a bully pulpit and as an antenna for reaction to his expressions. Twitter has a limited reach among the American public, and his off-the-cuff, unpracticed, and untested expressions could do him more harm than good. But Facebook, with its deep penetration into American minds and lives, is Trump’s natural habitat. On Facebook his staff makes sure Trump expresses himself in short, strong bursts of indignation or approval. Trump has always been visually deft but close to illiterate. His attention span runs as quickly and frenetically as a Facebook News Feed. After a decade of deep and constant engagement with Facebook, Americans have been conditioned to experience the world Trump style. It’s almost as if Trump were designed for Facebook and Facebook were designed for him. Facebook helped make America ready for Trump. ~ Siva Vaidhyanathan,

1284:The stillness was so profound that he heard a little animal twittering somewhere near by under the snow. It made a small frightened cheep like a field mouse, and he wondered languidly if it were hurt. Then he understood that it must be in pain: pain so excruciating that he seemed, mysteriously, to feel it shooting through his own body. He tried in vain to roll over in the direction of the sound, and stretched his left arm out across the snow. And now it was as though he felt rather than heard the twittering; it seemed to be under his palm, which rested on something soft and springy. The thought of the animal's suffering was intolerable to him and he struggled to raise himself, and could not because a rock, or some huge mass, seemed to be lying on him. But he continued to finger about cautiously with his left hand, thinking he might get hold of the little creature and help it; and all at once he knew that the soft thing he had touched was Mattie's hair and that his hand was on her face. ~ Edith Wharton,

1285:Noel: A lot of people see friends as something you have on Twitter or Facebook or wherever. If someone wants to read your updates and you want to read their updates, then you’re friends. You don’t ever have to see each other. But that seems like a stupid definition to me. Roo: Yeah. Noel: Although on the other hand, rethink. Maybe a friend is someone who wants your updates. Even if they’re boring. Or sad. Or annoyingly cutesy. A friend says, “Sign me up for your boring crap, yes indeed” – because he likes you anyway. He’ll tolerate your junk. Roo: You have lots of friends. Noel: No, I don’t. Roo: You do. You know everyone at school. You get invited to parties. Noel: I get invited to parties, yeah. And I know people. But I don’t want their updates. Roo: Oh. Noel: And I sincerely doubt they want mine. Roo: I want your updates. Noel: I want your updates. (He looks down, bashfully.) I do. I want all your updates, Ruby. ~ E Lockhart,

1286:Twitter came close to melting down in the same way, but managed to recover in time to build a massive business. When Twitter began its rise in the late 2000s, it became infamous for its “Fail Whale,” a whimsical error message that appeared whenever its servers couldn’t handle the load. Unfortunately for Twitter, the Fail Whale made fairly regular appearances, especially when big news hit, such as the death of the recording artist Michael Jackson in 2009 (to be fair, Twitter was hardly the only website that had these issues when the King of Pop passed away) or the 2010 World Cup. Twitter invested serious resources into rearchitecting both its systems and its engineering processes to be more efficient. Even with this strenuous effort, it took several years to “tame” the Fail Whale; it wasn’t until after Twitter made it through the 2012 US presidential election night without melting down that the company’s then–creative director Doug Bowman announced that the Great Blue Whale had been put to death. ~ Reid Hoffman,

1287:Did you ever bring girls back here?” I ask, broaching dangerous territory. I’m thinking dangerous thoughts. Having dangerous fantasies. Wanting dangerous things. “Never,” he says earnestly. “Yeah, I don’t believe you.” I cross over to his DVD case by the door, pretending to be curious about what he liked to watch when he was a teenager—and I am—but really, I just need to have some space from him before I let this crazy twitterpated feeling get the best of me. But Chase follows me. “I’m dead serious. Pop has a shotgun. He was always threatening to shoot my dick off if I knocked a girl up. Scared the shit out of me.” I laugh nervously, keeping my eyes on the movies. “And here you are trying to knock a girl up now. You must have gotten over your fear.” “Pop has arthritis. He’d have too much trouble loading the gun.” There’s a soft thud of a door closing, and I look up to see that he has shut us in. “And I have always regretted the lack of action this room has seen. ~ Laurelin Paige,

1288:Based on the findings of a recent qualitative survey carried out in Switzerland, in fact, most of us have up to ten discreet interdependent social identities—identities, the study concludes, which are often in conflict.16 Let’s imagine a middle-aged bank teller living in Pensacola, Florida. He is a father, a son and a husband. He is a Floridian. He is a bank employee. He is also a bicyclist and a recreational runner, and at night, drinking with his friends, he is “the funny one.” He is also a vegetarian, an amateur guitarist, and on weekends he helps coach soccer at his daughter’s high school. Then there are his online identities, including his Facebook, Twitter and Instagram selves. Most surprising is that the man’s ethical mind-set, honesty, sociability and even level of social engagement changes from personality to personality. Imagine that in his professional role, for example, he may be primed to dissembling, or outright deceit, while simultaneously, as a dad, he finds dishonesty repellent. ~ Martin Lindstrom,

1289:Bueno, lo que pasó es que hace dos semanas acudí a una entrevista de trabajo y los tipos giraron un portátil para que pudiera ver la pantalla y me soltaron: «¿Este eres tú?». Y lo que había allí era todo lo que yo había publicado hace años, fotos mías colocado, borracho, aquellas largas diatribas adolescentes sobre cualquier estupidez, ya sabes. Así que no hace falta decir que no conseguí el trabajo. De modo que antes de ESTA entrevista lo borré TODO, borré lo de Facebook, lo de Twitter, todo lo que pude encontrar. Me presento allí y lo primero que me preguntan es si tengo Facebook. Digo que no. Me preguntan si tengo alguna web de la facultad, LinkedIn, cualquier cosa. Digo que no. Se miran el uno al otro y me sueltan que a su empresa le gusta «sentirse a gusto» con el background de los nuevos empleados, pero parece que yo no tengo ninguno. No es que me digan que he hecho algo malo, pero cuando alguien no tiene Facebook, da la impresión de que tiene algo que ocultar. En serio, no hay forma de ganar en esto. ~ Anonymous,

1290:Mimo że jest 2014 rok, to jedynie Ameryka szaleje na punkcie treści generowanych przez userów, czyli właśnie YouTube’a czy Twittera. W Polsce to dopiero raczkuje. Słyszałem o akcji jednego z operatorów komórkowych, który stawia bardzo mocno na reklamę z gwiazdami dużego formatu i do tej pory w ogóle nie współpracował z blogerami. I to jest właśnie zabawne. Słyszałem, że były zakusy na akcję, w której liczący się youtuberzy będą w sieci jednego operatora. Byłby to dość ciekawy zabieg marketingowy pokazujący zasięg tej sieci komórkowej w internecie. Akcja jednak spełzła na niczym, a pieniądze, które miały być na nią przeznaczone, poszły na zwykłe banerki na onet.pl. To nie jest wymyślona historia. W: Być może to było zorganizowane. K: To się nawet nie zaczęło, ktoś by chociaż napomknął, do kogoś by uderzyli – nie mówię, że do nas, ale to dziwne: w 2014 roku operator komórkowy, czyli ktoś, kto naprawdę musi walczyć o nowych ludzi, młodych ludzi, którzy mają swoją pierwszą komórkę, pierwszy abonament, nie atakuje rynku internetowego, tylko nadal woli mieć banerki klikalne na portalach. ~ Anonymous,

1291:The Internet is a beautiful thing and you sent a tweet an hour after we met that day: I smell cheeseburgers. #CornerBistroIsMakingMeFat And let me tell you, for a moment there, I was concerned. Maybe I wasn’t special. You didn’t even mention me, our conversation. Also: I talk to strangers is a line in your Twitter bio. I talk to strangers. What the fuck is that, Beck? Children are not supposed to talk to strangers but you are an adult. Or is our conversation nothing to you? Am I just another stranger? Is your Twitter bio your subtle way of announcing that you’re an attention whore who has no standards and will give audience to any poor schmuck who says hello? Was I nothing to you? You don’t even mention the guy in the bookstore? Fuck, I thought, maybe I was wrong. Maybe we had nothing. But then I started to explore you and you don’t write about what really matters. You wouldn’t share me with your followers. Your online life is a variety show, so if anything, the fact that you didn’t put me in your stand-up act means that you covet me. Maybe even more than I realize... ~ Caroline Kepnes,

1292:We no longer live in a mass-media world with a few centralized choke points with just a few editors in charge, operated by commercial entities and governments. There is a new, radically different mode of information and attention flow: the chaotic world of the digitally networked public sphere (or spheres) where ordinary citizens or activists can generate ideas, document and spread news of events, and respond to mass media. This new sphere, too, has choke points and centralization, but different ones than the past. The networked public sphere has emerged so forcefully and so rapidly that it is easy to forget how new it is. Facebook was started in 2004 and Twitter in 2006. The first iPhone, ushering in the era of the smart, networked phone, was introduced in 2007. The wide extent of digital connectivity might blind us to the power of this transformation. It should not. These dynamics are significant social mechanisms, especially for social movements, since they change the operation of a key resource: attention… Attention is oxygen for movements. Without it, they cannot catch fire. ~ Zeynep Tufekci,

1293:The admiral tossed the report at Molina and said to me, “Tell us about it.” “Jade Helm is an exercise about how the government will put down a right-wing uprising, or rebellion, and arrest everyone they think might be sympathetic with the rebels. They’ll use these paramilitary police they have tucked into every government alphabet agency as storm troopers and SS troops—” That was as far as I got. Molina exploded. “Comparing the federal government to Nazis is unacceptable. I am not going to sit here listening to that kind of shit, Carmellini.” I didn’t say anything. Sal Molina couldn’t fire me, and if Grafton did, I was ready to be on my way. Truth was, I had been in the belly of the beast for far too long. “Go on, Tommy,” Grafton prompted, ignoring Molina. “They’ll arrest every prominent Republican they can find and hold them in guarded camps, mainly at military bases. They have computer-generated lists. Gun owners, people who run their mouths on Facebook and Twitter, radio talk-show hosts, editors and publishers of Republican newspapers. . .you know, dangerous enemies of society. ~ Stephen Coonts,

1294:People should be part of building the future rather than feeling like the future is being forced upon them. Blitzscaling is what separates the start-ups that get disrupted and disappear as the world changes from the ones that scale up to become market leaders and shape the future. This book was born out of a class we taught at Stanford in which we dissected the process that went into growing the world’s largest technology companies and then codified a series of tactics and choices that made it work. The result was a specific set of principles that describes how to grow multibillion-dollar companies in a handful of years. While writing this book, we talked to hundreds of entrepreneurs and CEOs, including those of the world’s most valuable companies, such as Facebook, Alphabet (Google), Netflix, Dropbox, Twitter, and Airbnb. (You can hear a number of these conversations on my podcast, Masters of Scale.) Even though the stories of their companies’ rise were very different in many ways, the one thing they all had in common was an extreme, unwieldy, risky, inefficient, do-or-die approach to growth. ~ Reid Hoffman,

1295:few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff, Mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, forward perched Ben Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side. "Oh!" she cried out, "is it you—is it you?" And it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would understand and answer her. He did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was as if he said: "Good morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come on!" Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary—she actually looked almost pretty ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,

1296:I hoped you would choose me,” he said. I blushed, suddenly aware of my unbraceleted arms and simple sari. “I have no dowry.” He laughed, a hesitant, half-nervous sound that did not match his stern features. “I don’t care.” “Then what do you want from me?” “I want to lie beside you and know the weight of your dreams,” he said, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “I want to share whole worlds with you and write your name in the stars.” He moved closer and a chorus of songbirds twittered silver melodies. “I want to measure eternity with your laughter.” Now, he stood inches from me; his rough hands encircled my waist. “Be my queen and I promise you a life where you will never be bored. I promise you more power than a hundred kings. And I promise you that we will always be equals.” I grinned. “Not my soul then, Dharma Raja?” “Would you entrust me with something so precious?” I was silent for a moment before reaching for my foot and slipping off the worn slipper. “Here, my love, the dowry of a sole.” I began to laugh, giddily, drunkenly, before he swallowed my laughter in a kiss. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

1297:Cade studied her for a moment, then sat forward in his chair. “Seriously, what is it about this guy? He’s just a rich computer geek with good hair.” Rylann smiled. “I think there’s a little more to it than that.” “Christ, you are smitten.” He threw up his hands. “What is going on with everyone these days? Sam Wilkins is babbling about a meet-cute, Cameron’s sneaking off to get hitched, and now you’re all starry-eyed over the Twitter Terrorist. Has everyone been sneaking happy pills out of the evidence room when I’m not looking?” "No, just some really good pot.” Cade laughed out loud at that. “You are a funny one, Pierce. I’ll say that.” “So does that mean we’re still on for Starbucks later today?” He studied her suspiciously. “You’re not going to want to talk about Kyle Rhodes the whole time, are you?” “Actually, yes. And then we’ll go shoe shopping together and get mani-pedis.” She threw him a get-real look. “We’ll talk about the same stuff we always talk about.” With a grin, he finally nodded. “Fine. Three o’clock, Pierce. I’ll swing by your office ~ Julie James,

1298:Ironically, in an age of instant global connection, my certainty about anything has decreased. Rather than receiving truth from an authority, I am reduced to assembling my own certainty from the liquid stream of facts flowing through the web. Truth, with a capital T, becomes truths, plural. I have to sort the truths not just about things I care about, but about anything I touch, including areas about which I can’t possibly have any direct knowledge. That means that in general I have to constantly question what I think I know. We might consider this state perfect for the advancement of science, but it also means that I am more likely to have my mind changed for incorrect reasons. While hooked into the network of networks I feel like I am a network myself, trying to achieve reliability from unreliable parts. And in my quest to assemble truths from half-truths, nontruths, and some noble truths scattered in the flux, I find my mind attracted to fluid ways of thinking (scenarios, provisional belief, subjective hunches) and toward fluid media like mashups, twitterese, and search. But as I flow through this slippery web of ~ Kevin Kelly,

1299:The first line of defense for any society is always going to be its guardrails—laws, stoplights, police, courts, surveillance, the FBI, and basic rules of decency for communities like Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. All of those are necessary, but they are not sufficient for the age of accelerations. Clearly, what is also needed—and is in the power of every parent, school principal, college president, and spiritual leader—is to think more seriously and urgently about how we can inspire more of what Dov Seidman calls “sustainable values”: honesty, humility, integrity, and mutual respect. These values generate trust, social bonds, and, above all, hope. This is opposed to what Seidman calls “situational values”—“just doing whatever the situation allows”—whether in the terrestrial realm or cyberspace. Sustainable values do “double duty,” adds Seidman, whose company, LRN, advises global companies on how to improve their ethical performance. They animate behaviors that produce trust and healthy interdependencies and “they inspire hope and resilience—they keep us leaning in, in the face of people behaving badly.” When ~ Thomas L Friedman,

1300:Minding less can also serve the greater good. Some people have changed the course of history by stepping up to say the unsayable or do the undoable in later life. Rosa Parks was 42 when she refused to give up her seat on that bus in Montgomery, Alabama. Today we need that willingness to rock the boat and speak truth to power more than ever. Why? Because we live in a world ruled by bullshit and branding, where spin trumps sincerity, where the pressure to perform is relentless, where online echo chambers insulate us from views that contradict our own, where Twitter mobs police opinions, jokes and language, where the keys to the kingdom are handed to those who find the most marketable way of saying what everyone else wants to hear. One remedy for this culture of conformity is to have more people around who are prepared to speak their mind because they mind less what others think of them – and that is exactly what the longevity revolution can deliver. As Oliver James, a prominent British psychologist and psychotherapist, puts it: ‘That bluntness, that refreshing authenticity you find in older people, is hugely to be valued. ~ Carl Honor,

1301:Each day, Internet users share more than 1.8 billion photos, according to a report by venture firm Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers. For advertisers, the social media posts that include those photos are more valuable than those with just text because pictures reveal how consumers act "in the wild." "You have a window into their world," said Duncan Alney, CEO of Firebelly Marketing in Indianapolis, which uses Ditto Labs' service. Alney, whose firm represents a beer company, learned from Ditto that people drink beer not just with pub grub but also with healthier snacks like hummus. And that consumers who favor mainstream beers also consume craft brews. Other companies use it to interact with fans. Nissan North America found a photo on Twitter of a baby peeking out from behind a cardboard cutout of a Nissan race car driver. Nissan got the Twitter user's permission and reposted the photo on the company's account, garnering 17 retweets and 37 favorites. The original photo was not tagged with "Nissan," so without Ditto the company never would have found it, said Rob Robinson, a senior specialist in social communications at the automaker. ~ Anonymous,

1302:FAR SIDE: We know you’re on Twitter. (Leaning in conspiratorially) And if you’re willing to tweet about loving Sunshine Cupcakes, this cupcake (gesturing to the one I was buying) is free. I did not know it was possible to be triple offended. First of all, Manager Woman, if you notice that a thirty-two-year-old woman is coming to your cupcake bakery every day for a week, keep that information to yourself. I don’t need to be reminded of how poor my food choices are on a regular basis. Second, how cheap and/or poor do you think I am? A cupcake costs two bucks! You think I’m miserly enough to think, like, Oh goody, I can save those two bucks for some other tiny purchase later today! And third, even if I were to buy into this weird bribey situation where I endorse your product, you think the cost of it would be one measly cupcake? The implications of this offer were far worse than anything she meant to propose, obviously, but I hate her forever nonetheless. This is why I never eat cupcakes anymore. The connotations are too disturbing. Lucky for me, the mighty doughnut is making a comeback. No one better ruin doughnuts for me, or I will be so pissed. ~ Mindy Kaling,

1303:So whenever that brittle voice of dissatisfaction emerges within me, I can say "Ah, my ego! There you are, old friend!" It's the same thing when I'm being criticized and I notice myself reaching with outrage, heartache, or defensiveness. It's just my ego, flaring up and testing its power. In such circumstances, I have learned to watch my heated emotions carefully, but I try not to take them too seriously, because I know that it's merely my ego that has been wounded--never my soul It is merely my ego that wants revenge, or to win the biggest prize. It is merely my ego that wants to start a Twitter war against a hater, or to sulk at an insult or to quit in righteous indignation because I didn't get the outcome I wanted. "At such times, I can always steady my life one more by returning to my soul. I ask it, "And what is it that you want, dear one?" "The answer is always the same: "More wonder, please." "As long as I'm still moving in that direction---toward wonder--then I know I will always be fine in my soul, which is where it counts. And since creativity is still the most effective way for me to access wonder, I choose it. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,

1304:creating a company for acquisition or IPO is different from building a profitable enterprise; it’s about building a sellable enterprise. Startups are not trying to earn revenue (which is a liability); they are setting themselves up to win more capital. They are not part of the real economy or even the real world but part of the process through which working assets are converted into new stockpiles of dead ones. That’s all they have really accomplished with whatever digital fad they’ve foisted onto the market or sold to yesterday’s tech winners. They thought they were engineering a new technology, when they were actually engineering a reallocation of capital. That’s why digital entrepreneurs who do win often end up becoming the next generation of venture capitalists. Everyone from Marc Andreessen (Netscape) to Sean Parker (Napster) to Peter Thiel (PayPal) to Jack Dorsey (Twitter) now runs venture funds of his own. Facebook and Google, once startups themselves, now acquire more businesses than they incubate internally. With each new generation, firms and investors leverage the startup economy more deliberately, or even cynically. After all, a win is a win. ~ Douglas Rushkoff,

1305:You can’t blame your boss for not giving you the support you need. Plenty of people will say, ‘It’s my boss’s fault.’ No, it’s actually your fault because you haven’t educated him, you haven’t influenced him, you haven’t explained to him in a manner he understands why you need this support that you need. That’s extreme ownership. Own it all.” A Good Reason to Be an Early Riser “I’m up and getting after it by 4: 45. I like to have that psychological win over the enemy. For me, when I wake up in the morning—and I don’t know why—I’m thinking about the enemy and what they’re doing. I know I’m not on active duty anymore, but it’s still in my head: that there’s a guy in a cave somewhere, he’s rocking back and forth, and he’s got a machine gun in one hand and a grenade in the other. He’s waiting for me, and we’re going to meet. When I wake up in the morning, I’m thinking to myself: What can I do to be ready for that moment, which is coming? That propels me out of bed.” TF: This story has compelled so many listeners to start waking early that there is a #0445club hashtag on Twitter, featuring pictures of wristwatches. It’s still going strong more than a year after the podcast. ~ Timothy Ferriss,

1306:The Princess: A Medley: O Swallow O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made. O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1307:Kyle worked in technology; he knew it would only be a matter of time before the video of Daniela and the A-list actor went viral and spread everywhere. So he did what any pissed-off, red-blooded computer geek would do after catching his girlfriend giving an underwater blowjob to another man: he hacked into Twitter and deleted both the video and her earlier tweet from the site. Then, raging at the world that had devolved so much in civility that 140-character breakups had become acceptable, he shut down the entire network in a denial-of-service attack that lasted two days. And so began the Great Twitter Outage of 2011. The Earth nearly stopped on its axis. Panic and mayhem ensued as Twitter unsuccessfully attempted to counteract what it deemed the most sophisticated hijacking they’d ever experienced. Meanwhile, the FBI waited for either a ransom demand or political statement from the so-called “Twitter Terrorist.” But neither was forthcoming, as the Twitter Terrorist had no political agenda, already was worth millions, and had most inconveniently taken off to Tijuana, Mexico to get shit-faced drunk on cheap tequila being served by an eight-fingered bartender named Esteban. ~ Julie James,

1308:platforms cannot be entirely planned; they also emerge. Remember that one of the key characteristics that distinguishes a platform from a traditional business is that most of the activity is controlled by users, not by the owners or managers of the platform. It’s inevitable that participants will use the platform in ways you never anticipated or planned. Twitter was never meant to have a discovery mechanism. It originated as simply a reverse-chronological stream of feeds. There was no way to seek out tweets on particular topics other than by scrolling through pages of unrelated and irrelevant content. Chris Messina, an engineer at Google, originally suggested the use of hashtags to annotate and discover similar tweets. Today, the hashtag has become a mainstay of Twitter. Platform designers should always leave room for serendipitous discoveries, as users often lead the way to where the design should evolve. Close monitoring of user behavior on the platform is almost certain to reveal unexpected patterns—some of which may suggest fruitful new areas for value creation. The best platforms allow room for user quirks, and they are open enough to gradually incorporate such quirks into the design of the platform. ~ Geoffrey G Parker,

1309:The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the back of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that nosy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove. ~ Washington Irving,

1310:In short order, I became America’s foremost “irregardless” apologist. I recorded a short video for Merriam-Webster’s website refuting the notion that “irregardless” wasn’t a word; I took to Twitter and Facebook and booed naysayers who set “irregardless” up as the straw man for the demise of English. I continued to find evidence of the emphatic “irregardless” in all sorts of places—even in the oral arguments of a Supreme Court case. One incredulous e-mail response to my video continued to claim “irregardless” wasn’t a real word. “It’s a made-up word that made it into the dictionary through constant use!” the correspondent said, and I cackled gleefully before responding. Of course “irregardless” is a made-up word that was entered into the dictionary through constant use; that’s pretty much how this racket works. All words are made-up: Do you think we find them fully formed on the ocean floor, or mine for them in some remote part of Wales? I began telling correspondents that “irregardless” was much more complex than people thought, and it deserved a little respectful respite, even if it still was not part of Standard English. My mother was duly horrified. “Oh, Kory,” she tutted. “So much for that college education.” — ~ Kory Stamper,

1311:When I called you in your garden Mango blooms were rich in fragrance - Why did you remain so distant, Keep your doors so tightly fastened? Blossoms grew to ripe fruit-clusters - Your rejected my cuppded handfuls, Closed your eyes to perfectness. In the fierce harsh storms of Baisakh, Golden ripened fruit fell tumbling. 'Dust, I said, 'defiles such offerings: Let your hands be heaven to them.' Still you showed no friendliness. Lampless were your doors at evening, Pitch-black as I played my vina. How the starlight twanged my heartstrings! How I set my vina dancing! You showed no responsiveness. Sad birds twittered sleeplessly, Calling, calling lost companions. Gone the right time for our union - Low the moon while still you brooded, Sunk in lonely pensiveness. Who can understand another! Heart cannot restrain its passion. I had hoped that some remaining Tear-soaked memories would sway you, Stir your feet to lightsomeness. Moon fell at the feet of morning, Loosened from the night's fading necklace. While you slept, O did my Vina Lull you with its heartache? Did you Dream at least of happiness? ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Unyielding ,

1312:Many of us who have observed our own behavior don't need science to prove that technology is altering us, but let's bring some in anyway. Dopamine, the neurotransmitter that records certain experiences in our brain (typically described as pleasurable) and prompts us to repeat them, plays a part not only in sex and drugs, but also the swiping and tapping we do on our smartphones. Scott Barry Kaufman--- scientific director of the Imagination Institute...gave me the straight dope on dopamine. "It's a misconception that dopamine has to do with our feelings of happiness and pleasure," he said. "It's a molecule that helps influence our expectations." Higher levels of dopamine are linked to being more open to new things and novelty seeking. Something novel could be an amazing idea for dinner or a new book. . . or just getting likes on a Facebook post or the ping of a text coming in. Our digital devices activate and hijack this dopamine system extremely well, when we let them. ...Kaufman calls dopamine "the mother of invention" and explains that because we have a limited amount of it, we must be judicious about choosing to spend it on "increasing our wonder and excitement for creating meaning and new things like art--- or on Twitter. ~ Manoush Zomorodi,

1313:During the period in which newspapers were initially reporting on how asylum-seeking immigrants were having their young children ripped from them, presidential daughter and advisor Ivanka Trump tweeted a photograph of herself beatifically embracing her small son. When Samantha Bee performed a fierce excoriation of Trump’s incivility in both supporting her father’s administration, and posting such a cruel celebration of her own intact family, she called her a “feckless cunt.” It was this epithet, one that Donald Trump had himself used as an insult against women on multiple past occasions, that sent the media into a spiral of shocked alarm and prompted Trump himself to recommend, via Twitter, that Bee’s network, TBS, fire her. But neither Trump’s past use of the word to demean women, nor his possible violation of the First Amendment, provoked as much horror as the feminist comedian’s deployment of a slur that she had used before on her show often in reference to herself. Typically only the incivility of the less powerful toward the more powerful can be widely understood as such, and thus be subject to such intense censure. Which is what made #metoo so fraught and revolutionary. It was a period during which some of the most powerful faced repercussion. ~ Rebecca Traister,

1314:Before such people can act together, a kind of telepathic feeling has to flow through them and ripen to the point when they all know that they are ready to begin. Anyone who has seen the martins and swallows in September, assembling on the telephone wires, twittering, making short flights singly and in groups over the open, stubbly fields, returning to form longer and even longer lines above the yellowing verges of the lanes-the hundreds of individual birds merging and blending, in a mounting excitement, into swarms, and these swarms coming loosely and untidily together to create a great, unorganized flock, thick at the centre and ragged at the edges, which breaks and re-forms continually like clouds or waves-until that moment when the greater part (but not all) of them know that the time has come: they are off, and have begun once more that great southward flight which many will not survive; anyone seeing this has seen at the work the current that flows (among creatures who think of themselves primarily as part of a group and only secondarily, if at all, as individuals) to fuse them together and impel them into action without conscious thought or will: has seen at work the angel which drove the First Crusade into Antioch and drives the lemmings into the sea. ~ Richard Adams,

1315:She heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little. "You do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You are prettier than anything else in the world!" She chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be. Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds. Oh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! He knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. He knew it because he was a real person—only nicer than any other person in the world. She was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe. ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,

1316:Consider the case of two very similar companies, Twitter and Tumblr. Both had brilliant, product-oriented founders in Evan “Ev” Williams and David Karp. Both were hot social media start-ups. Both grew at a remarkable rate after establishing product/ market fit. Both had a major impact on popular culture. Yet Twitter went public and achieved a market capitalization that peaked at nearly $ 37 billion, while Tumblr was acquired by Yahoo!—another start-up that used blitzscaling to become a scale-up, only to decline and fade away—for “only” $ 1 billion. Was this dumb luck on Twitter’s side? Perhaps. Luck always plays a larger role than founders, investors, and the media would like to admit. But a major difference was that Twitter could draw on numerous networks for advice and help that Tumblr could not. For example, Twitter was able to bring in Dick Costolo, a savvy executive with prior scaling experience at Google. In contrast, even though Tumblr was arguably the most prominent start-up in its New York City ecosystem, it couldn’t easily draw upon a pool of local talent who had experience dealing with rapid growth. According to Greylock’s John Lilly, for every executive role that Tumblr needed to fill, there were less than a handful of candidates in all of New York City. ~ Reid Hoffman,

1317:Lonely The walls have seemed to say to me Where have the sticky fingers gone That always found their way to me, And left their prints to gaze upon. The halls have worn a gloomy air And seemed like tunnels, dark and black, And it has seemed that every chair Has asked me when they're coming back. The stairs have seemed to speak to me Each night as I have climbed alone, And pitifully squeak to me: 'Where have the little people flown?' The beds all smooth and sternly kept Have said with faces drawn and white Where are the curly heads that slept On us, so sweetly, every night? The untouched toys have stared at me As if to say the days are long, And all their dolls have glared at me As though accusing me of wrong. And every rug so straight and stiff Has seemed to sigh for rumpling feet, And worn a sorry look as if It missed the mud-tracks of the street. The bird has twittered low to me A sort of solemn, sad refrain As though he tried to show to me He wishes they were near again. But soon the walls and halls and chairs Will know once more the charm they lack, And little feet will race the stairs, They've sent me word they're coming back. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

1318:Camelot—Camelot," said I to myself.  "I don't seem to remember hearing of it before.  Name of the asylum, likely." It was a soft, reposeful summer landscape, as lovely as a dream, and as lonesome as Sunday.  The air was full of the smell of flowers, and the buzzing of insects, and the twittering of birds, and there were no people, no wagons, there was no stir of life, nothing going on.  The road was mainly a winding path with hoof-prints in it, and now and then a faint trace of wheels on either side in the grass—wheels that apparently had a tire as broad as one's hand. Presently a fair slip of a girl, about ten years old, with a cataract of golden hair streaming down over her shoulders, came along. Around her head she wore a hoop of flame-red poppies. It was as sweet an outfit as ever I saw, what there was of it.  She walked indolently along, with a mind at rest, its peace reflected in her innocent face.  The circus man paid no attention to her; didn't even seem to see her.  And she—she was no more startled at his fantastic make-up than if she was used to his like every day of her life.  She was going by as indifferently as she might have gone by a couple of cows; but when she happened to notice me, then there was a change!  Up went her hands, and she was turned to stone; ~ Mark Twain,

1319:PERCY AND PADFOOT Harry was the first to awake in his dormitory next morning. He lay for a moment watching dust swirl in the chink of sunlight falling through the gap in his four-poster’s hangings and savored the thought that it was Saturday. The first week of term seemed to have dragged on forever, like one gigantic History of Magic lesson. Judging by the sleepy silence and the freshly minted look of that beam of sunlight, it was just after daybreak. He pulled open the curtains around his bed, got up, and started to dress. The only sound apart from the distant twittering of birds was the slow, deep breathing of his fellow Gryffindors. He opened his schoolbag carefully, pulled out parchment and quill, and headed out of the dormitory for the common room. Making straight for his favorite squashy old armchair beside the now extinct fire, Harry settled himself down comfortably and unrolled his parchment while looking around the room. The detritus of crumpled-up bits of parchment, old Gobstones, empty ingredient jars, and candy wrappers that usually covered the common room at the end of each day was gone, as were all Hermione’s elf hats. Wondering vaguely how many elves had now been set free whether they wanted to be or not, Harry uncorked his ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, ~ J K Rowling,

1320:Once upon a time an Athenian princesss named Prokne was wed to Tereus, king of the barbarous Thracians of the north. When Prokne's unfortunate sister, Philomela, came for a visit, Tereus fell madly in love with the girl locked her away and raped her, then cut out her tongue to prevent her from telling anyone of the crime. Philomela, however, wove into a cloth the story of her misfortune. When Prokne, receiving the cloth, understood what had befallen, she freed her sister, killed her own son, Itys, whom she had borne to Tereus, and served the child up to his father at a feast--the vilest revenge she could think of. When Tereus discovered the truth, in wrath he pursued the two sisters, thinking to kill them, but the gods transformed all three into birds: Tereus into the hoopoe (a large, crested bird with a daggerlike beak), Philomela into the swallow, which can only twitter unintelligibly, and Prokne into the nightingale, which spends the night singing 'Itys Itys!' in mourning for her dead son. All these birds have reddish spots, it is said, from getting spattered with the blood of the child. ... It is interesting in our purposes because it shows in yet another way the great importance that clothmaking had in women's lives, becoming central to their mythology as well. ~ Elizabeth Wayland Barber,

1321:Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot, Down from the shower’d halo, Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive, Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears, From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist, From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, From the myriad thence-arous’d words, From the word stronger and more delicious than any, From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly, A man—yet by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them, A reminiscence sing. ~ Walt Whitman,

1322:The Ferry DRAW close the curtains, and shut out The spring's green glow and glitter; The resurrection-life of spring To me brings no fresh blossoming; I'm wearied of the flowers about-The London sparrows' twitter. If I could dream--if I could see Once more the slow smooth river, The narrow path she used to tread, The sunlight on her little head, The white fire of the hawthorn tree-But I shall see them never. Only the boat in dreams I steer Among the tufted rushes, I see her white gown through the grass, That thrills with love to feel her pass; Only in dreams again I hear Those unforgotten thrushes. Sometimes in dreams I see her stand, Her hand held out, and making The sweet unreal so vivid seem, I only know it is a dream When I reach out to take her hand, And find no hand for taking. So once she stood; and I--too weak To dare to say, 'I love her'-I dropped her hand, and took the oar And rowed her to the farther shore; I had my chance, and did not speak, And chances now are over. 288 How dark the room has grown!--yet no, The sky is blue above me; This is the boat--the hawthorn tree Is showering blossoms down on me; And she is here as long ago, And she has learned to love me! ~ Edith Nesbit,

1323:With 21 million people following her on Facebook and 18 million on Twitter, pop singer Ariana Grande can’t personally chat with each of her loves, as she affectionately calls her fans. So she and others are spreading their messages through new-style social networks, via mobile apps that are more associated with private, intimate conversation, hoping that marketing in a cozier digital setting adds a breath of warmth and a dash of personality. It’s the Internet’s equivalent of mailing postcards rather than plastering a billboard. Grande could have shared on Twitter that her most embarrassing moment on stage was losing a shoe. The 21-year-old instead revealed the fact during a half-hour live text chat on Line, an app built for close friends to exchange instant messages. It’s expensive to advertise on Facebook and Twitter, and the volume of information being posted creates uncertainty over what people actually notice. Chat apps including Line, Kik, Snapchat, WeChat and Viber place marketing messages front and center. Most-used apps The apps threaten to siphon advertising dollars from the social media leaders, which are already starting to see chat apps overtake them as the most-used apps on smartphones, according to Forrester Research. Chat apps “demand attention,” said Rebecca Lieb, an analyst at consulting firm Altimeter Group. ~ Anonymous,

1324:Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,  Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,  Out of the Ninth-month midnight,  Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot,  Down from the shower’d halo,  Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive,  Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,  From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,  From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,  From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,  From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist,  From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,  From the myriad thence-arous’d words,  From the word stronger and more delicious than any,  From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,  As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,  Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly,  A man—yet by these tears a little boy again,  Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves.  I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,  Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them,  A reminiscence sing. ~ Walt Whitman, Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking, from Leaves of Grass, 1860 edition.,

1325:Twilight In The North O THE long northern twilight between the day and the night, When the heat and the weariness of the world are ended quite: When the hills grow dim as dreams, and the crystal river seems Like that River of Life from out the Throne where the blessèd walk in white. O the weird northern twilight, which is neither night nor day, When the amber wake of the long-set sun still marks his western way: And but one great golden star in the deep blue east afar Warns of sleep, and dark, and midnight--of oblivion and decay. O the calm northern twilight, when labor is all done, And the birds in drowsy twitter have dropped silent one by one: And nothing stirs or sighs in mountains, waters, skies,-Earth sleeps--but her heart waketh, till the rising of the sun. O the sweet, sweet twilight, just before the time of rest, When the black clouds are driven away, and the stormy winds suppressed: And the dead day smiles so bright, filling earth and heaven with light,-You would think 't was dawn come back again--but the light is in the west. O the grand solemn twilight, spreading peace from pole to pole!-Ere the rains sweep o'er the hillsides, and the waters rise and roll, In the lull and the calm, come, O angel with the palm-In the still norther twilight, Azrael, take my soul. ~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,

1326: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,

1327:Social networks including Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest took a step closer to offering ecommerce on their own platforms this week, as the battle to win over retailers hots up. Facebook announced on Thursday it is trialling a “buy” button to allow people to purchase a product without ever leaving the social network’s app. The initial test, with a handful of small and medium-sized businesses in the US, could lead to more ecommerce companies buying adverts on the network. It could also allow Facebook to compile payment information and encourage people to make more transactions via the platform as it would save them typing in card numbers on smartphones. But the social network said no credit or debit card details will be shared with other advertisers. Twitter acquired CardSpring, a payments infrastructure company, this week for an undisclosed price as part of plans to feature more ecommerce around live events or, as it puts it, “in-the-moment commerce experiences”. CardSpring connects payment details with loyalty cards and coupons for transactions online and in stores. The home of the 140-character message hired Nathan Hubbard, former chief executive of Ticketmaster, last year to work on creating an ecommerce product. It has since worked with Amazon, to allow people to add things to their online basket by tweeting, and with Starbucks to encourage people to tweet to buy a coffee for a friend. ~ Anonymous,

1328:People complain about the obscurity of poetry, especially if they're assigned to write about it, but actually poetry is rather straightforward compared to ordinary conversation with people you don't know well which tends to be jumpy repartee, crooked, coded, allusive to no effect, firmly repressed, locked up in irony, steadfastly refusing to share genuine experience--think of conversation at office parties or conversation between teenage children and parents, or between teenagers themselves, or between men, or between bitter spouces: rarely in ordinary conversation do people speak from the heart and mean what they say. How often in the past week did anyone offer you something from the heart? It's there in poetry. Forget everything you ever read about poetry, it doesn't matter--poetry is the last preserve of honest speech and the outspoken heart. All that I wrote about it as a grad student I hereby recant and abjure--all that matters about poetry to me is directness and clarity and truthfulness. All that is twittery and lit'ry: no thanks, pal. A person could perish of entertainment, especially comedy, so much of it casually nihilistic, hateful, glittering, cold, and in the end clueless. People in nusing homes die watching late-night television and if I were one of them, I'd be grateful when the darkness descends. Thank God if the pastor comes and offers a psalm and a prayer, and they can attain a glimmer of clarity at the end. ~ Garrison Keillor,

1329:You’re right,” Phoebe said. “We both need coffee.” “And a change in subject. Come on. Zane sent me to find you and bring you back for breakfast.” She grinned. “Apparently he’s worried about you.” “He worries about everyone,” Phoebe said, trying not to be pleased by Maya’s words. “It’s his nature.” “That’s true. Zane would love to be in charge of the world. He gets off on bossing people around.” “It’s not that,” Phoebe said. “He takes his responsibilities seriously.” “Defending him again?” Phoebe waved goodbye to Manny and started down the path. “He doesn’t need me to defend him. He’s strong enough to take care of himself.” “Interesting.” Maya walked next to her. “So here’s this big, hunky guy who doesn’t need you to rescue him. No wonder you’re all atwitter around him. You don’t know what to do.” Phoebe wanted to kick a rock. It figured Maya would manage to put it all together in about fifteen seconds. It was her own fault for having a smart friend. Maya was right. If Zane didn’t need Phoebe to take care of him, what on earth would he need her for? And if he didn’t need her, why would he want her? She understood the theory that some men cared about women just because. That the women didn’t have to do anything to earn the affection. It wasn’t anything she’d ever experienced in her own life. “Zane isn’t for me,” she said firmly. Maya laughed. “That sounds really good, but I can’t help wondering who you’re trying to convince. ~ Susan Mallery,

1330:I want to lie beside you and know the weight of your dreams,” he said, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “I want to share whole worlds with you and write your name in the stars.” He moved closer and a chorus of songbirds twittered silver melodies. “I want to measure eternity with your laughter.” Now, he stood inches from me; his rough hands encircled my waist. “Be my queen and I promise you a life where you will never be bored. I promise you more power than a hundred kings. And I promise you that we will always be equals.” I grinned. “Not my soul then, Dharma Raja?” “Would you entrust me with something so precious?” I was silent for a moment before reaching for my foot and slipping off the worn slipper. “Here, my love, the dowry of a sole.” I began to laugh, giddily, drunkenly, before he swallowed my laughter in a kiss. I melted against him, arcing into the enclosure of his arms, my breath catching as his fingers entwined in the down of my hair. The music of the songbirds could not compare to the euphony billowing inside me, pressing against my bones and manifesting in a language of gentle touch. In Naraka, he drew me into the small universe of his embrace, laying kisses at my neck, the inside of my wrists, the dip in my abdomen. Now, the hum had settled to a lustrous melody, ribboning us like silk. And when we clung together, we drank in the other’s gaze, reveling in the secret hope and happiness that blossomed in the space between our lips. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

1331:For the Resistance, the only organizing principle is: Which position will be worse for Trump? Is Russia a colorful country with a noble history of giving socialism a try—or the most evil regime since Nazi Germany? Do I enjoy coarseness in popular culture—or am I a hothouse flower offended by dirty language? Am I enraged by the idea of the government secretly spying on American citizens—or is that a vital part of national security? Is it outrageous that private communications of the Democratic National Committee were publicly revealed (on WikiLeaks) during a campaign, or is it totally fantastic that a secret recording of Trump (the Access Hollywood tape) was blasted all over the world a month before the election? Is transparency in government something that I support, or do I think Trump has got to get off Twitter—a novel and independent thought that has occurred only to me? In that environment, we may give Trump more than the usual latitude if he acts as if he’s under siege. He is under siege. Is he unhinged? No, he’s hinged, fighting back against the left’s infantile, knee-jerk reaction to everything he does. Instead of governing, Trump is spending his presidency refuting questions like “Did you boil and eat a small child today?” It’s one ginned-up, fake story after another. And the people doing this are the most corrupt and conflicted in the history of the world—James Comey, Robert Mueller, Brian Williams, George Stephanopoulos, Nancy Pelosi, Hillary Clinton, and on and on. ~ Ann Coulter,

1332:Her beak was open, her hackles raised; her wild eyes were the colour of sun on white paper, and they stared because the whole world had fallen into them at once. One, two, three. I tucked the hood over her head. There was a brief intimation of a thin, angular skull under her feathers, of an alien brain fizzing and fusing with terror, then I drew the braces closed. We checked the ring numbers against the form. It was the wrong bird. This was the younger one. The smaller one. This was not my hawk. Oh. So we put her back and opened the other box, which was meant to hold the larger, older bird. And dear God, it did. Everything about this second hawk was different. She came out like a Victorian melodrama: a sort of madwoman in the attack. She was smokier and darker and much, much bigger, and instead of twittering, she wailed; great, awful gouts of sound like a thing in pain, and the sound was unbearable. This is my hawk, I was telling myself and it was all I could do to breathe. She too was bareheaded, and I grabbed the hood from the box as before. But as I brought it up to her face I looked into her eyes and saw something blank and crazy in her stare. Some madness from a distant country. I didn’t recognise her. This isn’t my hawk. The hood was on, the ring numbers checked, the bird back in the box, the yellow form folded, the money exchanged, and all I could think was, But this isn’t my hawk. Slow panic. I knew what I had to say, and it was a monstrous breach of etiquette. ‘This ~ Helen Macdonald,

1333:guiding users through a process quickly and easily is good for business, because the fewer people who get frustrated or confused, the more sales or sign-ups are completed. The problem, though, is that making interactions feel smooth and simple sounds nice, but it starts to fail as soon as you’re asking users for messy, complicated information. And as you’ll see in this chapter, all kinds of everyday questions can be messy and complicated—often in ways designers haven’t predicted. NAMING THE PROBLEM Sara Ann Marie Wachter-Boettcher. That’s how my birth certificate reads: five names, one hyphen, and a whole lot of consonant clusters (thanks, Mom and Dad!). I was used to it being misspelled. I was used to it being pronounced all sorts of ways. I was even used to everyone who looks at my driver’s license commenting that it takes up two whole lines. But I didn’t expect my name to cause me so many problems online. As it turns out, tons of services haven’t thought much about the wide range of names out there. So, on Twitter I forgo spaces to fit my professional name in: SaraWachterBoettcher. On online bill pay, they’ve truncated it for me: Sara Wachter-Boettch. In my airline’s online check-in system, hyphens straight up don’t exist. The list goes on. It’s irritating. It takes some extra time (do I enter a space between my last names, or just squish them together?). I see more error messages than I’d like. But it’s still a minor inconvenience, compared to what other people experience. ~ Sara Wachter Boettcher,

1334:I would dance all day in my basement listening to Off the Wall. You young people really don’t understand how magical Michael Jackson was. No one thought he was strange. No one was laughing. We were all sitting in front of our TVs watching the “Thriller” video every hour on the hour. We were all staring, openmouthed, as he moonwalked for the first time on the Motown twenty-fifth anniversary show. When he floated backward like a funky astronaut, I screamed out loud. There was no rewinding or rewatching. No next-day memes or trends on Twitter or Facebook posts. We would call each other on our dial phones and stretch the cord down the hall, lying on our stomachs and discussing Michael Jackson’s moves, George Michael’s facial hair, and that scene in Purple Rain when Prince fingers Apollonia from behind. Moments came and went, and if you missed them, you were shit out of luck. That’s why my parents went to a M*A*S*H party and watched the last episode in real time. There was no next-day M*A*S*H cast Google hangout. That’s why my family all squeezed onto one couch and watched the USA hockey team win the gold against evil Russia! We all wept as my mother pointed out every team member from Boston. (Everyone from Boston likes to point out everyone from Boston. Same with Canadians.) We all chanted “USA!” and screamed “YES!” when Al Michaels asked us if we believed in miracles. Things happened in real time and you watched them together. There was no rewind. HBO arrived in our house that same year. We had ~ Amy Poehler,

1335:What was in New York?” “I had to sign a new contract. A Thin Blue Line was renewed for another season.” “Oh, that’s awesome!” I heard rumblings on a few of the news outlets that the show might get dropped. “I really hope you’re finally able to get a new partner. I don’t know why they keep pushing that story line. Tina is not a good match for Jimmy. Brody and I have been riding together for almost seven years, and I would punch myself in the face before I ever kissed him. The show needs to give Jimmy a woman who he saved or something. That would be an interesting plot. Also, your brother on the show has to stop sleeping with that model. Twitter went nuts when he went back to her. She’s a bitch.” Eli’s gaze shifts to mine, and he chuckles. “I thought you didn’t watch the show.” Crap. I did say that. I chew on my thumb and shrug. “I guess I’ve seen a few seasons.” I say the last word under my breath, hoping he didn’t catch it. “Seasons?” No such luck. “Whatever. It’s just to see how bad you butcher my job.” Eli shakes his head and grabs my hand. His fingers thread with mine and then he gently squeezes. “Sounds like you’re a little more invested than that.” “Fine,” I admit. “I watch it religiously." He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “I knew you liked me.” I laugh and hit his chest with our entwined hands. “You’re crazy. I like your show, but seriously, tell the writers they need to clear that up. ~ Corinne Michaels,

1336:Imagine a young Isaac Newton time-travelling from 1670s England to teach Harvard undergrads in 2017. After the time-jump, Newton still has an obsessive, paranoid personality, with Asperger’s syndrome, a bad stutter, unstable moods, and episodes of psychotic mania and depression. But now he’s subject to Harvard’s speech codes that prohibit any “disrespect for the dignity of others”; any violations will get him in trouble with Harvard’s Inquisition (the ‘Office for Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion’). Newton also wants to publish Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica, to explain the laws of motion governing the universe. But his literary agent explains that he can’t get a decent book deal until Newton builds his ‘author platform’ to include at least 20k Twitter followers – without provoking any backlash for airing his eccentric views on ancient Greek alchemy, Biblical cryptography, fiat currency, Jewish mysticism, or how to predict the exact date of the Apocalypse. Newton wouldn’t last long as a ‘public intellectual’ in modern American culture. Sooner or later, he would say ‘offensive’ things that get reported to Harvard and that get picked up by mainstream media as moral-outrage clickbait. His eccentric, ornery awkwardness would lead to swift expulsion from academia, social media, and publishing. Result? On the upside, he’d drive some traffic through Huffpost, Buzzfeed, and Jezebel, and people would have a fresh controversy to virtue-signal about on Facebook. On the downside, we wouldn’t have Newton’s Laws of Motion. ~ Geoffrey Miller,

1337:An Autumn Landscape No wind there is that either pipes or moans; The fields are cold and still; the sky Is covered with a blue-gray sheet Of motionless cloud; and at my feet The river, curling softly by, Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones. Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves The road runs rough and silent, lined With plum-trees, misty and blue-gray, And poplars pallid as the day, In masses spectral, undefined, Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves. And on beside the river's sober edge A long fresh field lies black. Beyond, Low thickets gray and reddish stand, Stroked white with birch; and near at hand, Over a little steel-smooth pond, Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge. Across a waste and solitary rise A ploughman urges his dull team, A stooped gray figure with prone brow That plunges bending to the plough With strong, uneven steps. The stream Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries. Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn, Comes from far off; and crows in strings Pass on the upper silences. A flock of small gray goldfinches, Flown down with silvery twitterings, Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone. This day the season seems like one that heeds, With fixed ear and lifted hand, All moods that yet are known on earth, All motions that have faintest birth, 44 If haply she may understand The utmost inward sense of all her deeds. ~ Archibald Lampman,

1338:But as people become anxious to be accepted by the group, their personal values and behaviors are exchanged for more negative ones. We can too easily become more intense, abusive, fundamentalist, fanatical—behaviors strange to our former selves, born out of our intense need to belong. This may be one explanation for why the Internet, which gave us the possibility of self-organizing, is devolving into a medium of hate and persecution, where trolls6 claiming a certain identity go to great efforts to harass, threaten, and destroy those different from themselves. The Internet, as a fundamental means for self-organizing, can’t help but breed this type of negative, separatist behavior. Tweets and texts spawn instant reactions; back and forth exchanges of only a few words quickly degenerate into comments that push us apart. Listening, reflecting, exchanging ideas with respect—gone. But this is far less problematic than the way the Internet has intensified the language of threat and hate. People no longer hide behind anonymity as they spew hatred, abominations, and lurid death threats at people they don’t even know and those that they do. Trolls, who use social media to issue obscene threats and also organize others to deluge a person with hateful tweets and emails, are so great a problem for people who come into public view that some go off Twitter, change their physical appearance, or move in order to protect their children.7 Reporters admit that they refuse to publish about certain issues because they fear the blowback from trolls. ~ Margaret J Wheatley,

1339:The Cummerbund: An Indian Poem She sate upon her Dobie, To watch the Evening Star, And all the Punkahs as they passed, Cried, 'My! how fair you are!' Around her bower, with quivering leaves, The tall Kamsamahs grew, And Kitmutgars in wild festoons Hung down from Tchokis blue. II Below her home the river rolled With soft meloobious sound, Where golden-finned Chuprassies swam, In myriads circling round. Above, on talles trees remote Green Ayahs perched alone, And all night long the Mussak moan'd Its melancholy tone. III And where the purple Nullahs threw Their branches far and wide,-And silvery Goreewallahs flew In silence, side by side,-The little Bheesties' twittering cry Rose on the fragrant air, And oft the angry Jampan howled Deep in his hateful lair. IV She sate upon her Dobie,-- 163 She heard the Nimmak hum,-When all at once a cry arose,-'The Cummerbund is come!' In vain she fled: -- with open jaws The angry monster followed, And so, (before assistence came,) That Lady Fair was swallowed. They sought in vain for even a bone Respectfully to bury,-They said, -- 'Hers was a dreadful fate!' (And Echo answered 'Very.') They nailed her Dobie to the wall, Where last her form was seen, And underneath they wrote these words, In yellow, blue, and green:-Beware, ye Fair! Ye Fair, beware! Nor sit out late at night,-Lest horrid Cummerbunds should come, And swallow you outright. ~ Edward Lear,

1340:When it first emerged, Twitter was widely derided as a frivolous distraction that was mostly good for telling your friends what you had for breakfast. Now it is being used to organize and share news about the Iranian political protests, to provide customer support for large corporations, to share interesting news items, and a thousand other applications that did not occur to the founders when they dreamed up the service in 2006. This is not just a case of cultural exaptation: people finding a new use for a tool designed to do something else. In Twitter's case, the users have been redesigning the tool itself. The convention of replying to another user with the @ symbol was spontaneously invented by the Twitter user base. Early Twitter users ported over a convention from the IRC messaging platform and began grouping a topic or event by the "hash-tag" as in "#30Rock" or "inauguration." The ability to search a live stream of tweets - which is likely to prove crucial to Twitter's ultimate business model, thanks to its advertising potential - was developed by another start-up altogether. Thanks to these innovations, following a live feed of tweets about an event - political debates or Lost episodes - has become a central part of the Twitter experience. But for the first year of Twitter's existence, that mode of interaction would have been technically impossible using Twitter. It's like inventing a toaster oven and then looking around a year later and discovering that all your customers have, on their own, figured out a way to turn it into a microwave. ~ Steven Johnson,

1341:Bryan Del Monte (Author | Entrepreneur | Advertising & Marketing Expert | bryandelmonte.com)Answered April 26, 2016 That's like asking - what's considered a good day... it's so broad it depends. That said, here's some realities about website traffic generally...   Under 10K unique visitors a month, it's very hard to draw any meaningful conclusions from your analytics. You're just way too small.   Around 100K a month, you'll be able to really spot some decent trends in your analytics that will allow you to make better content...   If you're drawing a million unique visitors a year, you're rapidly approaching the top 2% of all websites in the world.   If you're at 5-10M a year in unique visitors, you're a name brand site in your niche that is routinely visited. It also means you probably have 1000's of articls that are drawing a few hundred visits a month through SEO.   To be in the top 1/2 1% - you need to draw over 10M unique views a month. If you're at that level... you're on the level of Drudge, Facebook, Amazon, Pintrest, Twitter, etc...   Most websites have less than 3000 visitors a month... and by most I mean like 98%. Putting all the aggregate stuff aside, here are some things to think about:   New/Returning matters. Do people find your content useful or not? Anything under 80% is a win... which is the average bounce rate.   A thousand true fans can lead to a successful website - it's not all about aggregate stats. (see Kevin Kelly's post - The Technium: 1,000 True Fans ~ Bryan Del Monte, Quora,

1342:The more the State of Israel relied on force to manage the occupation, the more compelled it was to deploy hasbara. And the more Western media consumers encountered hasbara, the more likely they became to measure Israel’s grandiose talking points against the routine and petty violence, shocking acts of humiliation, and repression that defined its relationship with the Palestinians. Under the leadership of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, a professional explainer who spent the early years of his political career as a frequent guest on prime time American news programs perfecting the slickness of the Beltway pundit class, the Israeli government invested unprecedented resources into hasbara. Once the sole responsibility of the Israeli foreign ministry, the task of disseminating hasbara fell to a special Ministry of Public Diplomacy led by Yuli Edelstein, a rightist settler and government minister who called Arabs a “despicable nation.” Edelstein’s ministry boasted an advanced “situation room,” a paid media team, and coordination of a volunteer force that claimed to include thousands of volunteer bloggers, tweeters, and Facebook commenters fed with talking points and who flood social media with hasbara in five languages. The exploits of the propaganda soldiers conscripted into Israel’s online army have helped give rise to the phenomenon of the “hasbara troll,” an often faceless, shrill and relentless nuisance deployed on Twitter and Facebook to harass public figures who expressed skepticism of official Israeli policy or sympathy for the Palestinians. ~ Max Blumenthal,

1343:...we are changed as technology offers us substitutes for connecting with each other face-to-face. We are offered robots and a whole world of machine-mediated relationships on networked devices. As we instant-message, e-mail, text, and Twitter, technology redraws the boundaries between intimacy and solitude. We talk of getting “rid” of our e-mails, as though these notes are so much excess baggage. Teenagers avoid making telephone calls, fearful that they “reveal too much.” They would rather text than talk. Adults, too, choose keyboards over the human voice. It is more efficient, they say. Things that happen in “real time” take too much time. Tethered to technology, we are shaken when that world “unplugged” does not signify, does not satisfy. After an evening of avatar-to avatar talk in a networked game, we feel, at one moment, in possession of a full social life and, in the next, curiously isolated, in tenuous complicity with strangers. We build a following on Facebook or MySpace and wonder to what degree our followers are friends. We recreate ourselves as online personae and give ourselves new bodies, homes, jobs, and romances. Yet, suddenly, in the half-light of virtual community, we may feel utterly alone. As we distribute ourselves, we may abandon ourselves. Sometimes people experience no sense of having communicated after hours of connection. And they report feelings of closeness when they are paying little attention. In all of this, there is a nagging question: Does virtual intimacy degrade our experience of the other kind and, indeed, of all encounters, of any kind? ~ Sherry Turkle,

1344:To Autumn" Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. ~ John Keats,

1345:I remembered meeting the Dharma Raja’s gaze and wreathing his neck with a wedding garland of sweet marigold and blood red roses. Death clung to him subtly, robbing the warmth of his eyes and silvering his beauty with a wintry touch. And yet, I saw how he was beautiful. It was his presence that conjured the brilliant peacock shades of the late-season monsoon sky. It was his aura that withered sun-ripe mangos and ushered in the lush winter fruits of custard apple and singhora chestnuts. And it was his stride that adorned the Kalidas Mountains with coronets of snow clouds. His hands moved to my shoulders, warm and solid, and his arms were a universe for me alone. He had enthralled me, unwound the seams of my being until I was filled with the sight of him and still ached with want. “I hoped you would choose me,” he said. I blushed, suddenly aware of my unbraceleted arms and simple sari. “I have no dowry.” He laughed, a hesitant, half-nervous sound that did not match his stern features. “I don’t care.” “Then what do you want from me?” “I want to lie beside you and know the weight of your dreams,” he said, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “I want to share whole worlds with you and write your name in the stars.” He moved closer and a chorus of songbirds twittered silver melodies. “I want to measure eternity with your laughter.” Now, he stood inches from me; his rough hands encircled my waist. “Be my queen and I promise you a life where you will never be bored. I promise you more power than a hundred kings. And I promise you that we will always be equals. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

1346:The Swallows AH! swallows, is it so? Did loving lingering summer, whose slow pace Tarried among late blossoms, loth to go, Gather the darkening cloud-wraps round her face And weep herself away in last week's rain? Can no new sunlight waken her again? 'Yes,' one pale rose a-blow Has answered from the trellised lane; The flickering swallows answer 'No.' From out the dim grey sky The arrowy swarm breaks forth and specks the air, While, one by one, birds wheel and float and fly, And now are gone, then suddenly are there; Till lo, the heavens are empty of them all. Oh, fly, fly south, from leaves that fade and fall, From shivering flowers that die; Free swallows, fly from winter's thrall, Ye who can give the gloom good-bye. But what for us who stay To hear the winds and watch the boughs grow black, And in the soddened mornings, day by day, Count what lost sweets bestrew the nightly track Of frost-foot winter trampling towards his throne? Swallows, who have the sunlight for your own, Fly on your sunward way; For you has January buds new blown, For us the snows and gloom and grey. On, on, beyond our reach, Swallows, with but your longing for a guide: Let the hills rise, let the waves tear the beach, Ye will not balk your course nor turn aside, But find the palms and twitter in the sun. And well for them whose eager wings have won The longed for goal of flight; But what of them in twilights dun Who long, but have no wings for flight? 193 ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

1347:From the vast, invisible ocean of moonlight overhead fell, here and here, a slender, broken stream that seemed to plash against the intercepting branches and trickle to earth, forming small white pools among the clumps of laurel. But these leaks were few and served only to accentuate the blackness of his environment, which his imagination found it easy to people with all manner of unfamiliar shapes, menacing, uncanny, or merely grotesque. He to whom the portentous conspiracy of night and solitude and silence in the heart of a great forest is not an unknown experience needs not to be told what another world it all is - how even the most commonplace and familiar objects take on another character. The trees group themselves differently; they draw closer together, as if in fear. The very silence has another quality than the silence of the day. And it is full of half-heard whispers, whispers that startle - ghosts of sounds long dead. There are living sounds, too, such as are never heard under other conditions: notes of strange night birds, the cries of small animals in sudden encounters with stealthy foes, or in their dreams, a rustling in the dead leaves - it may be the leap of a wood rat, it may be the footstep of a panther. What caused the breaking of that twig? What the low, alarmed twittering in that bushful of birds? There are sounds without a name, forms without substance, translations in space of objects which have not been seen to move, movements wherein nothing is observed to change its place. Ah, children of the sunlight and the gaslight, how little you know of the world in which you live! ("A Tough Tussle") ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1348:The white nationalist, nativist politics that we see today were first imagined and applied by David Duke during the heyday of his Grand Wizardshop, and the time of my undercover Klan investigation. This hatred is never gone away, but has been reinvigorated in the dark corners of the internet, Twitter trolls, alt-right publications, and a nativist president in Trump. The Republican Party of the 19th century, being the party of Lincoln, was the opposition to the rise of the Ku Klux Klan and white supremacist domination insofar as America's newly freed Black slaves were concerned; it is my belief that the Republican Party of the 21st century finds a symbiotic connection to white nationalist groups like the Klan, neo-Nazis, skinheads, militias, and alt-right white supremacist thinking. Evidence of this began in the Lyndon Johnson administration with the departure of Southern Democrats (Dixiecrats) to the Republican Party in protest of his civil rights agenda. The Republicans began a spiral slide to the far right that embrace all things abhorrent to nonwhites. David Duke twice ran for public office in Louisiana as a Democrat and lost. When he switched his affiliation to Republican, because he was closer in ideology and racial thinking to the GOP than to the Democrats, and ran again for the Louisiana House of Representatives, the conservative voters in his district rewarded him with a victory. In each case his position on the issues remain the same; white supremacist/ethno-nationalist endorsement of a race-centered rhetoric and nativist populism. What change were the voters. Democrats rejected Duke politics while Republicans embraced him. ~ Ron Stallworth,

1349:Tu-whoo! Ahem! Lord Regent," said the Owl, stooping down a little and holding its beak near the Dwarf's ear. "Heh? What's that?" said the Dwarf. "Two strangers, my Lord," said the Owl. "Rangers! What d'ye mean?" said the Dwarf. "I see two uncommonly grubby man-cubs. What do they want?" "My name's Jill," said Jill, pressing forward. She was very eager to explain the important business on which they had come. "The girl's called Jill," said the Owl, as loud as it could. "What's that?" said the Dwarf. "The girls are all killed! I don't believe a word of it. What girls? Who killed 'em?" "Only one girl, my Lord," said the Owl. "Her name is Jill." "Speak up, speak up," said the Dwarf. "Don't stand there buzzing and twittering in my ear. Who's been killed?" "Nobody's been killed," hooted the Owl. "Who?" "NOBODY." "All right, all right. You needn't shout. I'm not so deaf as all that. What do you mean by coming here to tell me that nobody's been killed? Why should anyone have been killed?" "Better tell him I'm Eustace," said Scrubb. "The boy's Eustace, my Lord," hooted the Owl as loud as it could. "Useless?" said the Dwarf irritably. "I dare say he is. Is that any reason for bringing him to court? Hey?" "Not useless," said the Owl. "EUSTACE." "Used to it, is he? I don't know what you're talking about, I'm sure. I'll tell you what it is, Master Glimfeather; when I was a young Dwarf there used to be talking beasts and birds in this country who really could talk. There wasn't all this mumbling and muttering and whispering. It wouldn't have been tolerated for a moment, Sir. Urnus, my trumpet please- ~ C S Lewis,

1350:At evening, sitting on this terrace, When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ... When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing Brown hills surrounding ... When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio A green light enters against stream, flush from the west, Against the current of obscure Arno ... Look up, and you see things flying Between the day and the night; Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together. A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches Where light pushes through; A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. A dip to the water. And you think: 'The swallows are flying so late!' Swallows? Dark air-life looping Yet missing the pure loop ... A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight And serrated wings against the sky, Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light, And falling back. Never swallows! Bats! The swallows are gone. At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio ... Changing guard. 23 Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp As the bats swoop overhead! Flying madly. Pipistrello! Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe. Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive; Wings like bits of umbrella. Bats! Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep; And disgustingly upside down. Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags And grinning in their sleep. Bats! Not for me! ~ David Herbert Lawrence,

1351:Sometimes I think my ability to concentrate is being nibbled away by the internet; other times I think it's being gulped down in huge, Jaws-shaped chunks. In those quaint days before the internet, once you made it to your desk there wasn't much to distract you. You could sit there working or you could just sit there. Now you sit down and there's a universe of possibilities – many of them obscurely relevant to the work you should be getting on with – to tempt you. To think that I can be sitting here, trying to write something about Ingmar Bergman and, a moment later, on the merest whim, can be watching a clip from a Swedish documentary about Don Cherry – that is a miracle (albeit one with a very potent side-effect, namely that it's unlikely I'll ever have the patience to sit through an entire Bergman film again). Then there's the outsourcing of memory. From the age of 16, I got into the habit of memorising passages of poetry and compiling detailed indexes in the backs of books of prose. So if there was a passage I couldn't remember, I would spend hours going through my books, seeking it out. Now, in what TS Eliot, with great prescience, called "this twittering world", I just google the key phrase of the half-remembered quote. Which is great, but it's drained some of the purpose from my life. Exactly the same thing has happened now that it's possible to get hold of out-of-print books instantly on the web. That's great too. But one of the side incentives to travel was the hope that, in a bookstore in Oregon, I might finally track down a book I'd been wanting for years. All of this searching and tracking down was immensely time-consuming – but only in the way that being alive is time-consuming. ~ Geoff Dyer,

1352:ON HER WAY home from the restaurant, Rylann’s cell phone rang. For a moment, as she dug around in her purse to find it, she wondered if it would be Kyle, calling her about the Scene and Heard column. She could practically hear his low, teasing voice already. Just calling to check up on my favorite brunette bombshell, counselor. Thought I’d see if you’d be up for round four tonight. Rylann finally found her phone. Oh. Just her mother. “Mom…hi,” she answered. “Looks like I was right to warn you about that Kyle Rhodes.” Rylann stopped at a four-way intersection, immediately on high alert. How could her mother, down in Florida, possibly know anything? So she played it cool. “Not sure what you mean, Mom.” “I was just reading the Trib online,” Helen said. “The Twitter Terrorist made the Scene and Heard column again.” “You read Scene and Heard?” Rylann asked. “Sure. How else am I supposed to keep up with all the local gossip while we’re down here for the winter?” And by winter, she meant early May. “I haven’t seen this morning’s column,” Rylann said. And technically, that was true—she’d only heard it. “I was busy this morning, then went to lunch with Rae. I’m just walking home now.” “Apparently, he was spotted at some hot new nightclub. Leaving with a mysterious brunette bombshell in a red dress. Probably some skank he met that night.” Then her mother changed the subject, cheerfully moving on. “Anyway, what’s new with you, sweetie? Did you do anything exciting last night?” Yes. Kyle Rhodes. “Um, nothing special. Rae and I went out for a few drinks.” Rylann figured it was best to gloss over the rest of the details, seeing how her mother had just called her a skank. ~ Julie James,

1353:Forgotten Lords of the Nursery Wait in a row, Five on the high wall, And four on the low; Big Kings and Little Kings, Brown Bears and Black, All of them waiting Till John comes back. Some think that John boy Is lost in the wood, Some say he couldn’t be, Some say he could. Some think that John boy Hides on the hill; Some say he won’t come back, Some say he will. High was the sun, when John went away . . . Here they’ve been waiting All through the day; Big Bears and Little Bears, White Kings and Black, All of them waiting Till John comes back. Lords of the Nursery Looked down the hill, Some saw the sheep-fold, Some say the mill; Some saw the roofs Of the little grey town . . . And their shadows grew long As the sun slipt down. Gold between the poplars An old moon shows; Silver up the star-way 15 The full moon rose; Silver down the star-way The old moon crept . . . And, one by another, The grey fields slept. Lords of the Nursery Their still watch keep . . . They hear from the sheep-fold The rustle of sheep. A young bird twitters And hides its head; A little wind suddenly Breathes, and is dead. Slowly and slowly Dawns the new day . . . What’s become of John boy? No one can say. Some think that John boy Is lost on the hill; Some say he won’t come back, Some say he will. What's become of John boy? Nothing at all, He played with his skipping rope, He played with his ball. He ran after butterflies, Blue ones and red; He did a hundred happy things— And then went to bed. ~ Alan Alexander Milne,

1354:Ascent To The Sierras poet Robinson Jeffers #140 on top 500 poets Poet's PagePoemsCommentsStatsE-BooksBiographyQuotationsShare on FacebookShare on Twitter Poems by Robinson Jeffers : 8 / 140 « prev. poem next poem » Ascent To The Sierras Beyond the great valley an odd instinctive rising Begins to possess the ground, the flatness gathers to little humps and barrows, low aimless ridges, A sudden violence of rock crowns them. The crowded orchards end, they have come to a stone knife; The farms are finished; the sudden foot of the slerra. Hill over hill, snow-ridge beyond mountain gather The blue air of their height about them. Here at the foot of the pass The fierce clans of the mountain you'd think for thousands of years, Men with harsh mouths and eyes like the eagles' hunger, Have gathered among these rocks at the dead hour Of the morning star and the stars waning To raid the plain and at moonrise returning driven Their scared booty to the highlands, the tossing horns And glazed eyes in the light of torches. The men have looked back Standing above these rock-heads to bark laughter At the burning granaries and the farms and the town That sow the dark flat land with terrible rubies... lighting the dead... It is not true: from this land The curse was lifted; the highlands have kept peace with the valleys; no blood in the sod; there is no old sword Keeping grim rust, no primal sorrow. The people are all one people, their homes never knew harrying; The tribes before them were acorn-eaters, harmless as deer. Oh, fortunate earth; you must find someone To make you bitter music; how else will you take bonds of the future, against the wolf in men's hearts? ~ Robinson Jeffers,

1355:There were, he had come to the conclusion after many tedious evenings at Almack’s, two types of chaperone. Given the number of events he had been forced to squire Hen to, Richard considered he had conducted something of an exhaustive study of chaperones. Both types were aging spinsters (Richard discounted young widows looking after their younger sisters’ debuts; those tended to need a chaperone even more than the young ladies they were ostensibly supervising), but that was all they had in common. The first was the frumpy henwit. Although of indeterminate age, she dressed in the ruffles of a seventeen-year-old. Her hair, no matter how sparse or grey, was curled and frizzed until it looked like a nest built by a particularly talentless blue jay. She twittered and simpered when spoken to, read the sappiest sort of novels in her spare time, and generally contrived to accidentally lose her charge at least twice a day. Rogues and seducers loved the first sort of chaperone; she made their endeavours that much easier. And then there was the other type of chaperone. The grim dragon of a chaperone. The sort who looked like her spine had been reinforced with a few Doric columns. Chaperone number two would sneer at a flounce or a frizz. She never simpered when she could snarl, read forbidding sermons by seventeenth-century puritans, and all but chained her charge to her wrist. As the woman bore down on him, Richard, using his brilliant powers of deduction, was quickly able to conclude that this chaperone fell into the second type. Grey hair rigidly pulled back. Mouth pressed into a grim line. The only incongruous note was the cluster of alarmingly purple flowers on the top of her otherwise severe grey bonnet. Maybe the milliner confused her order and she didn’t have time to change it, Richard concluded charitably. ~ Lauren Willig,

1356:The Season of Phantasmal Peace Then all the nations of birds lifted together the huge net of the shadows of this earth in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues, stitching and crossing it. They lifted up the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes, the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets, the shadow of a frail plant on a city sill— the net rising soundless as night, the birds' cries soundless, until there was no longer dusk, or season, decline, or weather, only this passage of phantasmal light that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever. And men could not see, looking up, what the wild geese drew, what the ospreys trailed behind them in silvery ropes that flashed in the icy sunlight; they could not hear battalions of starlings waging peaceful cries, bearing the net higher, covering this world like the vines of an orchard, or a mother drawing the trembling gauze over the trembling eyes of a child fluttering to sleep; it was the light that you will see at evening on the side of a hill in yellow October, and no one hearing knew what change had brought into the raven's cawing, the killdeer's screech, the ember-circling chough such an immense, soundless, and high concern for the fields and cities where the birds belong, except it was their seasonal passing, Love, made seasonless, or, from the high privilege of their birth, something brighter than pity for the wingless ones below them who shared dark holes in windows and in houses, and higher they lifted the net with soundless voices above all change, betrayals of falling suns, and this season lasted one moment, like the pause between dusk and darkness, between fury and peace, but, for such as our earth is now, it lasted long. ~ Derek Walcott,

1357:Out Of Doors The kids are out-of-doors once more; The heavy leggins that they wore, The winter caps that covered ears Are put away, and no more tears Are shed because they cannot go Until they're bundled up just so. No more she wonders when they're gone If they have put their rubbers on; No longer are they hourly told To guard themselves against a cold; Bareheaded now they romp and run Warmed only by the kindly sun. She's put their heavy clothes away And turned the children out to play, And all the morning long they race Like madcaps round about the place. The robins on the fences sing A gayer song of welcoming, And seems as though they had a share In all the fun they're having there. The wrens and sparrows twitter, too, A louder and a noisier crew, As though it pleased them all to see The youngsters out of doors and free. Outdoors they scamper to their play With merry din the livelong day, And hungrily they jostle in The favor of the maid to win; Then, armed with cookies or with cake, Their way into the yard they make, And every feathered playmate comes To gather up his share of crumbs. The finest garden that I know Is one where little children grow, Where cheeks turn brown and eyes are bright, And all is laughter and delight. 541 Oh, you may brag of gardens fine, But let the children race in mine; And let the roses, white and red, Make gay the ground whereon they tread. And who for bloom perfection seeks, Should mark the color on their cheeks; No music that the robin spouts Is equal to their merry shouts; There is no foliage to compare With youngsters' sun-kissed, tousled hair: Spring's greatest joy beyond a doubt Is when it brings the children out. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

1358:Footsteps sounded on the porch, and she felt a twitter of excitement as Wyatt walked in, hat in hand. He stopped and stared. First at the table, then at her. “Well . . . this is sure a nice welcome.” She grew warm beneath his attention, and warmer still as he crossed the room toward her. He lifted a curl from her bodice and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “It smells good in here.” He smelled good too. She caught a whiff of fresh soap and sunshine, and his hair was still damp. “You bathed in the creek,” she said softly. “Yes, ma’am, I did.” “Well . . .” She gave a breathless laugh. “Breakfast is ready. I hope you’re hungry.” “Yes, ma’am.” His gaze captured hers and held. “I am.” If not for his self-declared patience, she might have been unnerved by the transparency of desire in his eyes. But Wyatt Caradon was her husband. She could stand on tiptoe right now and kiss him full on the mouth if she wanted to. That was her right. And the thing was—she slowly realized—she wanted to. Even more, he wanted her to. Yet he didn’t move. However, he did smile, ever so slightly, and it gave her the encouragement she needed. She rose on tiptoe, and could all but reach him. “You might want to meet me halfway, Mr. Caradon.” Wordless, he did, but stopped just short of completing the journey. Their breaths mingling, she sensed his growing lack of patience, which, oddly enough, only increased hers. She ran a finger along his stubbled jawline and saw his eyes narrow ever so slightly. She’d never been one to toy with a man, but then she’d never been married to one with whom she could toy. She kissed him on one corner of his mouth, then the other. On his cheek, and then gently on the lips, like he’d done with her yesterday at the ceremony. His arms didn’t come around her like she half expected, but not for a moment did she question his response. He was letting her take the lead . . . and she liked it. ~ Tamera Alexander,

1359:Before we left, I asked Sven to catch me up on the sixteen months of history that I’d overshot since November 2016. Big mistake. After twenty minutes, I made him stop playing me Internet clips. “David, you look kind of green,” worried Sven. I took a deep breath. “He pulled out of the Paris climate deal because climate change is a hoax. He threatened to start a nuclear war with North Korea. He gave away intel methods to the Russians. In the Oval Office. “He says the FBI and the CIA are conspiring against him. He admits he fired the head of the FBI because of the Russia probe. He tried to fire the Special Counsel investigating him. He called the press ‘enemies of the people.’ He calls everything that isn’t from Fox News or The National Enquirer ‘fake news.’ “He starts every day posting boasts and threats on Twitter like a disturbed ten-year-old. He insulted the widow of a dead war hero. He dictated a false statement for his son about why he met with Russians. He says there are good people marching with the KKK and the Nazis. Everyone in his inner circle is either being investigated or indicted for obstruction, perjury, wife beating, failure to register as a foreign agent, money laundering and/or breaking campaign finance laws. “He called Africa a shithole. He paid off a porn star he screwed right after his son was born. And told her she reminded him of his daughter. He’s being sued for rape. And the only person he hasn’t got a single bad thing to say about is the journalist-murdering Russian dictator he colluded with.” “’Fraid so,” said Sven. “All that happened in just sixteen months?” I exclaimed. “How is he still president?” Sven shrugged, sympathetic. “It’s not like we weren’t warned. Bottom line, some very rich, powerful people are going to get far richer, and that’s how America is run at the moment.” “I swear to God, Sven, I’m tempted to go back and save Lincoln all over again. That can’t turn out any worse than this. ~ Doug Molitor,

1360:Do I feel empathy for Trump voters? That’s a question I’ve asked myself a lot. It’s complicated. It’s relatively easy to empathize with hardworking, warmhearted people who decided they couldn’t in good conscience vote for me after reading that letter from Jim Comey . . . or who don’t think any party should control the White House for more than eight years at a time . . . or who have a deeply held belief in limited government, or an overriding moral objection to abortion. I also feel sympathy for people who believed Trump’s promises and are now terrified that he’s trying to take away their health care, not make it better, and cut taxes for the superrich, not invest in infrastructure. I get it. But I have no tolerance for intolerance. None. Bullying disgusts me. I look at the people at Trump’s rallies, cheering for his hateful rants, and I wonder: Where’s their empathy and understanding? Why are they allowed to close their hearts to the striving immigrant father and the grieving black mother, or the LGBT teenager who’s bullied at school and thinking of suicide? Why doesn’t the press write think pieces about Trump voters trying to understand why most Americans rejected their candidate? Why is the burden of opening our hearts only on half the country? And yet I’ve come to believe that for me personally and for our country generally, we have no choice but to try. In the spring of 2017, Pope Francis gave a TED Talk. Yes, a TED Talk. It was amazing. This is the same pope whom Donald Trump attacked on Twitter during the campaign. He called for a “revolution of tenderness.” What a phrase! He said, “We all need each other, none of us is an island, an autonomous and independent ‘I,’ separated from the other, and we can only build the future by standing together, including everyone.” He said that tenderness “means to use our eyes to see the other, our ears to hear the other, to listen to the children, the poor, those who are afraid of the future. ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

1361:Summer Gone SMALL wren, mute pecking at the last red plum Or twittering idly at the yellowing boughs Fruit-emptied, over thy forsaken house,-Birdie, that seems to come Telling, we too have spent our little store, Our summer's o'er: Poor robin, driven in by rain-storms wild To lie submissive under household hands With beating heart that no love understands, And scarèd eye, like a child Who only knows that he is all alone And summer's gone; Pale leaves, sent flying wide, a frightened flock On which the wolfish wind bursts out, and tears Those tender forms that lived in summer airs Till, taken at this shock, They, like weak hearts when sudden grief sweeps by, Whirl, drop, and die:-All these things, earthy, of the earth--do tell This earth's perpetual story; we belong Unto another country, and our song Shall be no mortal knell; Though all the year's tale, as our years run fast, Mourns, 'summer's past.' O love immortal, O perpetual youth, Whether in budding nooks it sits and sings As hundred poets in a hundred springs, Or, slaking passion's drouth, In wine-press of affliction, ever goes Heavenward, through woes: O youth immortal--O undying love! With these by winter fireside we'll sit down Wearing our snows of honor like a crown; And sing as in a grove, 158 Where the full nests ring out with happy cheer, 'Summer is here.' Roll round, strange years; swift seasons, come and go; Ye leave upon us but an outward sign; Ye cannot touch the inward and divine, While God alone does know; There sealed till summers, winters, all shall cease In His deep peace. Therefore uprouse ye winds and howl your will; Beat, beat, ye sobbing rains on pane and door; Enter, slow-footed age, and thou, obscure, Grand Angel--not of ill; Healer of every wound, where'er thou come, Glad, we'll go home. ~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,

1362:Like you?” My face twisted in abhorrence, spitting the words like they were revolting. Her eyes widened. I shook my head, a dark chuckle on my lips. “You think I fucking like you? Are you kidding me here? I don’t like you. I love you. Even that’s an under-fucking-statement. I live for you. I breathe for you. I will die for you. It. Has. Always. Been. You. Ever since I saw your sorry ass for the first time on that threshold and you fucking poked me in the chest like I was a toy. We’ve been apart for ten years, Rose LeBlanc, and not even one day has passed without me thinking of you. And not just in passing. You know, the occasional she-could-have-been-a-g reat-fuck. I mean really taking my time to think about you. Wondering what you looked like. Where youwere. What you were doing. Who you were with. I stalked you on Facebook. And Twitter—which, by the way, you need to deactivate because you never once bothered to tweet—but you aren’t exactly a social media animal. I asked about you. Every time I was in town. And once I realized you were in New York with Millie…” “Rosie, I bought a new penthouse in TriBeca a few months before you moved into our building.” “Why are you telling me this?” She blinked away her tears, but fresh ones rolled down to replace them time. “Because I had to sell it and lost a shit-ton of money the moment I realized you were going to be my neighbor if I stayed in my current place. Real talk, Rosie, you are all I ever wanted. Even when you wanted me to be with your sister. She was a comforting candle. You were the dazzling sun. I’d lived in the dark—for your selfish ass. And if you think I’m going to settle for something , you’re dead wrong. I am taking everything . We will have kids, Rose LeBlanc. We will have a wedding. And we will have joy and vacations and days where we just fuck and days where we just fight and days where we just live. Because this is life, Baby LeBlanc, and I love the fuck out of you, so I’m going to give you the best one there is. Got it? ~ L J Shen,

1363:Most of the successful innovators and entrepreneurs in this book had one thing in common: they were product people. They cared about, and deeply understood, the engineering and design. They were not primarily marketers or salesmen or financial types; when such folks took over companies, it was often to the detriment of sustained innovation. “When the sales guys run the company, the product guys don’t matter so much, and a lot of them just turn off,” Jobs said. Larry Page felt the same: “The best leaders are those with the deepest understanding of the engineering and product design.”34 Another lesson of the digital age is as old as Aristotle: “Man is a social animal.” What else could explain CB and ham radios or their successors, such as WhatsApp and Twitter? Almost every digital tool, whether designed for it or not, was commandeered by humans for a social purpose: to create communities, facilitate communication, collaborate on projects, and enable social networking. Even the personal computer, which was originally embraced as a tool for individual creativity, inevitably led to the rise of modems, online services, and eventually Facebook, Flickr, and Foursquare. Machines, by contrast, are not social animals. They don’t join Facebook of their own volition nor seek companionship for its own sake. When Alan Turing asserted that machines would someday behave like humans, his critics countered that they would never be able to show affection or crave intimacy. To indulge Turing, perhaps we could program a machine to feign affection and pretend to seek intimacy, just as humans sometimes do. But Turing, more than almost anyone, would probably know the difference. According to the second part of Aristotle’s quote, the nonsocial nature of computers suggests that they are “either a beast or a god.” Actually, they are neither. Despite all of the proclamations of artificial intelligence engineers and Internet sociologists, digital tools have no personalities, intentions, or desires. They are what we make of them. ~ Walter Isaacson,

1364:Health Four miles at a leap, over the dark hollow land, To the frosted steep of the down and its junipers black, Travels my eye with equal ease and delight: And scarce could my body leap four yards. This is the best and the worst of it Never to know, Yet to imagine gloriously, pure health. To-day, had I suddenly health, I could not satisfy the desire of my heart Unless health abated it, So beautiful is the air in its softness and clearness, while Spring Promises all and fails in nothing as yet; And what blue and what white is I never knew Before I saw this sky blessing the land. For had I health I could not ride or run or fly So far or so rapidly over the land As I desire: I should reach Wiltshire tired; I should have changed my mind before I could be in Wales. I could not love; I could not command love. beauty would still be far off However many hills I climbed over; Peace would still be farther. Maybe I should not count it anything To leap these four miles with the eye; And either I should not be filled almost to bursting with desire, Or with my power desire would still keep pace. Yet I am not satisfied Even with knowing I never could be satisfied. With health and all the power that lies In maiden beauty, poet and warrior, In Caesar, Shakespeare, Alcibiades, Mazeppa, Leonardo, Michelangelo, In any maiden whose smile is lovelier Than sunlight upon dew, 35 I could not be as the wagtail running up and down The warm tiles of the roof slope, twittering Happily and sweetly as if the sun itself Extracted the song As the hand makes sparks from the fur of a cat: I could not be as the sun. Nor should I be content to be As little as the bird or as mighty as the sun. For the bird knows not the sun, And the sun regards not the bird. But I am almost proud to love both bird and sun, Though scarce this Spring could my body leap four yards. ~ Edward Thomas,

1365:So let’s talk a little about April May’s theory of tiered fame. Tier 1: Popularity You are a big deal in your high school or neighborhood. You have a peculiar vehicle that people around town recognize, you are a pastor at a medium-to-large church, you were once the star of the high school football team. Tier 2: Notoriety You are recognized and/or well-known within certain circles. Maybe you’re a preeminent lepidopterist whom all the other lepidopterists idolize. Or you could be the mayor or meteorologist in a medium-sized city. You might be one of the 1.1 million living people who has a Wikipedia page. Tier 3: Working-Class Fame A lot of people know who you are and they are distributed around the world. There’s a good chance that a stranger will approach you to say hi at the grocery store. You are a professional sports player, musician, author, actor, television host, or internet personality. You might still have to hustle to make a living, but your fame is your job. You’ll probably trend on Twitter if you die. Tier 4: True Fame You get recognized by fans enough that it is a legitimate burden. People take pictures of you without your permission, and no one would scoff if you called yourself a celebrity. When you start dating someone, you wouldn’t be surprised to read about it in magazines. You are a performer, politician, host, or actor whom the majority of people in your country would recognize. Your humanity is so degraded that people are legitimately surprised when they find out that you’re “just like them” because, sometimes, you buy food. You never have to worry about money again, but you do need a gate with an intercom on your driveway. Tier 5: Divinity You are known by every person in your world, and you are such a big deal that they no longer consider you a person. Your story is much larger than can be contained within any human lifetime, and your memory will continue long after your earthly form wastes away. You are a founding father of a nation, a creator of a religion, an emperor, or an idea. You are not currently alive. ~ Hank Green,

1366:And the days move on and the names of the months change and the four seasons bury one another and it is spring again and yet again and the small streams that run over the rough sides of Gormenghast Mountain are big with rain while the days lengthen and summer sprawls across the countryside, sprawls in all the swathes of its green, with its gold and sticky head, with its slumber and the drone of doves and with its butterflies and its lizards and its sunflowers, over and over again, its doves, its butterflies, its lizards, its sunflowers, each one an echo-child while the fruit ripens and the grotesque boles of the ancient apple trees are dappled in the low rays of the sun and the air smells of such rotten sweetness as brings a hunger to the breast, and makes of the heart a sea-bed, and a tear, the fruit of salt and water, ripens, fed by a summer sorrow, ripens and falls … falls gradually along the cheekbones, wanders over the wastelands listlessly, the loveliest emblem of the heart’s condition. And the days move on and the names of the months change and the four seasons bury one another and the field-mice draw upon their granaries. The air is murky, and the sun is like a raw wound in the grimy flesh of a beggar, and the rags of the clouds are clotted. The sky has been stabbed and has been left to die above the world, filthy, vast and bloody. And then the great winds come and the sky is blown naked, and a wild bird screams across the glittering land. And the Countess stands at the window of her room with the white cats at her feet and stares at the frozen landscape spread below her, and a year later she is standing there again but the cats are abroad in the valleys and a raven sits upon her heavy shoulder. And every day the myriad happenings. A loosened stone falls from a high tower. A fly drops lifeless from a broken pane. A sparrow twitters in a cave of ivy. The days wear out the months and the months wear out the years, and a flux of moments, like an unquiet tide, eats at the black coast of futurity. And Titus Groan is wading through his boyhood. ~ Mervyn Peake,

1367:how I see the distinction between sexism and misogyny. When a husband tells his wife, “I can’t quite explain why and I don’t even like admitting this, but I don’t want you to make more money than me, so please don’t take that amazing job offer,” that’s sexism. He could still love her deeply and be a great partner in countless ways. But he holds tight to an idea that even he knows isn’t fair about how successful a woman is allowed to be. Sexism is all the big and little ways that society draws a box around women and says, “You stay in there.” Don’t complain because nice girls don’t do that. Don’t try to be something women shouldn’t be. Don’t wear that, don’t go there, don’t think that, don’t earn too much. It’s not right somehow, we can’t explain why, stop asking. We can all buy into sexism from time to time, often without even noticing it. Most of us try to keep an eye out for those moments and avoid them or, when we do misstep, apologize and do better next time. Misogyny is something darker. It’s rage. Disgust. Hatred. It’s what happens when a woman turns down a guy at a bar and he switches from charming to scary. Or when a woman gets a job that a man wanted and instead of shaking her hand and wishing her well, he calls her a bitch and vows to do everything he can to make sure she fails. Both sexism and misogyny are endemic in America. If you need convincing, just look at the YouTube comments or Twitter replies when a woman dares to voice a political opinion or even just share an anecdote from her own lived experience. People hiding in the shadows step forward just far enough to rip her apart. Sexism in particular can be so pervasive, we stop seeing it. It reminds me of the opening anecdote from author David Foster Wallace’s 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College. Two young fish are swimming along. They meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys, how’s the water?” The two young fish swim on for a bit, until one looks at the other and asks, “What’s water?” “In other words,” Wallace said, “the most obvious realities are often the ones that are the hardest to see and talk about. ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

1368:Pasa Thalassa Thalassa “The sea is everywhere the sea.” Gone—faded out of the story, the sea-faring friend I remember? Gone for a decade, they say: never a word or a sign. Gone with his hard red face that only his laughter could wrinkle, Down where men go to be still, by the old way of the sea. Never again will he come, with rings in his ears like a pirate, Back to be living and seen, here with his roses and vines; Here where the tenants are shadows and echoes of years uneventful, Memory meets the event, told from afar by the sea. Smoke that floated and rolled in the twilight away from the chimney Floats and rolls no more. Wheeling and falling, instead, Down with a twittering flash go the smooth and inscrutable swallows, Down to the place made theirs by the cold work of the sea. Roses have had their day, and the dusk is on yarrow and wormwood— Dusk that is over the grass, drenched with memorial dew; Trellises lie like bones in a ruin that once was a garden, Swallows have lingered and ceased, shadows and echoes are all. II Where is he lying to-night, as I turn away down to the valley, Down where the lamps of men tell me the streets are alive? Where shall I ask, and of whom, in the town or on land or on water, News of a time and a place buried alike and with him? Few now remain who may care, nor may they be wiser for caring, Where or what manner the doom, whether by day or by night; Whether in Indian deeps or on flood-laden fields of Atlantis, Or by the roaring Horn, shrouded in silence he lies. Few now remain who return by the weed-weary path to his cottage, 229 Drawn by the scene as it was—met by the chill and the change; Few are alive who report, and few are alive who remember, More of him now than a name carved somewhere on the sea. “Where is he lying?” I ask, and the lights in the valley are nearer; Down to the streets I go, down to the murmur of men. Down to the roar of the sea in a ship may be well for another— Down where he lies to-night, silent, and under the storms. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

1369:Viaggi gratis per ex deputati Partiti divisi sull’abolizione Carlo Bertini | 382 parole «Campa cavallo che il rimborso cresce», sfotte il leghista Davide Caparini, che su twitter si scaglia contro quella che il grillino Riccardo Fraccaro bolla come la «Casta crociere». La Camera spende ogni anno quasi un milione di euro per far viaggiare gratis gli ex onorevoli e da mesi si sta valutando un taglio. Ma non netto, come molti chiedono: la novità è che gli ex avranno un plafond di 900 euro, non a fondo perduto ma a fronte di un rimborso dei biglietti. Solo per la tratta fino a Roma. E non a vita, ma per dieci anni, che dalla prossima legislatura caleranno a cinque. Perché non viene abolito del tutto? Il questore del Pd, Paolo Fontanelli, spiega che questi benefit ora vengono ridotti, lasciando che venga riconosciuto agli ex deputati che ancora fanno politica di poter ancora dare un contributo, senza sposare la tesi che le loro esperienze non servono più a nulla. «Noi siamo per linea di un graduale riduzione, per non demonizzare chi ha fatto politica». Lo sfogo dei due deputati di Lega e M5S uniti nella battaglia di abolire tout court il beneficio è dovuto all’ennesimo rinvio, deciso la scorsa settimana, di una grana che per i vertici di Montecitorio è un nodo irto di spine. Non c’è infatti accordo tra i partiti per far cessare questa prassi che con i tempi che corrono è considerata a dir poco anacronistica. «In ufficio di presidenza (l’organo che gestisce e organizza la Camera) con i pentastellati abbiamo proposto l’abolizione dei viaggi gratuiti per gli ex deputati, ma la votazione è stata rinviata (abbiamo iniziato a parlarne il 28 ottobre scorso)», attacca Caparini. E Fraccaro non è da meno, perché «spendere ogni anno 900 mila euro per il rimborso dei viaggi degli ex deputati è uno scandalo che grida vendetta. Sono moltissime le voci di bilancio da tagliare dei costi della politica. A breve si svolgerà una nuova riunione e chiediamo alla Boldrini, ai questori e a tutti i partiti di accogliere la nostra proposta per cancellare subito i rimborsi viaggi agli ex deputati, un privilegio assurdo». Tra due settimane la sentenza, la folta truppa degli ex parlamentari attende con ansia il verdetto. ~ Anonymous,

1370:The Season And must I wear a silken life, Hemmed in by city walls? And must I give my garden up For theatres and balls? Nay, though the cage be made of gold, 'Tis better to be free; The green of the green meadows, love, Is quite enough for me. I'd rather ramble through the lanes Than drive about in town; I'd rather muse or dream than dance, When the stars are shining down. I do not care for diamonds, dear, But I care a deal for flowers; And thousands are just creeping out For the sunshine and the showers. I like to hear the Household band, But I love the bird-songs best; And hark! how they are twittering now Round each half-hidden nest! The wind is whispering in the leaves, And the downy bees begin To hum in the blossoming sycamores, And the brook is chiming in. There is such melody in the woods, Such music in the air! The streets are full of life and sound, And yet 'tis silent there. I like to see the pictures—ay, But I am hard to please! I never saw a picture yet As great and grand as these; 250 Such tones of colour as transform The tender green and brown, When the pink dawn is flushing up, Or the red sun sinking down; Such painting as the chestnut bud Shows in its opening heart; Such lights as shine 'twixt earth and sky When rain-clouds break apart; Such soft, warm, subtle tints, as lie In every mossy patch— On the blue-brown trunks, now filled with life, And the humble roof of thatch,— In the purple hollows of the hills, In the lichen on the wall, In the orchard and the feathery woods, And the sun-lit waterfall. I like my humble country ways, My simple, early meals; I like to potter about the yard, With my chickens at my heels. I'd rather climb this brambly steep, Where freshest sea-winds blow, With my old straw hat hanging down my back. Than canter along the Row. To me (it's vulgar, dear, I know) No fête half so gay As a cricket-match on the village green, Or a picnic in the hay. Ah, yes! I'm happier as I am,— I'm ignorant, you see; And the life of fashion that you love Would never do for me. ~ Ada Cambridge,

1371:there were many contacts during the campaign and the transition between Trump associates and Russians—in person, on the phone, and via text and email. Many of these interactions were with Ambassador Kislyak, who was thought to help oversee Russian intelligence operations in the United States, but they included other Russian officials and agents as well. For example, Roger Stone, the longtime Trump political advisor who claimed that he was in touch with Julian Assange, suggested in August 2016 that information about John Podesta was going to come out. In October, Stone hinted Assange and WikiLeaks were going to release material that would be damaging to my campaign, and later admitted to also exchanging direct messages over Twitter with Guccifer 2.0, the front for Russian intelligence, after some of those messages were published by the website The Smoking Gun. We also know now that in December 2016, Trump’s son-in-law and senior advisor, Jared Kushner, met with Sergey Gorkov, the head of a Kremlin-controlled bank that is under U.S. sanctions and tied closely to Russian intelligence. The Washington Post caused a sensation with its report that Russian officials were discussing a proposal by Kushner to use Russian diplomatic facilities in America to communicate secretly with Moscow. The New York Times reported that Russian intelligence attempted to recruit Carter Page, the Trump foreign policy advisor, as a spy back in 2013 (according to the report, the FBI believed Page did not know that the man who approached him was a spy). And according to Yahoo News, U.S. officials received intelligence reports that Carter Page met with a top Putin aide involved with intelligence. Some Trump advisors failed to disclose or lied about their contacts with the Russians, including on applications for security clearances, which could be a federal crime. Attorney General Jeff Sessions lied to Congress about his contacts and later recused himself from the investigation. Michael Flynn lied about being in contact with Kislyak and then changed his story about whether they discussed dropping U.S. sanctions. Reporting since the election has made clear that Trump and his top advisors have little or no interest in learning about the Russian covert operation against American democracy. ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

1372:The Unloved These are the women whom no man has loved. Year after year, day after day has moved. These hearts with many longings, and with tears, And with content; they have received the years With empty hands, expecting no good thing; Life has passed by their doors, not entering. In solitude, and without vain desire, They have warmed themselves beside a lonely fire; And, without scorn, beheld as in a glass The blown and painted leaves of Beauty pass. Their souls have been made fragrant with the spice Of costly virtues lit for sacrifice; They have accepted life, the unpaid debt, And looked for no vain day of reckoning. Yet They too in certain windless summer hours Have felt the stir of dreams, and dreamed the powers And the exemptions and the miracles And the cruelty of Beauty. Citadels Of many-walled and deeply-moated hearts Have suddenly surrendered to the arts Of so compelling magic; entering, They have esteemed it but a little thing To have won so great a conquest; and with haste They have cast down, and utterly laid waste, Tower upon tower, and sapped their roots with flame; And passed on that eternity of shame Which is the way of Beauty on the earth. And they have shaken laughter from its mirth, To be a sound of trumpets and of horns Crying the battle-cry of those red morns Against a sky of triumph. On some nights Of delicate Springtide, when the hesitant lights Begin to fade, and glimmer, and grow warm, And all the softening air is quick with storm, And the ardours of the young year, entering in, Flush the grey earth with buds; when trees begin To feel a trouble mounting from their roots, And all their green life blossoming into shoots, They too, in some obscure, unblossoming strife, 124 Have felt the stirring of the sap of life. And they have wept, with bowed heads; in the street They hear the twittering of little feet, The rocking of the cradles in their hearts. This is a mood, and, as a mood, departs With the dried tears; and they resume the tale Of the dropt stitches; these must never fail For a dream's sake; nor, for a memory, The telling of a patient rosary. ~ Arthur Symons,

1373:Why The Jackass Laughs The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack Were telling tales of the outer back: "I've just been travelling far and wide, At the back of Bourke and the Queensland side; There isn't a bird in the bush can go As far as me," said the old black crow. "There isn't a bird in the bush can fly A course as straight or a course as high. Higher than human eyesight goes. There's sometimes clouds -- but there's always crows, Drifting along for a scent of blood Or a smell of smoke or a sign of flood. For never a bird or a beast has been With a sight as strong or a scent as keen. At fires and floods I'm the first about, For then the lizards and mice run out: And I make my swoop -- and that's all they know -I'm a whale on mice," said the Boastful Crow. The Bee-birds over the homestead flew And told each other the long day through "The cold has come, we must take the track." "Now, I'll make you a bet," said the Laughing Jack, "Of a hundred mice, that you dare not go With the little Bee-birds, by Boastful Crow." Said the Boastful Crow, "I could take my ease And fly with little green birds like these. If they went flat out and they did their best I could have a smoke and could take a rest." And he asked of the Bee-birds circling round: "Now, where do you spike-tails think you're bound?" "We leave tonight, and out present plan is to go straight on till we reach Japan. "Every year, on the self-same day, We call our children and start away, Twittering, travelling day and night, 530 Over the ocean we take our flight; And we rest a day on some lonely isles Or we beg a ride for a hundred miles On a steamer's deck,* and away we go: We hope you'll come with us, Mister Crow." But the old black crow was extremely sad. Said he: "I reckon you're raving mad To talk of travelling night and day, And how in the world do you find your way?" And the Bee-birds answered him, "If you please, That's one of our own great mysteries". Now these things chanced in the long ago And explain the fact, which no doubt you know, That every jackass high and low Will always laugh when he sees a crow. ~ Banjo Paterson,

1374:Ode--'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune Now the 'rosy morn appearing' Floods with light the dazzled heaven; And the schoolboy groans on hearing That eternal clock strike seven:Now the waggoner is driving Towards the fields his clattering wain; Now the bluebottle, reviving, Buzzes down his native pane. But to me the morn is hateful: Wearily I stretch my legs, Dress, and settle to my plateful Of (perhaps inferior) eggs. Yesterday Miss Crump, by message, Mentioned 'rent,' which 'p'raps I'd pay;' And I have a dismal presage That she'll call, herself, to-day. Once, I breakfasted off rosewood, Smoked through silver-mounted pipes Then how my patrician nose would Turn up at the thought of 'swipes!' Ale,--occasionally claret, Graced my luncheon then:- and now I drink porter in a garret, To be paid for heaven knows how. When the evening shades are deepened, And I doff my hat and gloves, No sweet bird is there to 'cheep and Twitter twenty million loves:' No dark-ringleted canaries Sing to me of 'hungry foam;' No imaginary 'Marys' Call fictitious 'cattle home.' Araminta, sweetest, fairest! Solace once of every ill! How I wonder if thou bearest 47 Mivins in remembrance still! If that Friday night is banished Yet from that retentive mind, When the others somehow vanished, And we two were left behind:When in accents low, yet thrilling, I did all my love declare; Mentioned that I'd not a shilling Hinted that we need not care: And complacently you listened To my somewhat long address (Listening, at the same time, isn't Quite the same as saying Yes). Once, a happy child, I carolled O'er green lawns the whole day through, Not unpleasingly apparelled In a tightish suit of blue:What a change has now passed o'er me! Now with what dismay I see Every rising morn before me! Goodness gracious, patience me! And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara, Through the world, as prowls the bat, And habitually wear a Cypress wreath around my hat: And when Death snuffs out the taper Of my Life, (as soon he must), I'll send up to every paper, 'Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.' ~ Charles Stuart Calverley,

1375:There are blondes and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blond as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde who cheeps and twitters, and the big statuesque blonde who straight-arms you with an ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arm and is always very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her except that you are glad you found out about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her. Because the headache will always be there, a weapon that never wears out and is as deadly as the bravo’s rapier or Lucrezia’s poison vial. There is the soft and willing and alcoholic blonde who doesn’t care what she wears as long as it is mink or where she goes as long as it is the Starlight Roof and there is plenty of dry champagne. There is the small perky blonde who is a little pal and wants to pay her own way and is full of sunshine and common sense and knows judo from the ground up and can toss a truck driver over her shoulder without missing more than one sentence out of the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, pale blonde with anemia of some non-fatal but incurable type. She is very languid and very shadowy and she speaks softly out of nowhere and you can’t lay a finger on her because in the first place you don’t want to and in the second place she is reading The Waste Land or Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or studying Provençal. She adores music and when the New York Philharmonic is playing Hindemith she can tell you which one of the six bass viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. I hear Toscanini can also. That makes two of them. And lastly there is the gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete with pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler. ~ Raymond Chandler,

1376:It is the very impersonal quality of urban life, which is lived among strangers, that accounts for intensified religious feeling. For in the village of old, religion was a natural extension of the daily traditions and routine of life among the extended family; but migrations to the city brought Muslims into the anonymity of slum existence, and to keep the family together and the young from drifting into crime, religion has had to be reinvented in starker, more ideological form. In this way states weaken, or at least have to yield somewhat, to new and sometimes extreme kinds of nationalism and religiosity advanced by urbanization. Thus, new communities take hold that transcend traditional geography, even as they make for spatial patterns of their own. Great changes in history often happen obscurely.10 A Eurasia and North Africa of vast, urban concentrations, overlapping missile ranges, and sensational global media will be one of constantly enraged crowds, fed by rumors and half-truths transported at the speed of light by satellite channels across the rimlands and heartland expanse, from one Third World city to another. Conversely, the crowd, empowered by social media like Twitter and Facebook, will also be fed by the very truth that autocratic rulers have denied it. The crowd will be key in a new era where the relief map will be darkened by densely packed megacities—the crowd being a large group of people who abandon their individuality in favor of an intoxicating collective symbol. Elias Canetti, the Bulgarian-born Spanish Jew and Nobel laureate in literature, became so transfixed and terrified at the mob violence over inflation that seized Frankfurt and Vienna between the two world wars that he devoted much of his life to studying the human herd in all its manifestations. The signal insight of his book Crowds and Power, published in 1960, was that we all yearn to be inside some sort of crowd, for in a crowd—or a mob, for that matter—there is shelter from danger and, by inference, from loneliness. Nationalism, extremism, the yearning for democracy are all the products of crowd formations and thus manifestations of seeking to escape from loneliness. It is loneliness, alleviated by Twitter and Facebook, that ultimately leads to the breakdown of traditional authority and the erection of new kinds. ~ Robert D Kaplan,

1377:Matins Gray earth, gray mist, gray sky: Through vapors hurrying by, Larger than wont, on high Floats the horned, yellow moon. Chill airs are faintly stirred, And far away is heard, Of some fresh-awakened bird, The querulous, shrill tune. The dark mist hides the face Of the dim land: no trace Of rock or river's place In the thick air is drawn; But dripping grass smells sweet, And rustling branches meet, And sounding water greet The slow, sure, sacred dawn. Past is the long black night, With its keen lightnings white, Thunder and floods: new light The glimmering low east streaks. The dense clouds part: between Their jagged rents are seen Pale reaches blue and green, As the mirk curtain breaks. Above the shadowy world, Still more and more unfurled, The gathered mists upcurled Like phantoms melt and pass. In clear-obscure revealed, Brown wood, gray stream, dark field: Fresh, healthy odors yield Wet furrows, flowers, and grass. The sudden, splendid gleam Of one thin, golden beam Shoots from the feathered rim 127 Of yon hill crowned with woods. Down its embowered side, As living waters slide, So the great morning tide Follows in sunny floods. From bush and hedge and tree Joy, unrestrained and free, Breaks forth in melody, Twitter and chirp and song: Alive the festal air With gauze-winged creatures fair, That flicker everywhere, Dart, poise, and flash along. The shining mists are gone, Slight films of gold swift-blown Before the strong, bright sun Or the deep-colored sky: A world of life and glow Sparkles and basks below, Where the soft meads a-row, Hoary with dew-fall, lie. Does not the morn break thus, Swift, bright, victorious, With new skies cleared for us, Over the soul storm-tost? Her night was long and deep, Strange visions vexed her sleep, Strange sorrows bade her weep: Her faith in dawn was lost. No halt, no rest for her, The immortal wanderer From sphere to higher sphere, Toward the pure source of day. The new light shames her fears, Her faithlessness, her tears, As the new sun appears To light her godlike way. 128 ~ Emma Lazarus,

1378:At some point, sisters began to talk about how unseen they have felt. How the media has focused on men, but it has been them - the sisters - who were there. They were there, in overwhelming numbers, just as they were during the civil rights movement. Women - all women, trans women - are roughly 80% of the people who were staring down the terror of Ferguson, saying “we are the caretakers of this community”. Is it women who are out there, often with their children, calling for an end to police violence, saying “we have a right to raise our children without fear”. But it is not women’s courage that is showcased in the media. One sister says “when the police move in we do not run, we stay. And for this, we deserve recognition”. Their words will live with us, will live in us, as Ferguson begins to unfold and as the national attention begins to really focus on what Alicia, Opal and I have started. The first time there’s coverage of Black Lives Matter in a way that is positive is on the Melissa Harris-Perry show. She does not invite us - it isn’t intentional, I’m certain of that. And about a year later she does, but in this early moment, and despite the overwhelming knowledge of the people on the ground who are talking about what Alicia, Opal and I have done, and despite of it being part of the historical record, that it is always women who do the work even as men get the praise. It takes a long time for us to occur to most reporters and the mainstream. Living in patriarchy means that the default inclination is to center men and their voices, not women and their work. The fact seems ever more exacerbated in our day and age, when presence on twitter, when the number of followers one has, can supplant the everyday and heralded work of those who, by virtue of that work, may not have time to tweet constantly or sharpen and hone their personal brand so that it is an easily sellable commodity. Like the women who organized, strategized, marched, cooked, typed up and did the work to ensure the civil rights movement; women whose names go unspoken, unknown, so too that this dynamic unfolds as the nation began to realize that we were a movement. Opal, Alicia and I never wanted or needed to be the center of anything. We were purposeful about decentralizing our role in the work, but neither did we want, nor deserved, to be erased. ~ Patrisse Khan Cullors,

1379:The Swallow THE gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding; and beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May. The welcome guest of settled Spring, The Swallow too is come at last; Just at sun-set, when thrushes sing, I saw her dash with rapid wing, And hail'd her as she pass'd. Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch Low twittering underneath the thatch At the gray dawn of day. As fables tell, an Indian Sage, The Hindostani woods among, Could in his desert hermitage, As if 'twere mark'd in written page, Translate the wild bird's song. I wish I did his power possess, That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, What our vain systems only guess, And know from what wide wilderness You came across the sea. I would a little while restrain Your rapid wing, that I might hear Whether on clouds that bring the rain, You sail'd above the western main, The wind your charioteer. In Afric, does the sultry gale Thro' spicy bower, and palmy grove, Bear the repeated Cuckoo's tale ? Dwells there a time, the wandering Rail Or the itinerant Dove ? Were you in Asia ? O relate, If there your fabled sister's woes 196 She seem'd in sorrow to narrate; Or sings she but to celebrate Her nuptials with the rose ? I would enquire how journeying long, The vast and pathless ocean o'er, You ply again those pinions strong, And come to build anew among The scenes you left before; But if, as colder breezes blow, Prophetic of the waning year, You hide, tho' none know when or how, In the cliff's excavated brow, And linger torpid here; Thus lost to life, what favouring dream Bids you to happier hours awake; And tells, that dancing in the beam, The light gnat hovers o'er the stream, The May-fly on the lake ? Or if, by instinct taught to know Approaching dearth of insect food; To isles and willowy aits you go, And crouding on the pliant bough, Sink in the dimpling flood: How learn ye, while the cold waves boom Your deep and ouzy couch above, The time when flowers of promise bloom, And call you from your transient tomb, To light, and life, and love ? Alas ! how little can be known, Her sacred veil where Nature draws; Let baffled Science humbly own, Her mysteries understood alone, By Him who gives her laws. ~ Charlotte Smith,

1380:Matthew 25:14-30 (English Standard Version) Page Options Share on facebook Share on twitter Share on email << < = = > >> Show resources Add parallel Matthew 25:14-30 English Standard Version (ESV) The Parable of the Talents 14 “For it will be like a man going on a journey, who called his servants[a] and entrusted to them his property. 15 To one he gave five talents,[b] to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away. 16 He who had received the five talents went at once and traded with them, and he made five talents more. 17 So also he who had the two talents made two talents more. 18 But he who had received the one talent went and dug in the ground and hid his master's money. 19 Now after a long time the master of those servants came and settled accounts with them. 20 And he who had received the five talents came forward, bringing five talents more, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me five talents; here I have made five talents more.’ 21 His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant.[c] You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.’ 22 And he also who had the two talents came forward, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me two talents; here I have made two talents more.’ 23 His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.’ 24 He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you scattered no seed, 25 so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.’ 26 But his master answered him, ‘You wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I scattered no seed? 27 Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. 28 So take the talent from him and give it to him who has the ten talents. 29 For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. 30 And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’ Footnotes: Matthew 25:14 Greek bondservants; also verse 19 Matthew 25:15 A talent was a monetary unit worth about twenty years' wages for a laborer Matthew 25:21 Greek bondservant; also verses 23, 26, 30 ~ Anonymous,

1381:1. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,     Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;   Conspiring with him how to load and bless     With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;   To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,     And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells     With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,   And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,      For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 2. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,    Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep    Steady thy laden head across a brook;    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 3. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn    Among the river sallows, borne aloft      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. Form: ababcdecdde 'This poem seems to have been just composed when Keats wrote to Reynolds from Winchester his letter, dated, 22nd of September 1819. Keats says, "How beautiful the season is now. How fine the air -- a temperate sharpness about it. Really, without joking, chaste weather -- Dian skies. I never liked stubble-fields so much as now -- aye, better than chilly green of the Spring. Somehow, a stubble plain looks warm, in the same way that some pictures look warm. This struck me so much in my Sunday's walk that I composed upon it." ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. (stanza 3): The term "Hedge-crickets" for "grasshoppers" in line 9 resumes very happily the whole sentiment of Keats's competition sonnet [Sonnet XV.] "On the Grasshopper and Cricket." by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Ode To Autumn ,

1382:her room now?” They were led down the hall by Beth. Before she turned away she took a last drag on her smoke and said, “However this comes out, there is no way my baby would have had anything to do with something like this, drawing of this asshole or not. No way. Do you hear me? Both of you?” “Loud and clear,” said Decker. But he thought if Debbie were involved she had already paid the ultimate price anyway. The state couldn’t exactly kill her again. Beth casually flicked the cigarette down the hall, where it sparked and then died out on the faded runner. Then she walked off. They opened the door and went into Debbie’s room. Decker stood in the middle of the tiny space and looked around. Lancaster said, “We’ll have the tech guys go through her online stuff. Photos on her phone, her laptop over there, the cloud, whatever. Instagram. Twitter. Facebook. Tumblr. Wherever else the kids do their electronic preening. Keeps changing. But our guys will know where to look.” Decker didn’t answer her. He just kept looking around, taking the room in, fitting things in little niches in his memory and then pulling them back out if something didn’t seem right as weighed against something else. “I just see a typical teenage girl’s room. But what do you see?” asked Lancaster finally. He didn’t look at her but said, “Same things you’re seeing. Give me a minute.” Decker walked around the small space, looked under piles of papers, in the young woman’s closet, knelt down to see under her bed, scrutinized the wall art that hung everywhere, including a whole section of People magazine covers. She also had chalkboard squares affixed to one wall. On them was a musical score and short snatches of poetry and personal messages to herself: Deb, Wake up each day with something to prove. “Pretty busy room,” noted Lancaster, who had perched on the edge of the girl’s desk. “We’ll have forensics come and bag it all.” She looked at Decker, obviously waiting for him to react to this, but instead he walked out of the room. “Decker!” “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder. She watched him go and then muttered, “Of all the partners I could have had, I got Rain Man, only giant size.” She pulled a stick of gum out of her bag, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. Over the next several minutes she strolled the room and then came to the mirror on the back of the closet door. She appraised her appearance and ended it with the resigned sigh of a person who knows their best days physically are well in the past. She automatically reached for her smokes but then decided against it. Debbie’s room could be part of a criminal investigation. Her ash and smoke could only taint that investigation. ~ David Baldacci,

1383:You will encounter resentful, sneering non-readers who will look at you from their beery, leery eyes, as they might some form of sub-hominid anomaly, bookimus maximus. You will encounter redditters, youtubers, blogspotters, wordpressers, twitterers, and facebookers with wired-open eyes who will shout at from you from their crazy hectoring mouths about the liberal poison of literature. You will encounter the gamers with their twitching fingers who will look upon you as a character to lock crosshairs on and blow to smithereens. You will encounter the stoners and pill-poppers who will ignore you, and ask you if you have read Jack Keroauc’s On the Road, and if you haven’t, will lecture you for two hours on that novel and refuse to acknowledge any other books written by anyone ever. You will encounter the provincial retirees, who have spent a year reading War & Peace, who strike the attitude that completing that novel is a greater achievement than the thousands of books you have read, even though they lost themselves constantly throughout the book and hated the whole experience. You will encounter the self-obsessed students whose radical interpretations of Agnes Grey and The Idiot are the most important utterance anyone anywhere has ever made with their mouths, while ignoring the thousands of novels you have read. You will encounter the parents and siblings who take every literary reference you make back to the several books they enjoyed reading as a child, and then redirect the conversation to what TV shows they have been watching. You will encounter the teachers and lecturers, for whom any text not on their syllabus is a waste of time, and look upon you as a wayward student in need of their salvation. You will encounter the travellers and backpackers who will take pity on you for wasting your life, then tell you about the Paulo Coelho they read while hostelling across Europe en route to their spiritual pilgrimage to New Delhi. You will encounter the hard-working moaners who will tell you they are too busy working for a living to sit and read all day, and when they come home from a hard day’s toil, they don’t want to sit and read pretentious rubbish. You will encounter the voracious readers who loathe competition, and who will challenge you to a literary duel, rather than engage you in friendly conversation about your latest reading. You will encounter the slack intellectuals who will immediately ask you if you have read Finnegans Wake, and when you say you have, will ask if you if you understood every line, and when you say of course not, will make some point that generally alludes to you being a halfwit. Fuck those fuckers. ~ M J Nicholls,

1384:The Straw Parlor Way up at the top of a big stack of straw Was the cunningest parlor that ever you saw! And there could you lie when aweary of play And gossip or laze in the coziest way; No matter how careworn or sorry one's mood No worldly distraction presumed to intrude. As a refuge from onerous mundane ado I think I approve of straw parlors, don't you? A swallow with jewels aflame on her breast On that straw parlor's ceiling had builded her nest; And she flew in and out all the happy day long, And twittered the soothingest lullaby song. Now some might suppose that that beautiful bird Performed for her babies the music they heard; I reckon she twittered her répertoire through For the folk in the little straw parlor, don't you? And down from a rafter a spider had hung Some swings upon which he incessantly swung. He cut up such didoes--such antics he played Way up in the air, and was never afraid! He never made use of his horrid old sting, But was just upon earth for the fun of the thing! I deeply regret to observe that so few Of these good-natured insects are met with, don't you? And, down in the strawstack, a wee little mite Of a cricket went chirping by day and by night; And further down, still, a cunning blue mouse In a snug little nook of that strawstack kept house! When the cricket went "chirp," Miss Mousie would squeak "Come in," and a blush would enkindle her cheek! She thought--silly girl! 't was a beau come to woo, But I guess it was only the cricket, don't you? So the cricket, the mouse, and the motherly bird Made as soothingsome music as ever you heard And, meanwhile, that spider by means of his swings 370 Achieved most astounding gyrations and things! No wonder the little folk liked what they saw And loved what they heard in that parlor of straw! With the mercury up to 102 In the shade, I opine they just sizzled, don't you? But once there invaded that Eden of straw The evilest Feline that ever you saw! She pounced on that cricket with rare promptitude And she tucked him away where he'd do the most good; And then, reaching down to the nethermost house, She deftly expiscated little Miss Mouse! And, as for the Swallow, she shrieked and withdrew-I rather admire her discretion, don't you? Now listen: That evening a cyclone obtained, And the mortgage was all on that farm that remained! Barn, strawstack and spider--they all blew away, And nobody knows where they're at to this day! And, as for the little straw parlor, I fear It was wafted clean off this sublunary sphere! I really incline to a hearty "boo-hoo" When I think of this tragical ending, don't you? ~ Eugene Field,

1385:One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin. As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled. These are the tales those merry guests Told to each other, well or ill; Like summer birds that lift their crests Above the borders of their nests And twitter, and again are still. These are the tales, or new or old, In idle moments idly told; Flowers of the field with petals thin, Lilies that neither toil nor spin, And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse Hung in the parlor of the inn Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. Uprose the sun; and every guest, Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed For journeying home and city-ward; The old stage-coach was at the door, With horses harnessed,long before The sunshine reached the withered sward Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar Murmured: "Farewell forevermore. Where are they now? What lands and skies Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? What hope deludes, what promise cheers, What pleasant voices fill their ears? Two are beyond the salt sea waves, And three already in their graves. Perchance the living still may look Into the pages of this book, And see the days of long ago Floating and fleeting to and fro, As in the well-remembered brook They saw the inverted landscape gleam, And their own faces like a dream Look up upon them from below. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

1386:One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin.” “As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled. These are the tales those merry guests Told to each other, well or ill; Like summer birds that lift their crests Above the borders of their nests And twitter, and again are still. These are the tales, or new or old, In idle moments idly told; Flowers of the field with petals thin, Lilies that neither toil nor spin, And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse Hung in the parlor of the inn Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. Uprose the sun; and every guest, Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed For journeying home and city-ward; The old stage-coach was at the door, With horses harnessed, long before The sunshine reached the withered sward Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar Murmured: "Farewell forevermore. Where are they now? What lands and skies Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? What hope deludes, what promise cheers, What pleasant voices fill their ears? Two are beyond the salt sea waves, And three already in their graves. Perchance the living still may look Into the pages of this book, And see the days of long ago Floating and fleeting to and fro, As in the well-remembered brook They saw the inverted landscape gleam, And their own faces like a dream Look up upon them from below. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

1387:The Winged Mariners Through the wild night, the silence and the dark, Through league on league of the uncharted sky, Lonelier than dove of fable from its ark, The fieldfares fly. Mate with his tiny mate, and younglings frail, That only knew the crevice of their tree Until, in faith stupendous, they set sail Across the sea. The black North Sea, that takes such savage toll Of ships and men - and yet could not appal These little mariners, who seek their goal Beyond it all. Turning those soft, indomitable breasts To meet the unchained Titans of the deep Calm, as if cradled in Norwegian nests, Their course they keep. No more than thistledown or flake of snow To those great gods at play, they win the game; Never sped archer's arrow from his bow With surer aim. Still tossed and scattered, their unwinking eyes Point to that pole unseen where wanderings cease; Still on they press, and warble to the skies With hearts at peace. Scenting the English morning in the air, Through the salt night, ere any morning wakes The perfumed fields, the dun woods, sere and bare, The brambly brakes The well-loved orchard, with its hawthorn hedge, Where luscious berries, red and brown, are found The misty miles of water-mead and sedge Where gnats abound. 277 . But what is this, 'twixt sea and surf-bound shore? What form stands there, amid the shadows gray, With flaming blade that smites them as they soar, And bars their way? Hushed are the twittering throats; each silken head Turns to the voiceless siren - turns and stares By some strange lure of mystery and dread Caught unawares. It draws them on, as the magnetic sun Draws vagrant meteors to its burning breast. The day is near, the harbour all but won That English nest. But here they meet inexorable Fate; Here lies a dreadful reef of fire and glass; Here stands a glittering sentry at the gate They cannot pass. Confused, dismayed, they flutter in the gale, Those little pinions that have lost their track; The gallant hearts that sped them reel and fail Like ships aback. Sucked in a magic current, like a leaf Torn from autumnal tree, they drift abroad, But ever nearer to the siren reef, The ruthless sword. On, on, transfixed and swooning, without check, To the lee shore of that bedazzling wall, Until they strike, and break in utter wreck, And founder all. Brave little wings, that sailed the storm so well, Trimmed to the set of every wayward blast! Brave little hearts, that never storm could quell, Beaten at last! 278 The great sea swallows them, and they are gone, For ever gone, like bubbles of the foam; And the bright star that lured them, shining on, Still points to Home. ~ Ada Cambridge,

1388:Bullets As bullets come to us they're thin, They're angular, or smooth and fat, Some spiral are, and gimlet in, And some are sharp, and others flat. The slim one pink you clean and neat, The flat ones bat a solid blow Much as a camel throws his feet, And leave you beastly incomplete. If lucky you don't know it through. The flitting bullets flow and flock; They twitter as they pass; They're picking at the solid rock, They're rooting in the grass. A tiny ballet swiftly throws Its gossamer of rust, Brown fairies on their little toes A-dancing in the dust. You cower down when first they come With snaky whispers at your ear; And when like swarming bees they hum You know the tinkling chill of fear. A whining thing will pluck your heel, A whirring insect sting your shin; You shrink to half your size, and feel The ripples o'er your body seal'Tis terror walking in your skin! The bullets pelt like winter hail, The whistle and they sigh, They shrill like cordage in a gale, Like mewing kittens cry; They hiss and spit, they purring come; Or, silent all a span, They rap, as on a slackened drum, The dab that kills a man. Rage takes you next. All hot your face 36 The bitter void, and curses leap From pincered teeth. The wide, still space Whence all these leaden devil's sweep Is Tophet. Fiends by day and night Are groping for your heart to sate In blood their diabolic spite. You shoot in idiot delight, Each winging slug a hymn of hate. The futile bullets scratch and go, They chortle and the coo. I laugh my scorn, for now I know The thing they cannot do. They flit like midges in the sun, But howso thick they be What matter, since there is not one That God has marked for me! An Eastern old philosophy Come home at length and passion stillsThe thing will be that is to be, And all must come as Heaven wills. Where in the swelter and the flame The new, hot, shining bullets drip; One in the many has an aim, Inwove a visage and a nameNo man may give his fate the slip! The bullets thrill along the breeze, They drum upon the bags, They tweak your ear, your hair they tease, And peck your sleeve to rags. Their voices may no more annoyI chortle at the call: The bullet that is mine, my boy, I shall not hear at all! The war's a flutter very like The tickets that we took from Tatt. Quite possibly I'll make a strike; The odds are all opposed to that. Behind the dawn the Furies sway 37 The mighty globe from which to get Those bullets which throughout the day Will winners be to break or slay. I have not struck a starter yet The busy bullets rise and flock; They whistle as they pass; They're chipping at the solid rock, They're skipping in the grass. Out there the tiny dancers throw Their sober skirts of rust, Brown flitting figures tipping toe Along the golden dust. ~ Edward George Dyson,

1389:As observers of totalitarianism such as Victor Klemperer noticed, truth dies in four modes, all of which we have just witnessed. The first mode is the open hostility to verifiable reality, which takes the form of presenting inventions and lies as if they were facts. The president does this at a high rate and at a fast pace. One attempt during the 2016 campaign to track his utterances found that 78 percent of his factual claims were false. This proportion is so high that it makes the correct assertions seem like unintended oversights on the path toward total fiction. Demeaning the world as it is begins the creation of a fictional counterworld. The second mode is shamanistic incantation. As Klemperer noted, the fascist style depends upon “endless repetition,” designed to make the fictional plausible and the criminal desirable. The systematic use of nicknames such as “Lyin’ Ted” and “Crooked Hillary” displaced certain character traits that might more appropriately have been affixed to the president himself. Yet through blunt repetition over Twitter, our president managed the transformation of individuals into stereotypes that people then spoke aloud. At rallies, the repeated chants of “Build that wall” and “Lock her up” did not describe anything that the president had specific plans to do, but their very grandiosity established a connection between him and his audience. The next mode is magical thinking, or the open embrace of contradiction. The president’s campaign involved the promises of cutting taxes for everyone, eliminating the national debt, and increasing spending on both social policy and national defense. These promises mutually contradict. It is as if a farmer said he were taking an egg from the henhouse, boiling it whole and serving it to his wife, and also poaching it and serving it to his children, and then returning it to the hen unbroken, and then watching as the chick hatches. Accepting untruth of this radical kind requires a blatant abandonment of reason. Klemperer’s descriptions of losing friends in Germany in 1933 over the issue of magical thinking ring eerily true today. One of his former students implored him to “abandon yourself to your feelings, and you must always focus on the Führer’s greatness, rather than on the discomfort you are feeling at present.” Twelve years later, after all the atrocities, and at the end of a war that Germany had clearly lost, an amputated soldier told Klemperer that Hitler “has never lied yet. I believe in Hitler.” The final mode is misplaced faith. It involves the sort of self-deifying claims the president made when he said that “I alone can solve it” or “I am your voice.” When faith descends from heaven to earth in this way, no room remains for the small truths of our individual discernment and experience. What terrified Klemperer was the way that this transition seemed permanent. Once truth had become oracular rather than factual, evidence was irrelevant. At the end of the war a worker told Klemperer that “understanding is useless, you have to have faith. I believe in the Führer. ~ Timothy Snyder,

1390:To begin with, we have to be more clear about what we mean by patriotic feelings. For a time when I was in high school, I cheered for the school athletic teams. That's a form of patriotism — group loyalty. It can take pernicious forms, but in itself it can be quite harmless, maybe even positive. At the national level, what "patriotism" means depends on how we view the society. Those with deep totalitarian commitments identify the state with the society, its people, and its culture. Therefore those who criticized the policies of the Kremlin under Stalin were condemned as "anti-Soviet" or "hating Russia". For their counterparts in the West, those who criticize the policies of the US government are "anti-American" and "hate America"; those are the standard terms used by intellectual opinion, including left-liberal segments, so deeply committed to their totalitarian instincts that they cannot even recognize them, let alone understand their disgraceful history, tracing to the origins of recorded history in interesting ways. For the totalitarian, "patriotism" means support for the state and its policies, perhaps with twitters of protest on grounds that they might fail or cost us too much. For those whose instincts are democratic rather than totalitarian, "patriotism" means commitment to the welfare and improvement of the society, its people, its culture. That's a natural sentiment and one that can be quite positive. It's one all serious activists share, I presume; otherwise why take the trouble to do what we do? But the kind of "patriotism" fostered by totalitarian societies and military dictatorships, and internalized as second nature by much of intellectual opinion in more free societies, is one of the worst maladies of human history, and will probably do us all in before too long. With regard to the US, I think we find a mix. Every effort is made by power and doctrinal systems to stir up the more dangerous and destructive forms of "patriotism"; every effort is made by people committed to peace and justice to organize and encourage the beneficial kinds. It's a constant struggle. When people are frightened, the more dangerous kinds tend to emerge, and people huddle under the wings of power. Whatever the reasons may be, by comparative standards the US has been a very frightened country for a long time, on many dimensions. Quite commonly in history, such fears have been fanned by unscrupulous leaders, seeking to implement their own agendas. These are commonly harmful to the general population, which has to be disciplined in some manner: the classic device is to stimulate fear of awesome enemies concocted for the purpose, usually with some shreds of realism, required even for the most vulgar forms of propaganda. Germany was the pride of Western civilization 70 years ago, but most Germans were whipped to presumably genuine fear of the Czech dagger pointed at the heart of Germany (is that crazier than the Nicaraguan or Grenadan dagger pointed at the heart of the US, conjured up by the people now playing the same game today?), the Jewish-Bolshevik conspiracy aimed at destroying the Aryan race and the civilization that Germany had inherited from Greece, etc. That's only the beginning. A lot is at stake. ~ Noam Chomsky,

1391:New Rule: Democrats must get in touch with their inner asshole. I refer to the case of Van Jones, the man the Obama administration hired to find jobs for Americans in the new green industries. Seems like a smart thing to do in a recession, but Van Jones got fired because he got caught on tape saying Republicans are assholes. And they call it news! Now, I know I'm supposed to be all reinjected with yes-we-can-fever after the big health-care speech, and it was a great speech--when Black Elvis gets jiggy with his teleprompter, there is none better. But here's the thing: Muhammad Ali also had a way with words, but it helped enormously that he could also punch guys in the face. It bothers me that Obama didn't say a word in defense of Jones and basically fired him when Glenn Beck told him to. Just like dropped "end-of-life counseling" from health-care reform because Sarah Palin said it meant "death panels" on her Facebook page. Crazy morons make up things for Obama to do, and he does it. Same thing with the speech to schools this week, where the president attempted merely to tell children to work hard and wash their hands, and Cracker Nation reacted as if he was trying to hire the Black Panthers to hand out grenades in homeroom. Of course, the White House immediately capitulated. "No students will be forced to view the speech" a White House spokesperson assured a panicked nation. Isn't that like admitting that the president might be doing something unseemly? What a bunch of cowards. If the White House had any balls, they'd say, "He's giving a speech on the importance of staying in school, and if you jackasses don't show it to every damn kid, we're cutting off your federal education funding tomorrow." The Democrats just never learn: Americans don't really care which side of an issue you're on as long as you don't act like pussies When Van Jones called the Republicans assholes, he was paying them a compliment. He was talking about how they can get things done even when they're in the minority, as opposed to the Democrats , who can't seem to get anything done even when they control both houses of Congress, the presidency, and Bruce Springsteen. I love Obama's civility, his desire to work with his enemies; it's positively Christlike. In college, he was probably the guy at the dorm parties who made sure the stoners shared their pot with the jocks. But we don't need that guy now. We need an asshole. Mr. President, there are some people who are never going to like you. That's why they voted for the old guy and Carrie's mom. You're not going to win them over. Stand up for the seventy percent of Americans who aren't crazy. And speaking of that seventy percent, when are we going to actually show up in all this? Tomorrow Glenn Beck's army of zombie retirees descending on Washington. It's the Million Moron March, although they won't get a million, of course, because many will be confused and drive to Washington state--but they will make news. Because people who take to the streets always do. They're at the town hall screaming at the congressman; we're on the couch screaming at the TV. Especially in this age of Twitters and blogs and Snuggies, it's a statement to just leave the house. But leave the house we must, because this is our last best shot for a long time to get the sort of serious health-care reform that would make the United States the envy of several African nations. ~ Bill Maher,

1392:Twitter'ın Kurucusuyla Fırsat Yaratmak Üzerine By Biz Stone • hbrturkiye.com Oldukça zengin bir şehirde büyüdüm ancak annemle babam ben daha küçükken ayrılmıştı. Babamın hayatımda çok fazla bir yeri olmadı ve biz fakirdik. Tanıdığım birçok çocuk beyzbol ve futbol oynarken ben sekiz yaşımda, para kazanmak için çimleri biçmekle meşguldüm.... Fikir : Stone ve iş ortağı, başarısız giden bir podcast şirketinde çalışırken 140 karakterlik durum güncellemelerini kullanmanın bir yolunu buldu ve bu fikir onları bir sosyal medya devi haline getirdi. Oldukça zengin bir şehirde büyüdüm ancak annemle babam ben daha küçükken ayrılmıştı. Babamın hayatımda çok fazla bir yeri olmadı ve biz fakirdik. Tanıdığım birçok çocuk beyzbol ve futbol oynarken ben sekiz yaşımda, para kazanmak için çimleri biçmekle meşguldüm. Liseye başladığımda, bir spor dalıyla uğraştığınızda doğal olarak iyi bir sosyal çevreye sahip olabileceğinizin farkına varmıştım. Aslında doğal olarak atletik bir yapıya sahip olmama karşın hiçbir zaman organize sporları yapmamıştım. Basketbolu, beyzbolu, futbolu denemiştim ancak hiçbirinde iyi değildim. Okulumuzun erkek lakros takımı yoktu ve ben lakros oynayan hiç kimse olmadığından dolayı herkesin bu konuda en az benim kadar bilgisiz olacağını fark ettim. Eğer bir koç ve yeterince öğrenci bulabilirsem, lakros takımı kurulması konusunda okul yönetimini ikna etmeyi başaracaktım ve onları buldum. Sonrasında lakrosta çok iyi bir noktaya geldim ve takımın kaptanı oldum. Bu deneyimde benim için önemli bir ders vardı ve bu ders iş hayatında da geçerli. Bazı kişiler fırsatların sözlükte tanımlandığı gibi olduğunu düşünür: Bir şeyi mümkün kılan olasılıklar kümesi… Ve fırsatların doğal olarak kendilerine geleceğine inanırlar. Ya “fırsatı belirlersiniz” ya da oturup fırsatın “ayağınıza gelmesini” beklersiniz. Ben bu konuda farklı düşünüyorum. Sonuçların mimarı olmalıyız, fırsat sizin yarattığınız bir şeydir gelmesini beklediğiniz bir şey değildir. Hayatımın 40 yılına baktığımda oturup beklemek yerine fırsatları sürekli kendimin oluşturduğunu görüyorum. Bu kariyerimin ilk zamanları için de, bazı arkadaşlarımla Twitter’ı kurarken de ve son girişimlerimde de geçerli. Gerçekten de girişimcilik kendi fırsatlarınızı yaratmaktan ibarettir. Bu, start-up’lar için çok daha geçerli bir kuraldır. Kendinizi CEO olarak ilan eder ve planın içini doldurursunuz. Fırsat yaratmaya yönelik uç bir örnek, ilk tam zamanlı işimi alışımdır. University of Massachusetts Boston’da burslu okuyordum ve okulumdan memnun değildim. Little, Brown adlı bir yayıncılık şirketinde yarı zamanlı çalışıyordum ve ofisteki kolilerin düzenlenmesinden sorumluydum. Kitapların dış kaplarını tasarlayan kişilerle tanışmıştım. O dönemde tasarımcılar, X-ACTO tipi bıçaklar ve kâğıttan Mac bilgisayarlara daha yeni geçiş yapıyordu. Birlikte büyüdüğüm bir arkadaşımın Mac’i vardı ve ben Photoshop ve Quark kullanmaya alışkındım. Bir gün ofiste tek başımayken bir görev dokümanı, yani belirli bir kitap için dış kılıf tasarlama görevi buldum ve hemen hızlıca bilgisayarda bir tasarım yaptım. Tasarımımı tekliflerin arasına koydum ve kimseye söylemedim. Birkaç gün sonra art direktörümüz editörlerin ve pazarlamacıların en iyi alternatif olarak seçtiği tasarımımı kimin yaptığını bulmaya çalışıyordu. Tasarımı, kolici çocuğun yapmış olmasına şaşırmıştı. Benim tasarım yazılımlarını kullanabildiğimi öğrendiğinde bana tam zamanlı bir iş önerdi. Ben de insanlar okuldan mezun olunca zaten bu tür işlere giriyorlar diye düşündüm, okulu bıraktım ve bu işi bir staj olarak gördüm. Art direktör daha sonra benim için önemli bir mentor ve yakı ~ Anonymous,

1393:L'Idéal (The Ideal) Ce ne seront jamais ces beautés de vignettes, Produits avariés, nés d'un siècle vaurien, Ces pieds à brodequins, ces doigts à castagnettes, Qui sauront satisfaire un coeur comme le mien. Je laisse à Gavarni, poète des chloroses, Son troupeau gazouillant de beautés d'hôpital, Car je ne puis trouver parmi ces pâles roses Une fleur qui ressemble à mon rouge idéal. Ce qu'il faut à ce coeur profond comme un abîme, C'est vous, Lady Macbeth, âme puissante au crime, Rêve d'Eschyle éclos au climat des autans; Ou bien toi, grande Nuit, fille de Michel-Ange, Qui tors paisiblement dans une pose étrange Tes appas façonnés aux bouches des Titans! The Ideal It will never be the beauties that vignettes show, Those damaged products of a good-for-nothing age, Their feet shod with high shoes, hands holding castanets, Who can ever satisfy any heart like mine. I leave to Gavarni, poet of chlorosis, His prattling troop of consumptive beauties, For I cannot find among those pale roses A flower that is like my red ideal. The real need of my heart, profound as an abyss, Is you, Lady Macbeth, soul so potent in crime, The dream of Aeschylus, born in the land of storms; Or you, great Night, daughter of Michelangelo, Who calmly contort, reclining in a strange pose Your charms molded by the mouths of Titans! 370 — Translated by William Aggeler The Ideal It's not with smirking beauties of vignettes, The shopsoiled products of a worthless age, With buskined feet and hands for castanets — A heart like mine its longing could assuage. I leave Gavarni, poet of chloroses, His twittering flock, anaemic and unreal. I could not find among such bloodless roses, A flower to match my crimson-hued ideal. To this heart deeper than the deepest canyon, Lady Macbeth would be a fit companion, Crime-puissant dream of Aeschylus; or you, Daughter of Buonarroti, stately Night! Whose charms to suit a Titan's appetite, You twist, so strange, yet peaceful, to the view. — Translated by Roy Campbell The Ideal No beauties such as figure in vignettes, Monsters of a vain era's lame design, With feet for buskins, hands for castanets, Can ever satisfy a heart like mine. I leave to Gavarni's chlorotic Muse These sickly prattling nymphs, however real; Not one of these pale roses would I choose To match the flowers of my red ideal. What my heart, deep as an abyss, demands, Lady Macbeth, is your brave bloody hands, And, Aeschylus, your dreams of rage and fright, Or you, vast Night, daughter of Angelo's, Who peacefully twist into a strange pose Charms fashioned for a Titan's mouth to bite. 371 — Translated by Jacques LeClercq L'Idéal 'twill be no lovely girls of our vignettes — spoiled fruits our worthless epoch deems divine — slim slippered feet, hands made for castagnettes, that shall content this questing heart of mine. I leave to great Gavarni, bard of blight, his prattling beauties with their frail appeal. I cannot find among his roses white the flaming flower of my red ideal. I crave, to fill my heart's abyss of death, thy passion, fair and merciless Macbeth, whom Aeschylus might not have dreamed in boreal snows; or thine, great Night, in Bunarroti's South, tranquilly turning in a monstrous pose thy bosom fashioned by a Titan's mouth! — Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks ~ Charles Baudelaire,

1394:Such a shame that I didn’t get to say good-bye to my fellow inmates,” he said sarcastically. “Actually, Puchalski was the only guy I liked. I still can’t figure out what got into him.” As Jordan used her chopsticks to pick up a piece of hamachi, she decided it was best to get her brother off that topic as fast as possible. “Sounds like he just snapped.” “But why would he have a fork in his shoe?” Kyle mused. “That makes me think he was planning the attack, which doesn’t make sense.” Let it go, Kyle. She shrugged. “Maybe he always keeps a fork in his shoe. Who understands why any of these felon types do what they do?” “Hey. I am one of those felon types.” Grey tipped his glass of wine. “And who would’ve thought you would do what you did?” “It was Twitter,” Kyle mumbled under his breath. Maybe we should change the subject,” Jordan suggested, sensing the conversation could only spiral downward from there. “Okay. Let’s talk about you instead,” Grey said. “I never asked—how did Xander’s party go?” Now there was a potential land mine of a topic. “It went fine. Pretty much the same party as usual.” Except for a little domestic espionage. She threw Kyle a look, needing help. Change the subject. Fast. He stared back cluelessly. Why? She glared. Just do it. He made a face. All right, all right. “Speaking of wine, Jordo, how was your trip to Napa?” Great. Leave it to her genius of a brother to pick the other topic she wanted to avoid. “I visited that new winery I told you about. We should have a deal this week so that my store will be the first to carry their wine in the Chicago area.” Grey’s tone was casual. “Did you bring Tall, Dark, and Smoldering with you on the trip?” Jordan set down her chopsticks and looked over at her father. He smiled cheekily as he took a sip of his wine. “You read Scene and Heard, too?” she asked. Grey scoffed at that. “Of course not. I have people read it for me. Half the time, it’s the only way I know what’s going on with you two. And don’t avoid the question. Tell us about this new guy you’re seeing. I find it very odd that you’ve never mentioned him.” He fixed his gaze on her like the Eye of Sauron. Jordan took a deep breath, suddenly very tired of the lies and the secret-agent games. Besides, she had to face the truth at some point. “Well, Dad, I don’t know if you have to worry about Tall, Dark, and Smoldering anymore. He’s not talking to me right now.” Kyle’s face darkened. “Tall, Dark, and Smoldering sounds like a moron to me.” Grey nodded, his expression disapproving. “I agree. You can do a lot better than a moron, kiddo.” “Thanks. But it’s not that simple. His job presents some . . . challenges.” That was definitely the wrong thing to say. “Why? What kind of work does he do?” her father asked immediately. Jordan stalled. Maybe she’d overshot a little with the no more lies promise. She threw Kyle another desperate look. Do something. Again. Kyle nodded. I’m on it. He eased back in his chair and stretched out his intertwined hands, limbering up his fingers. “Who cares what this jerk does? Send me his e-mail address, Jordo—I’ll take care of it. I can wreak all sorts of havoc on Tall, Dark, and Smoldering’s life in less than two minutes.” With an evil grin, he mimed typing at a keyboard. Their father looked ready to blow a gasket. “Oh no—you do not get to make the jokes,” he told Kyle. “Jordan and I make the jokes. You’ve been out of prison for four days and I seriously hope you learned your lesson, young man . . . ~ Julie James,

1395:Isn’t this the weekend of Xander Eckhart’s party?” “Yes.” Jordan held her breath in a silent plea. Don’t ask if I’m bringing anyone. Don’t ask if I’m bringing anyone. “So are you bringing anyone?” Melinda asked. Foiled. Having realized there was a distinct possibility the subject would come up, Jordan had spent some time running through potential answers to this very question. She had decided that being casual was the best approach. “Oh, there’s this guy I met a few days ago, and I was thinking about asking him.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll just go by myself, who knows.” Melinda put down her forkful of gnocchi, zoning in on this like a heat-seeking missile to its target. “What guy you met a few days ago? And why is this the first we’re hearing of him?” “Because I just met him a few days ago.” Corinne rubbed her hands together, eager for the details. “So? Tell us. How’d you meet him?” “What does he do?” Melinda asked. “Nice, Melinda. You’re so shallow.” Corinne turned back to Jordan. “Is he hot?” Of course, Jordan had known there would be questions. The three of them had been friends since college and still saw each other regularly despite busy schedules, and this was what they did. Before Corinne had gotten married, they talked about her now-husband, Charles. The same was true of Melinda and her soon-to-be-fiancé, Pete. So Jordan knew that she, in turn, was expected to give up the goods in similar circumstances. But she also knew that she really didn’t want to lie to her friends. With that in mind, she’d come up with a backup plan in the event the conversation went this way. Having no choice, she resorted to the strategy she had used in sticky situations ever since she was five years old, when she’d set her Western Barbie’s hair on fire while trying to give her a suntan on the family-room lamp. Blame it on Kyle. I’d like to thank the Academy . . . “Sure, I’ll tell you all about this new guy. We met the other day and he’s . . . um . . .” She paused, then ran her hands through her hair and exhaled dramatically. “Sorry. Do you mind if we talk about this later? After seeing Kyle today with the bruise on his face, I feel guilty rattling on about Xander’s party. Like I’m not taking my brother’s incarceration seriously enough.” She bit her lip, feeling guilty about the lie. So sorry, girls. But this has to stay my secret for now. Her diversion worked like a charm. Perhaps one of the few benefits of having a convicted felon of a brother known as the Twitter Terrorist was that she would never lack for non sequiturs in extracting herself from unwanted conversation. Corinne reached out and squeezed her hand. “No one has stood by Kyle’s side more than you, Jordan. But we understand. We can talk about this some other time. And try not to worry—Kyle can handle himself. He’s a big boy.” “Oh, he definitely is that,” Melinda said with a gleam in her eye. Jordan smiled. “Thanks, Corinne.” She turned to Melinda, thoroughly skeeved out. “And, eww—Kyle?” Melinda shrugged matter-of-factly. “To you, he’s your brother. But to the rest of the female population, he has a certain appeal. I’ll leave it at that.” “He used to fart in our Mr. Turtle pool and call it a ‘Jacuzzi.’ How’s that for appeal?” “Ah . . . the lifestyles of the rich and famous,” Corinne said with a grin. “And on that note, my secret fantasies about Kyle Rhodes now thoroughly destroyed, I move that we put a temporary hold on any further discussions related to the less fair of the sexes,” Melinda said. “I second that,” Jordan said, and the three women clinked their glasses in agreement ~ Julie James,

1396:Light silken curtain, colorless and soft, Dreamlike before me floating! what abides Behind thy pearly veil's Opaque, mysterious woof? Where sleek red kine, and dappled, crunch day-long Thick, luscious blades and purple clover-heads, Nigh me I still can mark Cool fields of beaded grass. No more; for on the rim of the globed world I seem to stand and stare at nothingness. But songs of unseen birds And tranquil roll of waves Bring sweet assurance of continuous life Beyond this silvery cloud. Fantastic dreams, Of tissue subtler still Than the wreathed fog, arise, And cheat my brain with airy vanishings And mystic glories of the world beyond. A whole enchanted town Thy baffling folds concealAn Orient town, with slender-steepled mosques, Turret from turret springing, dome from dome, Fretted with burning stones, And trellised with red gold. Through spacious streets, where running waters flow, Sun-screened by fruit-trees and the broad-leaved palm, Past the gay-decked bazaars, Walk turbaned, dark-eyed men. Hark! you can hear the many murmuring tongues, While loud the merchants vaunt their gorgeous wares. The sultry air is spiced With fragrance of rich gums, 77 And through the lattice high in yon dead wall, See where, unveiled, an arch, young, dimpled face, Flushed like a musky peach, Peers down upon the mart! From her dark, ringleted and bird-poised head She hath cast back the milk-white silken veil: 'Midst the blank blackness there She blossoms like a rose. Beckons she not with those bright, full-orbed eyes, And open arms that like twin moonbeams gleam? Behold her smile on me With honeyed, scarlet lips! Divine Scheherazade! I am thine. I come! I come!-Hark! from some far-off mosque The shrill muezzin calls The hour of silent prayer, And from the lattice he hath scared my love. The lattice vanisheth itself-the street, The mart, the Orient town; Only through still, soft air That cry is yet prolonged. I wake to hear The distant fog-horn peal: before mine eyes Stands the white wall of mist, Blending with vaporous skies. Elusive gossamer, impervious Even to the mighty sun-god's keen red shafts! With what a jealous art Thy secret thou dost guard! Well do I know deep in thine inmost folds, Within an opal hollow, there abides The lady of the mist, The Undine of the airA slender, winged, ethereal, lily form, 78 Dove-eyed, with fair, free-floating, pearl-wreathed hair, In waving raiment swathed Of changing, irised hues. Where her feet, rosy as a shell, have grazed The freshened grass, a richer emerald glows: Into each flower-cup Her cool dews she distills. She knows the tops of jagged mountain-peaks, She knows the green soft hollows of their sides, And unafraid she floats O'er the vast-circled seas. She loves to bask within the moon's wan beams, Lying, night-long upon the moist, dark earth, And leave her seeded pearls With morning on the grass. Ah! that athwart these dim, gray outer courts Of her fantastic palace I might pass, And reach the inmost shrine Of her chaste solitude, And feel her cool and dewy fingers press My mortal-fevered brow, while in my heart She poured with tender love Her healing Lethe-balm! See! the close curtain moves, the spell dissolves! Slowly it lifts: the dazzling sunshine streams Upon a newborn world And laughing summer seas. Swift, snowy-breasted sandbirds twittering glance Through crystal air. On the horizon's marge, Like a huge purple wraith, The dusky fog retreats. ~ Emma Lazarus,

1397:The Lonely Life The morning rain, when, from her coop released, The hen, exulting, flaps her wings, when from The balcony the husbandman looks forth, And when the rising sun his trembling rays Darts through the falling drops, against my roof And windows gently beating, wakens me. I rise, and grateful, bless the flying clouds, The cheerful twitter of the early birds, The smiling fields, and the refreshing air. For I of you, unhappy city walls, Enough have seen and known; where hatred still Companion is to grief; and grieving still I live, and so shall die, and that, how soon! But here some pity Nature shows, though small, Once in this spot to me so courteous! Thou, too, O Nature, turn'st away thy gaze From misery; thou, too, thy sympathy Withholding from the suffering and the sad, Dost homage pay to royal happiness. No friend in heaven, on earth, the wretched hath, No refuge, save his trusty dagger's edge. Sometimes I sit in perfect solitude, Upon a hill, that overlooks a lake, That is encircled quite with silent trees. There, when the sun his mid-day course hath reached, His tranquil face he in a mirror sees: Nor grass nor leaf is shaken by the wind; There is no ripple on the wave, no chirp Of cricket, rustling wing of bird in bush, Nor hum of butterfly; no motion, voice, Or far or near, is either seen or heard. Its shores are locked in quiet most profound; So that myself, the world I quite forget, As motionless I sit; my limbs appear To lie dissolved, of breath and sense deprived; As if, in immemorial rest, they seemed Confounded with the silent scene around. O love, O love, long since, thou from this breast 94 Hast flown, that was so warm, so ardent, once. Misfortune in her cold and cruel grasp Has held it fast, and it to ice has turned, E'en in the flower of my youth. The time I well recall, when thou this heart didst fill; That sweet, irrevocable time it was, When this unhappy scene of life unto The ardent gaze of youth reveals itself, Expands, and wears the smile of Paradise. How throbs the heart within the boyish breast, By virgin hope and fond desire impelled! The wretched dupe for life's hard work prepares, As if it were a dance, or merry game. But when _I_ first, O love, thy presence felt, Misfortune had already crushed my life, And these poor eyes with constant tears were filled. Yet if, at times, upon the sun-lit slopes, At silent dawn, or when, in broad noonday, The roofs and hills and fields are shining bright, I of some lonely maiden meet the gaze; Or when, in silence of the summer night, My wandering steps arresting, I before The houses of the village pause, to gaze Upon the lonely scene, and hear the voice, So clear and cheerful, of the maiden, who, Her ditty chanting, in her quiet room, Her daily task protracts into the night, Ah, then this stony heart will throb once more; But soon, alas, its lethargy returns, For all things sweet are strangers to this breast! Belovèd moon, beneath whose tranquil rays The hares dance in the groves, and at the dawn The huntsman, vexed at heart, beholds the tracks Confused and intricate, that from their forms His steps mislead; hail, thou benignant Queen Of Night! How unpropitious fall thy rays, Among the cliffs and thickets, or within Deserted buildings, on the gleaming steel Of robber pale, who with attentive ear Unto the distant noise of horses and Of wheels, is listening, or the tramp of feet 95 Upon the silent road; then, suddenly, With sound of arms, and hoarse, harsh voice, and look Of death, the traveller's heart doth chill, Whom he half-dead, and naked, shortly leaves Among the rocks. How unpropitious, too, Is thy bright light along the city streets, Unto the worthless paramour, who picks His way, close to the walls, in anxious search Of friendly shade, and halts, and dreads the sight Of blazing lamps, and open balconies. To evil spirits unpropitious still, To _me_ thy face will ever seem benign, Along these heights, where nought save smiling hills, And spacious fields, thou offer'st to my view. And yet it was my wayward custom once, Though I was innocent, thy gracious ray To chide, amid the haunts of men, whene'er It would my face to them betray, and when It would their faces unto me reveal. Now will I, grateful, sing its constant praise, When I behold thee, sailing through the clouds, Or when, mild sovereign of the realms of air, Thou lookest down on this, our vale of tears. Me wilt thou oft behold, mute wanderer Among the groves, along the verdant banks, Or seated on the grass, content enough, If heart and breath are left me, for a sigh! ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

1398:A Storm In The Mountains A lonely boy, far venturing from home Out on the half-wild herd’s faint tracks I roam; Mid rock-browned mountains, which with stony frown Glare into haggard chasms deep adown; A rude and craggy world, the prospect lies Bounded in circuit by the bending skies. Now at some clear pool scooped out by the shocks Of rain-floods plunging from the upper rocks Whose liquid disc in its undimpled rest Glows like a mighty gem brooching the mountain’s breast, I drink and must, or mark the wide-spread herd, Or list the thinking of the dingle-bird; And now towards some wild-hanging shade I stray, To shun the bright oppression of the day; For round each crag, and o’er each bosky swell, The fierce refracted heat flares visible, Lambently restless, like the dazzling hem Of some else viewless veil held trembling over them. Why congregate the swallows in the air, And northward then in rapid flight repair? With sudden swelling din, remote yet harsh, Why roar the bull-frogs in the tea-tree marsh? Why cease the locusts to throng up in flight And clap their gay wings in the fervent light? Why climb they, bodingly demure, instead The tallest spear-grass to the bending head? Instinctively, along the sultry sky, I turn a listless, yet inquiring, eye; And mark that now with a slow gradual pace A solemn trance creams northward o’er its face; Yon clouds that late were labouring past the sun, Reached by its sure arrest, one after one, Come to a heavy halt; the airs that played About the rugged mountains all are laid: While drawing nearer far-off heights appear, As in a dream’s wild prospect, strangely near! Till into wood resolves their robe of blue, And the grey crags rise bluffly on the view. Such are the signs and tokens that presage 25 A summer hurricane’s forthcoming rage. At length the south sends out her cloudy heaps And up the glens at noontide dimness creeps; The birds, late warbling in the hanging green Off steep-set brakes, seek now some safer screen; The herd, in doubt, no longer wanders wide, But fast ingathering throngs yon mountain’s side, Whose echoes, surging to its tramp, might seem The muttered troubles of some Titan’s dream. Fast the dim legions of the muttering storm Throng denser, or protruding columns form; While splashing forward from their cloudy lair, Convolving flames, like scouting dragons, glare: Low thunders follow, labouring up the sky; And as fore-running blasts go blaring by, At once the forest, with a mighty stir, Bows, as in homage to the thunderer! Hark! From the dingoes blood-polluted dens In the gloom-hidden chasms of the glens, Long fitful howls wail up; and in the blast Strange hissing whispers seem to huddle past; As if the dread stir had aroused from sleep Weird spirits, cloistered in yon cavy steep (On which, in the grim past, some Cain’s offence Hath haply outraged heaven!) Who rising thence Wrapped in the boding vapours, laughed again To wanton in the wild-willed hurricane. See in the storm’s front, sailing dark and dread, A wide-winged eagle like a black flag spread! The clouds aloft flash doom! Short stops his flight! He seems to shrivel in the blasting light! The air is shattered with a crashing sound, And he falls stonelike, lifeless, to the ground. Now, like a shadow at great nature’s heart, The turmoil grows. Now wonder, with a start, Marks where right overhead the storm careers, Girt with black horrors and wide-flaming fears! Arriving thunders, mustering on his path, 26 Swell more and more the roarings of his wrath, As out in widening circles they extend, And then—at once—in utter silence end. Portentous silence! Time keeps breathing past, Yet it continues! May this marvel last? This wild weird silence in the midst of gloom So manifestly big with coming doom? Tingles the boding ear; and up the glens Instinctive dread comes howling from the wild-dogs dens. Terrific vision! Heaven’s great ceiling splits, And a vast globe of writhing fire emits, Which pouring down in one continuous stream, Spans the black concave like a burning beam, A moment;—then from end to end it shakes With a quick motion—and in thunder breaks! Peal rolled on peal! While heralding the sound, As each concussion thrills the solid ground, Fierce glares coil, snake-like, round the rocky wens Of the red hills, or hiss into the glens, Or thick through heaven like flaming falchions swarm, Cleaving the teeming cisterns of the storm, From which rain-torrents, searching every gash, Split by the blast come sheeting with a dash. On yon grey peak, from rock-encrusted roots, The mighty patriarch of the wood upshoots, In whose proud-spreading top’s imperial height, The mountain-eagle loveth most to light: Now dimly seen through the tempestuous air, His form seems harrowed by a mad despair, As with his ponderous arms uplifted high, He wrestles with the storm and threshes at the sky! A swift bolt hurtles through the lurid air, Another thundering crash! The peak is bare! Huge hurrying fragments all around are cast, The wild-winged, mad-limbed monsters of the blast. The darkness thickens! With despairing cry From shattering boughs the rain-drenched parrtos fly; Loose rocks roll rumbling from the mountains round, 27 And half the forest strews the smoking ground; To the bared crags the blasts now wilder moan, And the caves labour with a ghostlier groan. Wide raging torrents down the gorges flow Swift bearing with them to the vale below Those sylvan wrecks that littered late the path Of the loud hurricane s all-trampling wrath. The storm is past. Yet booming on afar Is heard the rattling of the thunder-car, And that low muffled moaning, as of grief, Which follows with a wood-sigh wide and brief. The clouds break up; the sun s forth-bursting rays Clothe the wet landscape with a dazzling blaze; The birds begin to sing a lively strain, And merry echoes ring it o’er again; The clustered herd is spreading out to graze, Though lessening torrents still a hundred ways Flash downward, and from many a rock ledge A mantling gush comes quick and shining o er the edge. ’Tis evening; and the torrent’s furious flow Runs gentlier now into the lake below, O’er all the freshened scene no sound is heard, Save the short twitter of some busied bird, Or a faint rustle made amongst the trees By wasting fragments of a broken breeze. Along the wild and wreck-strewed paths I wind, Watching earth’s happiness with quiet mind, And see a beauty all unmarked till now Flushing each flowery nook and sunny brow; Wished peace returning like a bird of calm, Brings to the wounded world its blessed healing balm. On nerveless, tuneless lines how sadly Ringing rhymes may wasted be, While blank verse oft is mere prose madly Striving to be poetry: While prose that’s craggy as a mountain May Apollo’s sun-robe don, Or hold the well-spring of a fountain Bright as that in Helicon. 28 ~ Charles Harpur,

1399:Towns In Colour Red Slippers Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey, windy sleet! Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red, festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and salmon into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon lights upon the tops of umbrellas. The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding, it bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric light, fluid and fluctuating, a hot rain - and freeze again to red slippers, myriadly multiplied in the mirror side of the window. They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson lacquer; they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds, flared and burnished by red rockets. Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous block of shops. They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets into the crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement. People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther down, is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few minutes and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair, lolling awkwardly in its flower chair. One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before? 424 The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are only red slippers. II Thompson's Lunch Room - Grand Central Station Study in Whites Wax-white Floor, ceiling, walls. Ivory shadows Over the pavement Polished to cream surfaces By constant sweeping. The big room is coloured like the petals Of a great magnolia, And has a patina Of flower bloom Which makes it shine dimly Under the electric lamps. Chairs are ranged in rows Like sepia seeds Waiting fulfilment. The chalk-white spot of a cook's cap Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow Through the wavering uncertainty of steam. Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections, Ice-green carboys, shifting - greener, bluer - with the jar of moving water. Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar Above the lighthouse-shaped castors Of grey pepper and grey-white salt. Grey-white placards: 'Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters': Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines. Dropping on the white counter like horn notes 425 Through a web of violins, The flat yellow lights of oranges, The cube-red splashes of apples, In high plated `epergnes'. The electric clock jerks every half-minute: 'Coming! - Past!' 'Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,' Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily. A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair. Two rice puddings and a salmon salad Are pushed over the counter; The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them. A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone, And the sound throws across the room Sharp, invisible zigzags Of silver. III An Opera House Within the gold square of the proscenium arch, A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds, Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind. Gold carving edges the balconies, Rims the boxes, Runs up and down fluted pillars. Little knife-stabs of gold Shine out whenever a box door is opened. Gold clusters Flash in soft explosions On the blue darkness, Suck back to a point, And disappear. Hoops of gold Circle necks, wrists, fingers, Pierce ears, Poise on heads And fly up above them in coloured sparkles. Gold! Gold! 426 The opera house is a treasure-box of gold. Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit: Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas; Gold - spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold Of harps. The conductor raises his baton, The brass blares out Crass, crude, Parvenu, fat, powerful, Golden. Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes. Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped, Crash. The orange curtain parts And the prima-donna steps forward. One note, A drop: transparent, iridescent, A gold bubble, It floats . . . floats . . . And bursts against the lips of a bank president In the grand tier. IV Afternoon Rain in State Street Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls, Slant lines of black rain In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings. Below, Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal, The street. And over it, umbrellas, Black polished dots Struck to white An instant, Stream in two flat lines Slipping past each other with the smoothness of oil. Like a four-sided wedge The Custom House Tower Pokes at the low, flat sky, 427 Pushing it farther and farther up, Lifting it away from the house-tops, Lifting it in one piece as though it were a sheet of tin, With the lever of its apex. The cross-hatchings of rain cut the Tower obliquely, Scratching lines of black wire across it, Mutilating its perpendicular grey surface With the sharp precision of tools. The city is rigid with straight lines and angles, A chequered table of blacks and greys. Oblong blocks of flatness Crawl by with low-geared engines, And pass to short upright squares Shrinking with distance. A steamer in the basin blows its whistle, And the sound shoots across the rain hatchings, A narrow, level bar of steel. Hard cubes of lemon Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings As the windows light up. But the lemon cubes are edged with angles Upon which they cannot impinge. Up, straight, down, straight - square. Crumpled grey-white papers Blow along the side-walks, Contorted, horrible, Without curves. A horse steps in a puddle, And white, glaring water spurts up In stiff, outflaring lines, Like the rattling stems of reeds. The city is heraldic with angles, A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable And countercoloured bends of rain Hung over a four-square civilization. When a street lamp comes out, I gaze at it for fully thirty seconds To rest my brain with the suffusing, round brilliance of its globe. 428 An Aquarium Streaks of green and yellow iridescence, Silver shiftings, Rings veering out of rings, Silver - gold Grey-green opaqueness sliding down, With sharp white bubbles Shooting and dancing, Flinging quickly outward. Nosing the bubbles, Swallowing them, Fish. Blue shadows against silver-saffron water, The light rippling over them In steel-bright tremors. Outspread translucent fins Flute, fold, and relapse; The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles In scarcely tarnished twinklings. Curving of spotted spines, Slow up-shifts, Lazy convolutions: Then a sudden swift straightening And darting below: Oblique grey shadows Athwart a pale casement. Roped and curled, Green man-eating eels Slumber in undulate rhythms, With crests laid horizontal on their backs. Barred fish, Striped fish, Uneven disks of fish, Slip, slide, whirl, turn, And never touch. Metallic blue fish, With fins wide and yellow and swaying Like Oriental fans, Hold the sun in their bellies And glow with light: Blue brilliance cut by black bars. 429 An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer, Across it, in a tangent, A smear of rose, black, silver. Short twists and upstartings, Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles: Sunshine playing between red and black flowers On a blue and gold lawn. Shadows and polished surfaces, Facets of mauve and purple, A constant modulation of values. Shaft-shaped, With green bead eyes; Thick-nosed, Heliotrope-coloured; Swift spots of chrysolite and coral; In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations. Outside, A willow-tree flickers With little white jerks, And long blue waves Rise steadily beyond the outer islands. ~ Amy Lowell,

1400:The Singing Of The Magnificat A LEGEND IN midst of wide green pasture-lands, cut through By lines of alders bordering deep-banked streams, Where bulrushes and yellow iris grew, And rest and peace, and all the flowers of dreams, The Abbey stood--so still, it seemed a part Of the marsh-country's almost pulseless heart. Where grey-green willows fringed the stream and pool, The lazy meek-faced cattle strayed to graze, Sheep in the meadows cropped the grasses cool, And silver fish shone through the watery ways, And many a load of fruit and load of corn Into the Abbey storehouses was borne. Yet though so much they had of life's good things, The monks but held them as a sacred trust, Lent from the storehouse of the King of kings Till they, His stewards, should crumble back to dust. 'Not as our own,' they said, 'but as the Lord's, All that the stream yields, or the land affords.' And all the villages and hamlets near Knew the monks' wealth, and how their wealth was spent. In tribulation, sickness, want, or fear, First to the Abbey all the peasants went, Certain to find a welcome, and to be Helped in the hour of their extremity. When plague or sickness smote the people sore, The Brothers prayed beside the dying bed, And nursed the sick back into health once more, And through the horror and the danger said: 'How good is God, Who has such love for us, 379 He lets us tend His suffering children thus!' They in their simple ways and works were glad: Yet all men must have sorrows of their own. And so a bitter grief the Brothers had, Nor mourned for others' heaviness alone. This was the secret of their sorrowing, That not a monk in all the house could sing! Was it the damp air from the lovely marsh, Or strain of scarcely intermitted prayer, That made their voices, when they sang, as harsh As any frog's that croaks in evening air-That made less music in their hymns to lie Than in the hoarsest wild-fowl's hoarsest cry? If love could sweeten voice to sing a song, Theirs had been sweetest song was ever sung: But their hearts' music reached their lips all wrong, The soul's intent foiled by the traitorous tongue That marred the chapel's peace, and seemed to scare The rapt devotion lingering in the air. The birds that in the chapel built their nests, And in the stone-work found their small lives fair, Flew thence with hurled wings and fluttering breasts When rang the bell to call the monks to prayer. 'Why will they sing,' they twittered, 'why at all? In heaven their silence must be festival!' The brothers prayed with penance and with tears That God would let them give some little part Out for the solace of their own sad ears Of all the music crowded in their heart. Their nature and the marsh-air had their way, And still they sang more vilely every day. 380 And all their prayers and fasts availing not To give them voices sweet, their souls' desire, The Abbot said, 'Gifts He did not allot God at our hands will not again require; The love He gives us He will ask again In love to Him and to our fellow-men. 'Praise Him we must, and since we cannot praise As we would choose, we praise Him as we can. In heaven we shall be taught the angels' ways Of singing--we afford to wait a span. In singing, as in toil, do ye your best; God will adjust the balance--do the rest!' But one good Brother, anxious to remove This, the reproach now laid on them so long, Rejected counsel, and for very love Besought a Brother, skilled in art of song, To come to them--his cloister far to leave-And sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve. So when each brown monk duly sought his place, By two and two, slow pacing to the choir, Shrined in his dark oak stall, the strange monk's face Shone with a light as of devotion's fire, Good, young and fair, his seemed a form wherein Pure beauty left no room at all for sin. And when the time for singing it had come, 'Magnificat,' face raised, and voice, he sang: Each in his stall the monks stood glad and dumb, As through the chancel's dusk his voice outrang, Pure, clear, and perfect--as the thrushes sing Their first impulsive welcome of the spring. At the first notes the Abbot's heart spoke low: 381 'Oh God, accept this singing, seeing we, Had we the power, would ever praise Thee so-Would ever, Lord, Thou know'st, sing thus for Thee; Thus in our hearts Thy hymns are ever sung, As he Thou blessest sings them with his tongue.' But as the voice rose higher, and more sweet, The Abbot's heart said, 'Thou hast heard us grieve, And sent an angel from beside Thy feet, To sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve; To ease our ache of soul, and let us see How we some day in heaven shall sing to Thee.' Through the cold Christmas night the hymn rang out, In perfect cadence, clear as sunlit rain-Such heavenly music that the birds without Beat their warm wings against the window pane, Scattering the frosted crystal snow outspread Upon the stone-lace and the window-lead. The white moon through the window seemed to gaze On the pure face and eyes the singer raised; The storm-wind hushed the clamour of its ways, God seemed to stoop to hear Himself thus praised, And breathless all the Brothers stood, and still Reached longing souls out to the music's thrill. Old years came back, and half-remembered hours, Dreams of delight that never was to be, Mothers' remembered kiss, the funeral flowers Laid on the grave of life's felicity; An infinite dear passion of regret Swept through their hearts, and left their eyelids wet. The birds beat ever at the window, till They broke the pane, and so could entrance win; Their slender feet clung to the window-sill, 382 And though with them the bitter air came in, The monks were glad that the birds too should hear, Since to God's creatures all, His praise is dear. The lovely music waxed and waned, and sank, And brought less conscious sadness in its train, Unrecognised despair that thinks to thank God for a joy renounced, a chosen pain-And deems that peace which is but stifled life Dulled by a too-prolonged unfruitful strife. When, service done, the Brothers gathered round To thank the singer--modest-eyed, said he: 'Not mine the grace, if grace indeed abound; God gave the power, if any power there be; If I in hymn or psalm clear voice can raise, As His the gift, so His be all the praise!' That night--the Abbot lying on his bed-A sudden flood of radiance on him fell, Poured from the crucifix above his head, And cast a stream of light across his cell-And in the fullest fervour of the light An Angel stood, glittering, and great, and white. His wings of thousand rainbow clouds seemed made, A thousand lamps of love shone in his eyes, The light of dawn upon his brows was laid, Odours of thousand flowers of Paradise Filled all the cell, and through the heart there stirred A sense of music that could not be heard. The Angel spoke--his voice was low and sweet As the sea's murmur on low-lying shore-Or whisper of the wind in ripened wheat: 'Brother,' he said, 'the God we both adore Has sent me down to ask, is all not right?-- 383 Why was Magnificat not sung to-night?' Tranced in the joy the Angel's presence brought, The Abbot answered: 'All these weary years We have sung our best--but always have we thought Our voices were unworthy heavenly ears; And so to-night we found a clearer tongue, And by it the Magnificat was sung.' The Angel answered, 'All these happy years In heaven has your Magnificat been heard; This night alone, the angels' listening ears Of all its music caught no single word. Say, who is he whose goodness is not strong Enough to bear the burden of his song?' The Abbot named his name. 'Ah, why,' he cried, 'Have angels heard not what we found so dear?' 'Only pure hearts,' the Angel's voice replied, 'Can carry human songs up to God's ear; To-night in heaven was missed the sweetest praise That ever rises from earth's mud-stained maze. 'The monk who sang Magnificat is filled With lust of praise, and with hypocrisy; He sings for earth--in heaven his notes are stilled By muffling weight of deadening vanity; His heart is chained to earth, and cannot bear His singing higher than the listening air! 'From purest hearts most perfect music springs, And while you mourned your voices were not sweet, Marred by the accident of earthly things,-In heaven, God, listening, judged your song complete. The sweetest of earth's music came from you, The music of a noble life and true!' 384 ~ Edith Nesbit,

1401:I. What's become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest or staff and scrip, Rather than pace up and down Any longer London town?   II. Who'd have guessed it from his lip Or his brow's accustomed bearing, On the night he thus took ship Or started landward?-litt le caring For us, it seems, who supped together (Friends of his too, I remember) And walked home thro' the merry weather, The snowiest in all December. I left his arm that night myself For what's-his-name' s, the new prose-poet Who wrote the book there, on the shelf- How, forsooth, was I to know it If Waring meant to glide away Like a ghost at break of day? Never looked he half so gay!   III. He was prouder than the devil: How he must have cursed our revel! Ay and many other meetings, Indoor visits, outdoor greetings, As up and down he paced this London, With no work done, but great works undone, Where scarce twenty knew his name. Why not, then, have earlier spoken, Written, bustled? Who's to blame If your silence kept unbroken? ``True, but there were sundry jottings, ``Stray-leaves, fragments, blurts and blottings, ``Certain fixst steps were achieved ``Already which''-(is that your meaning?) ``Had well borne out whoe'er believed ``In more to come!'' But who goes gleaning Hedgeside chance-glades, while full-sheaved Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweening Pride alone, puts forth such claims O'er the day's distinguished names.   IV. Meantime, how much I loved him, I find out now I've lost him. I who cared not if I moved him, Who could so carelessly accost him, Henceforth never shall get free Of his ghostly company, His eyes that just a little wink As deep I go into the merit Of this and that distinguished spirit- His cheeks' raised colour, soon to sink, As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'- ingens-horrend-o us Demoniaco-seraph ic Penman's latest piece of graphic. Nay, my very wrist grows warm With his dragging weight of arm. E'en so, swimmingly appears, Through one's after-supper musings, Some lost lady of old years With her beauteous vain endeavour And goodness unrepaid as ever; The face, accustomed to refusings, We, puppies that we were Oh never Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled Being aught like false, forsooth, to? Telling aught but honest truth to? What a sin, had we centupled Its possessor's grace and sweetness No! she heard in its completeness Truth, for truth's a weighty matter, And truth, at issue, we can't flatter! Well, 'tis done with; she's exempt From damning us thro' such a sally; And so she glides, as down a valley, Taking up with her contempt, Past our reach; and in, the flowers Shut her unregarded hours.   V. Oh, could I have him back once more, This Waring, but one half-day more! Back, with the quiet face of yore, So hungry for acknowledgment Like mine! I'd fool him to his bent. Feed, should not he, to heart's content? I'd say, ``to only have conceived, ``Planned your great works, apart from progress, ``Surpasses little works achieved!'' I'd lie so, I should be believed. I'd make such havoc of the claims Of the day's distinguished names To feast him with, as feasts an ogress Her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child! Or as one feasts a creature rarely Captured here, unreconciled To capture; and completely gives its pettish humours license, barely Requiring that it lives.   VI. Ichabod, Ichabod, The glory is departed! Travels Waring East away? Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, Reports a man upstarted Somewhere as a god, Hordes grown European-hearted , Millions of the wild made tame On a sudden at his fame? In Vishnu-land what Avatar? Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar, With the demurest of footfalls Over the Kremlin's pavement bright With serpentine and syenite, Steps, with five other Generals That simultaneously take snuff, For each to have pretext enough And kerchiefwise unfold his sash Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, And leave the grand white neck no gash? Waring in Moscow, to those rough Cold northern natures born perhaps, Like the lambwhite maiden dear From the circle of mute kings Unable to repress the tear, Each as his sceptre down he flings, To Dian's fane at Taurica, Where now a captive priestess, she alway Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry Amid their barbarous twitter! In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain That we and Waring meet again Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid Its stiff gold blazing pall From some black coffin-lid. Or, best of all, I love to think The leaving us was just a feint; Back here to London did he slink, And now works on without a wink Of sleep, and we are on the brink Of something great in fresco-pain: Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, Up and down and o'er and o'er He splashes, as none splashed before Since great Caldera Polidore. Or Music means this land of ours Some favour yet, to pity won By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,- ``Give me my so-long promised son, ``Let Waring end what I begun!'' Then down he creeps and out he steals Only when the night conceals His face; in Kent 'tis cherry-time, Or hops are picking: or at prime Of March he wanders as, too happy, Years ago when he was young, Some mild eve when woods grew sappy And the early moths had sprung To life from many a trembling sheath Woven the warm boughs beneath; While small birds said to themselves What should soon be actual song, And young gnats, by tens and twelves, Made as if they were the throng That crowd around and carry aloft The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure, Out of a myriad noises soft, Into a tone that can endure Amid the noise of a July noon When all God's creatures crave their boon, All at once and all in tune, And get it, happy as Waring then, Having first within his ken What a man might do with men: And far too glad, in the even-glow, To mix with the world he meant to take Into his hand, he told you, so- And out of it his world to make, To contract and to expand As he shut or oped his hand. Oh Waring, what's to really be? A clear stage and a crowd to see! Some Garrick, say, out shall not he The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck? Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, Some Junius-am I right?-shall tuck His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife! Some Chatterton shall have the luck Of calling Rowley into life! Some one shall somehow run a muck With this old world for want of strife Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive To rouse us, Waring! Who's alive? Our men scarce seem in earnest now. Distinguished names!-but 'tis, somehow, As if they played at being names Still more distinguished, like the games Of children. Turn our sport to earnest With a visage of the sternest! Bring the real times back, confessed Still better than our very best! II. I. ``When I last saw Waring'' (How all turned to him who spoke! You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel or sea-faring?)   II. ``We were sailing by Triest ``Where a day or two we harboured: ``A sunset was in the West, ``When, looking over the vessel's side, ``One of our company espied ``A sudden speck to larboard. ``And as a sea-duck flies and swims ``At once, so came the light craft up, ``With its sole lateen sail that trims ``And turns (the water round its rims ``Dancing, as round a sinking cup) ``And by us like a fish it curled, ``And drew itself up close beside, ``Its great sail on the instant furled, ``And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried, ``(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) `` `Buy wine of us, you English Brig? `` `Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? `` `A pilot for you to Triest? `` `Without one, look you ne'er so big, `` `They'll never let you up the bay! `` `We natives should know best.' ``I turned, and `just those fellows' way,' ``Our captain said, `The 'long-shore thieves `` `Are laughing at us in their sleeves.' III. ``In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; ``And one, half-hidden by his side ``Under the furled sail, soon I spied, ``With great grass hat and kerchief black, ``Who looked up with his kingly throat, ``Said somewhat, while the other shook ``His hair back from his eyes to look ``Their longest at us; then the boat, ``I know not how, turned sharply round, ``Laying her whole side on the sea ``As a leaping fish does; from the lee ``Into the weather, cut somehow ``Her sparkling path beneath our bow ``And so went off, as with a bound, ``Into the rosy and golden half ``O' the sky, to overtake the sun ``And reach the shore, like the sea-calf ``Its singing cave; yet I caught one ``Glance ere away the boat quite passed, ``And neither time nor toil could mar ``Those features: so I saw the last ``Of Waring!''-You? Oh, never star Was lost here but it rose afar! Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar? [Mr. Alfred Domett, C.M.G., author of Ranolf and Amohia, ``full of descriptions of New Zealand scenery.] Egyptian granite. ~ Robert Browning, Waring ,

1402:The Kalevala - Rune Viii MAIDEN OF THE RAINBOW. Pohyola's fair and winsome daughter, Glory of the land and water, Sat upon the bow of heaven, On its highest arch resplendent, In a gown of richest fabric, In a gold and silver air-gown, Weaving webs of golden texture, Interlacing threads of silver; Weaving with a golden shuttle, With a weaving-comb of silver; Merrily flies the golden shuttle, From the maiden's nimble fingers, Briskly swings the lathe in weaving, Swiftly flies the comb of silver, From the sky-born maiden's fingers, Weaving webs of wondrous beauty. Came the ancient Wainamoinen, Driving down the highway homeward, From the ever sunless Northland, From the dismal Sariola; Few the furlongs he had driven, Driven but a little distance, When he heard the sky-loom buzzing, As the maiden plied the shuttle. Quick the thoughtless Wainamoinen Lifts his eyes aloft in wonder, Looks upon the vault of heaven, There beholds the bow of beauty, On the bow the maiden sitting, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Glory of the earth and ocean, Weaving there a golden fabric, Working with the rustling silver. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Quickly checks his fleet-foot racer, Looks upon the charming maiden, 107 Then addresses her as follows: 'Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge, By my side I wish thee seated.' Thus the Maid of Beauty answers: 'Tell me what thou wishest of me, Should I join thee in the snow-sledge.' Speaks the ancient Wainamoinen, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: 'This the reason for thy coming: Thou shalt bake me honey-biscuit, Shalt prepare me barley-water, Thou shalt fill my foaming beer-cups, Thou shalt sing beside my table, Shalt rejoice within my portals, Walk a queen within my dwelling, In the Wainola halls and chambers, In the courts of Kalevala.' Thus the Maid of Beauty answered From her throne amid the heavens: 'Yesterday at hour of twilight, Went I to the flowery meadows, There to rock upon the common, Where the Sun retires to slumber; There I heard a song-bird singing, Heard the thrush simple measures, Singing sweetly thoughts of maidens, And the minds of anxious mothers. 'Then I asked the pretty songster, Asked the thrush this simple question: 'Sing to me, thou pretty song-bird, Sing that I may understand thee, Sing to me in truthful accents, How to live in greatest pleasure, And in happiness the sweetest, As a maiden with her father, Or as wife beside her husband.' 'Thus the song-bird gave me answer, Sang the thrush this information: 'Bright and warm are days of summer, Warmer still is maiden-freedom; Cold is iron in the winter, Thus the lives of married women; 108 Maidens living with their mothers Are like ripe and ruddy berries; Married women, far too many, Are like dogs enchained in kennel, Rarely do they ask for favors, Not to wives are favors given.'' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: 'Foolish is the thrush thus singing, Nonsense is the song-bird's twitter; Like to babes are maidens treated, Wives are queens and highly honored. Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, I am not despised as hero, Not the meanest of magicians; Come with me and I will make thee Wife and queen in Kalevala.' Thus the Maid of Beauty answered-'Would consider thee a hero, Mighty hero, I would call thee, When a golden hair thou splittest, Using knives that have no edges; When thou snarest me a bird's egg With a snare that I can see not.' Wainamoinen, skilled and ancient, Split a golden hair exactly, Using knives that had no edges; And he snared an egg as nicely With a snare the maiden saw not. 'Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, I have done what thou desirest.' Thus the maiden wisely answered: 'Never enter I thy snow-sledge, Till thou peelest me the sandstone, Till thou cuttest me a whip-stick From the ice, and make no splinters, Losing not the smallest fragment.' Wainamoinen, true magician, Nothing daunted, not discouraged, Deftly peeled the rounded sandstone, Deftly cut from ice a whip-stick, Cutting not the finest splinter, 109 Losing not the smallest fragment. Then again be called the maiden, To a seat within his snow-sledge. But the Maid or Beauty answered, Answered thus the great magician: I will go with that one only That will make me ship or shallop, From the splinters of my spindle, From the fragments of my distaff, In the waters launch the vessel, Set the little ship a-floating, Using not the knee to push it, Using not the arm to move it, Using not the hand to touch it, Using not the foot to turn it, Using nothing to propel it.' Spake the skilful Wainamoinen, These the words the hero uttered: 'There is no one in the Northland, No one under vault of heaven, Who like me can build a vessel, From the fragments of the distaff, From the splinters of the spindle.' Then he took the distaff-fragments, Took the splinters of the spindle, Hastened off the boat to fashion, Hastened to an iron mountain, There to join the many fragments. Full of zeal be plies the hammer, Swings the hammer and the hatchet; Nothing daunted, builds the vessel, Works one day and then a second, Works with steady hand the third day; On the evening of the third day, Evil Hisi grasps the hatchet, Lempo takes the crooked handle, Turns aside the axe in falling, Strikes the rocks and breaks to pieces; From the rocks rebound the fragments, Pierce the flesh of the magician, Cut the knee of Wainamoinen. Lempo guides the sharpened hatchet, 110 And the veins fell Hisi severs. Quickly gushes forth a blood-stream, And the stream is crimson-colored. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, The renowned and wise enchanter, Thus outspeaks in measured accents: 'O thou keen and cruel hatchet, O thou axe of sharpened metal, Thou shouldst cut the trees to fragments, Cut the pine-tree and the willow, Cut the alder and the birch-tree, Cut the juniper and aspen, Shouldst not cut my knee to pieces, Shouldst not tear my veins asunder.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Thus begins his incantations, Thus begins his magic singing, Of the origin of evil; Every word in perfect order, Makes no effort to remember, Sings the origin of iron, That a bolt he well may fashion, Thus prepare a look for surety, For the wounds the axe has given, That the hatchet has torn open. But the stream flows like a brooklet, Rushing like a maddened torrent, Stains the herbs upon the meadows, Scarcely is a bit of verdure That the blood-stream does not cover As it flows and rushes onward From the knee of the magician, From the veins of Wainamoinen. Now the wise and ancient minstrel Gathers lichens from the sandstone, Picks them from the trunks of birches, Gathers moss within the marshes, Pulls the grasses from the meadows, Thus to stop the crimson streamlet, Thus to close the wounds laid open; But his work is unsuccessful, And the crimson stream flows onward. 111 Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Feeling pain and fearing languor, Falls to weeping, heavy-hearted; Quickly now his steed he hitches, Hitches to the sledge of birch-wood, Climbs with pain upon the cross-bench, Strikes his steed in quick succession, Snaps his whip above the racer, And the steed flies onward swiftly; Like the winds he sweeps the highway, Till be nears a Northland village, Where the way is triple-parted. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Takes the lowest of the highways, Quickly nears a spacious cottage, Quickly asks before the doorway: 'Is there any one here dwelling, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet. That can check this crimson streamlet?' Sat a boy within a corner, On a bench beside a baby, And he answered thus the hero: 'There is no one in this dwelling That can know the pain thou feelest, That can heal the wounds of hatchet, That can check the crimson streamlet; Some one lives in yonder cottage, That perchance can do thee service.' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Whips his courser to a gallop, Dashes on along the highway; Only drives a little distance, On the middle of the highways, To a cabin on the road-side, Asks one standing on the threshold, Questions all through open windows, These the words the hero uses: 'Is there no one in this cabin, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet, That can check this crimson streamlet?' 112 On the floor a witch was lying, Near the fire-place lay the beldame, Thus she spake to Wainamoinen, Through her rattling teeth she answered. 'There is no one in this cabin That can know the pain thou feelest, That can heal the wounds of hatchets, That can check the crimson streamlet; Some one lives in yonder cottage, That perchance can do thee service.' Wainamoinen, nothing daunted, Whips his racer to a gallop, Dashes on along the highway; Only drives a little distance, On the upper of the highways, Gallops to a humble cottage, Asks one standing near the penthouse, Sitting on the penthouse-doorsill: 'Is there no one in this cottage, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet, That can check this crimson streamlet?' Near the fireplace sat an old man, On the hearthstone sat the gray-beard, Thus he answered Wainamoinen: 'Greater things have been accomplished, Much more wondrous things effected, Through but three words of the master; Through the telling of the causes, Streams and oceans have been tempered, River cataracts been lessened, Bays been made of promontories, Islands raised from deep sea-bottoms.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1403:Grandmother’s Teaching ``Grandmother dear, you do not know; you have lived the old-world life, Under the twittering eaves of home, sheltered from storm and strife; Rocking cradles, and covering jams, knitting socks for baby feet, Or piecing together lavender bags for keeping the linen sweet: Daughter, wife, and mother in turn, and each with a blameless breast, Then saying your prayers when the nightfall came, and quietly dropping to rest. ``You must not think, Granny, I speak in scorn, for yours have been well-spent days, And none ever paced with more faithful feet the dutiful ancient ways. Grandfather's gone, but while he lived you clung to him close and true, And mother's heart, like her eyes, I know, came to her straight from you. If the good old times, at the good old pace, in the good old grooves would run, One could not do better, I'm sure of that, than do as you all have done. ``But the world has wondrously changed, Granny, since the days when you were young; It thinks quite different thoughts from then, and speaks with a different tongue. The fences are broken, the cords are snapped, that tethered man's heart to home; He ranges free as the wind or the wave, and changes his shore like the foam. He drives his furrows through fallow seas, he reaps what the breakers sow, And the flash of his iron flail is seen mid the barns of the barren snow. ``He has lassoed the lightning and led it home, he has yoked it unto his need, And made it answer the rein and trudge as straight as the steer or steed. He has bridled the torrents and made them tame, he has bitted the champing tide, It toils as his drudge and turns the wheels that spin for his use and pride. He handles the planets and weighs their dust, he mounts on the comet's car, And he lifts the veil of the sun, and stares in the eyes of the uttermost star. ``'Tis not the same world you knew, Granny; its fetters have fallen off; The lowliest now may rise and rule where the proud used to sit and scoff. No need to boast of a scutcheoned stock, claim rights from an ancient wrong; All are born with a silver spoon in their mouths whose gums are sound and strong. And I mean to be rich and great, Granny; I mean it with heart and soul: At my feet is the ball, I will roll it on, till it spins through the golden goal. 251 ``Out on the thought that my copious life should trickle through trivial days, Myself but a lonelier sort of beast, watching the cattle graze, Scanning the year's monotonous change, gaping at wind and rain, Or hanging with meek solicitous eyes on the whims of a creaking vane; Wretched if ewes drop single lambs, blest so is oilcake cheap, And growing old in a tedious round of worry, surfeit, and sleep. ``You dear old Granny, how sweet your smile, and how soft your silvery hari! But all has moved on while you sate still in your cap and easy-chair. The torch of knowledge is lit for all, it flashes from hand to hand; The alien tongues of the earth converse, and whisper from strand to strand. The very churches are changed and boast new hymns, new rites, new truth; Men worship a wiser and greater God than the halfknown God of your youth. ``What! marry Connie and set up house, and dwell where my fathers dwelt, Giving the homely feasts they gave and kneeling where they knelt? She is pretty, and good, and void I am sure of vanity, greed, or guile; But she has not travelled nor seen the world, and is lacking in air and style. Women now are as wise and strong as men, and vie with men in renown; The wife that will help to build my fame was not bred near a country town. ``What a notion! to figure at parish boards, and wrangle o'er cess and rate, I, who mean to sit for the county yet, and vote on an Empire's fate; To take the chair at the Farmers' Feast, and tickle their bumpkin ears, Who must shake a senate before I die, and waken a people's cheers! In the olden days was no choice, so sons to the roof of their fathers clave: But now! 'twere to perish before one's time, and to sleep in a living grave. ``I see that you do not understand. How should you? Your memory clings To the simple music of silenced days and the skirts of vanishing things. Your fancy wanders round ruined haunts, and dwells upon oft-told tales; Your eyes discern not the widening dawn, nor your ears catch the rising gales. But live on, Granny, till I come back, and then perhaps you will own The dear old Past is an empty nest, and the Present the brood that is flown.'' ``And so, my dear, you've come back at last? I always fancied you would. Well, you see the old home of your childhood's days is standing where it stood. The roses still clamber from porch to roof, the elder is white at the gate, And over the long smooth gravel path the peacock still struts in state. On the gabled lodge, as of old, in the sun, the pigeons sit and coo, And our hearts, my dear, are no whit more changed, but have kept still warm for 252 you. ``You'll find little altered, unless it be me, and that since my last attack; But so that you only give me time, I can walk to the church and back. You bade me not die till you returned, and so you see I lived on: I'm glad that I did now you've really come, but it's almost time I was gone. I suppose that there isn't room for us all, and the old should depart the first. That's as it should be. What is sad, is to bury the dead you've nursed. ``Won't you have bit nor sup, my dear? Not even a glass of whey? The dappled Alderney calved last week, and the baking is fresh to-day. Have you lost your appetite too in town, or is it you've grown over-nice? If you'd rather have biscuits and cowslip wine, they'll bring them up in a trice. But what am I saying? Your coming down has set me all in a maze: I forgot that you travelled here by train; I was thinking of coaching days. ``There, sit you down, and give me your hand, and tell me about it all, From the day that you left us, keen to go, to the pride that had a fall. And all went well at the first? So it does, when we're young and puffed with hope; But the foot of the hill is quicker reached the easier seems the slope. And men thronged round you, and women too! Yes, that I can understand. When there's gold in the palm, the greedy world is eager to grasp the hand. ``I heard them tell of your smart town house, but I always shook my head. One doesn't grow rich in a year and a day, in the time of my youth 'twas said. Men do not reap in the spring, my dear, nor are granaries filled in May, Save it be with the harvest of former years, stored up for a rainy day. The seasons will keep their own true time, you can hurry nor furrow nor sod: It's honest labour and steadfast thrift that alone are blest by God. ``You say you were honest. I trust you were, nor do I judge you, my dear: I have old-fashioned ways, and it's quite enough to keep one's own conscience clear. But still the commandment, ``Thou shalt not steal,'' though a simple and ancient rule, Was not made for modern cunning to baulk, nor for any new age to befool; And if my growing rich unto others brought but penury, chill, and grief, I should feel, though I never had filched with my hands, I was only a craftier thief. ``That isn't the way they look at it there? All worshipped the rising sun? 253 Most of all the fine lady, in pride of purse you fancied your heart had won. I don't want to hear of her beauty or birth: I reckon her foul and low; Far better a steadfast cottage wench than grand loves that come and go. To cleave to their husbands, through weal, through woe, is all women have to do: In growing as clever as men they seem to have matched them in fickleness too. ``But there's one in whose heart has your image still dwelt through many an absent day, As the scent of a flower will haunt a closed room, though the flower be taken away. Connie's not quite so young as she was, no doubt, but faithfulness never grows old; And were beauty the only fuel of love, the warmest hearth soon would grow cold. Once you thought that she had not travelled, and knew neither the world nor life: Not to roam, but to deem her own hearth the whole world, that's what a man wants in a wife. ``I'm sure you'd be happy with Connie, at least if your own heart's in the right place. She will bring you nor power, nor station, nor wealth, but she never will bring you disgrace. They say that the moon, though she moves round the earth, never turns to him morning or night But one face of her sphere, and it must be because she's so true a satellite; And Connie, if into your orbit once drawn by the sacrament sanctioned above, Would revolve round you constantly, only to show the one-sided aspect of love. ``You will never grow rich by the land, I own; but if Connie and you should wed, It will feed your children and household too, as it you and your fathers fed. The seasons have been unkindly of late; there's a wonderful cut of hay, But the showers have washed all the goodness out, till it's scarcely worth carting away. There's a fairish promise of barley straw, but the ears look rusty and slim: I suppose God intends to remind us thus that something depends on Him. ``God neither progresses nor changes, dear, as I once heard you rashly say: Man's schools and philosophies come and go, but His word doth not pass away. We worship Him here as we did of old, with simple and reverent rite: In the morning we pray Him to bless our work, to forgive our transgressions at night. To keep His commandments, to fear His name, and what should be done, to do,- 254 That's the beginning of wisdom still; I suspect 'tis the end of it too. ``You must see the new-fangled machines at work, that harrow, and thresh, and reap; They're wonderful quick, there's no mistake, and they say in the end they're cheap. But they make such a clatter, and seem to bring the rule of the town to the fields: There's something more precious in country life than the balance of wealth it yields. But that seems going; I'm sure I hope that I shall be gone before: Better poor sweet silence of rural toil than the factory's opulent roar. ``They're a mighty saving of labour, though; so at least I hear them tell, Making fewer hands and fewer mouths, but fewer hearts as well: They sweep up so close that there's nothing left for widows and bairns to glean; If machines are growing like men, man seems to be growing a half machine. There's no friendliness left; the only tie is the wage upon Saturday nights: Right used to mean duty; you'll find that now there's no duty, but only rights. ``Still stick to your duty, my dear, and then things cannot go much amiss. What made folks happy in bygone times, will make them happy in this. There's little that's called amusement, here; but why should the old joys pall? Has the blackbird ceased to sing loud in spring? Has the cuckoo forgotten to call? Are bleating voices no longer heard when the cherryblossoms swarm? And have home, and children, and fireside lost one gleam of their ancient charm? ``Come, let us go round; to the farmyard first, with its litter of fresh-strewn straw, Past the ash-tree dell, round whose branching tops the young rooks wheel and caw; Through the ten-acre mead that was mown the first, and looks well for aftermath, Then round by the beans-I shall tire by then,-and home up the garden-path, Where the peonies hang their blushing heads, where the larkspur laughs from its stalkWith my stick and your arm I can manage. But see! There, Connie comes up the walk.'' ~ Alfred Austin,

1404:The Shadow 1. A vision haunts me, love, when thou art near, Chilling my heart as frost nips April flowers; A covering cloud, when all is fair and clear, That takes the sweetness from our happiest hours. 2. It steals the colour from our brightest sky; It mars my soul's content when all seems well; It quenches laughter in a shuddering sigh — In thoughts that thrill me like a tolling bell. 3. It numbs my passion when I love thee most; It dims my eyes — it veils thy face; it slips, An unseen shadow, like a creeping ghost, Betwixt thy kisses and my hungering lips. 4. What, amid richest plenty, starves me thus? What is it draws my trustful hand from thine? That sits a guest at marriage feast with us, And mixes poison with the food and wine? 5. In broad noonday — in dark hours long and lone — 252 A small green mound, a lettered name, I see. There love is symboled in a graven stone — There I lie dead, worth nothing more to thee. 6. There weep the dews, and winds of winter blow; The soft breeze rustles in the bending grass; The cold rain falls there, and the drifting snow — But tears fall not, nor lovers' footsteps pass. 7. Bees hum all day amid the young spring leaves; The rooks caw loud from every elm- tree bough; The sparrows twitter in the old church eaves — But no voice cries for me or calls me now. 8. Bright beams of morn encompass me about; The stars shine o'er me, and the pale moonlight; But I, that lit and warmed thee, am gone out, Like a burnt candle, in eternal night. 9. Earth to the earth upon this churchyard slope. We made no tryst for happier time and place; And in thy sky gleams no immortal hope, No distant radiance from my vanished face. 10. 253 And still the sands between thy fingers run — Desires, delights, ambitions — days and years, Rich hours of life for thee, though mine are done — Too full for vain regrets, too brief for tears. 11. I have lost all, but thou dost hold and save, Adding new treasure to thy rifled store, While weeds grow long on the neglected grave Where sleeps thy mate who may be thine no more. 12. This is the fate I feel, the ghost I see, The dream I dream at night, the thought I dread — That thus 'twill be some day with thee and me, Thou fain to live while I am doubly dead. 13. Thou still defiant of our common foe; I vanquished quite — the once- resplendent crown Of all thy joys become a dragging woe, To be lopped off, lest it should weigh thee down. 14. I, once thy sap of life, a wasteful drain On thy green vigour, like a rotten branch; I, once thy health, a paralyzing pain, A bleeding wound that thou must haste to stanch. 254 15. Because the dead are dead — the past is gone; Because dear life is sweet and time is brief, And some must fall, and some must still press on, Nor waste scant strength in unavailing grief. 16. I blame thee not. I know what must be must. Nor shall I suffer when apart from thee. I shall not care, when I am mouldering dust, That once quick love is in the grave with me. 17. Cast me away — thou knowest I shall not fret; Take thy due joys — I shall not bear the cost. I, that am thus forgotten, shall forget, Nor shed one tear for all that I have lost. 18. Not then, not then shall sting of death and dole, The penal curse of life and love, befall; 'Tis now I wear the sackcloth on my soul, Bereaved and lonely, while possessed of all. 19. 0, wert thou dead, should I, beloved, turn Deaf heart to memory when of thee she spake? Should I, when this pure fire had ceased to burn, 255 Seek other hearths, for sordid comfort's sake? 20. No — no! Yet I am mortal — I am weak — In need of warmth when wintry winds are cold; And fateful years and circumstance will wreak Their own stern will on mine, when all is told. 21. How can I keep thee? Day and night I grope In Nature's book, and in all books beside, For but one touch of a substantial hope. But all is vague and void on every side. 22. Whence did we come? And is it there we go? We look behind — night hides our place of birth; The blank before hides heaven, for aught we know. But what is heaven to us, whose home is earth? 23. Flesh may be gross — the husk that holds the seed — And gold and gems worth more than common bread; But flesh is us, and bread is what we need, And, changed and glorious, we should still be dead. 24. What is the infinite universe to him Who has no home? Eternal Future seems, 256 Like the Eternal Past, unreal and dim — The airy region of a poet's dreams. 25. What spirit essence, howsoe'er divine, Can our lost selves restore from dusty grave? Thy mortal mind and body — thine and mine — Make all the joys I know, and all I crave. 26. No fair romance of transcendental bliss, No tale of palms and crowns my dull heart stirs, That only hungers for a woman's kiss, And asks no life that is not one with hers. 27. Not such Hereafter can I wish to see; Not this pale hope my sinking soul exalts; I want no sexless angel — only thee, My human love, with all thy human faults. 28. Just as thou art — not beautiful or wise, But prone to simple sins and sad unrest; With thy warm lips and arms, and thy sweet eyes — Sweeter for tears they weep upon my breast. 29. 257 Just as thou art — with thy soft household ways, Thy noble failures and thy poor success, Thy love that fits me for my strenuous days — A mortal woman — neither more nor less. 30. And thou must pass with these too rapid hours To that great deep from whence we both were brought; Thy sentient flesh must turn to grass and flowers, To birds and beasts, to dust — to air — to naught. 31. I know the parable. The great oaks grow To their vast stature from an acorn grain, And mightiest man was once an embryo. But how can nothing bring thee forth again? 32. And is the new oak tree the old oak tree? And is the son the father? And wouldst thou, If thou couldst rise from nothing, be to me Thy present self, that satisfies me now? 33. Words — words! A dream that fades in Faith's embrace, And melts in Reason's all- refining fires; The cherished hope of every age and race; Born of man's fancy and his own desires. 258 34. Here in our little island- home we bide Our few brief years — 'tis all that we possess. The Infinite lies around on every side, But what it holds no mortal mind may guess. 35. Say we remain — a lasting miracle — As well we may; for this small world is rife With mystic wonders that no tongue may tell, And all things teem and travail with new life. 36. Say we awake — ineffably alive, Divinely perfect — in some higher sphere! 'Twill not be we — the we who strain and strive, And love and learn, and joy and suffer, here. 37. What is our hope, if any hope there be? 'Tis for some bliss uncared for and unknown, That some strange beings, yet unborn, shall see. Alas! And all we cry for is our own! 38. Only to be ourselves — not cast abroad In space and time, for either bliss or woe — Only to keep the treasures we have stored! And they must pass away. And we must go. 259 39. How can we bear it? How can we submit? Like a wild beast imprisoned, in our pain We rave and rage for some way out of it, But bruise and bleed against the bars in vain. 40. All — all is dark. Beyond our birth and death — At either end — the same unyielding door. We live, we love, while we draw human breath. This much we know — but we can know no more. 41. The stars shine down upon the minster spires, Silent, and pale, and still, like watching eyes. Think of the tumult of those spinning fires — Think of the vastness of those midnight skies! 42. Think of our world in the immense unknown — Only a grain of stellar dust; and man, Wanting a God, a Saviour, all his own — Wanting to break the universal plan! 43. He but a phase of planetary change, 260 That once was not, and will give place anon To other forms, more beautiful and strange — To pass in turn — till earth herself is gone. 44. Earth, that is next to nothing in the sum Of things created — a brief mote in space, With all her aeons past and yet to come. Ah, think of it! How we forget our place! 45. Casual atoms in the mighty scheme That needs us not, we dimly wax and wane, Dissolving ever like a passing dream — A breath breathed forth and then drawn back again. 46. Lone in these infinite realms, perchance unseen — Unheard. And yet not lost. And not so small, So feebly futile, pitifully mean, As our poor creeds would make us, after all. 47. Still are we details of the great design, Set to our course, like circling sun and star; Mortal, infinitesimal — yet divine, Like Him — or It — that made us what we are. 48. 261 Let manhood, God- begotten, have its due. 'Tis God — whate'er He be — hath made us thus, Ourselves as gods to know the right and true. Shall He not, then, be justified in us? 49. The warm sap runs; the tender leaves unfold; Ant helps his brother ant; birds build in spring; The patient earthworm sifts the crumbled mould; — A sacred instinct guides each living thing. 50. Shall we, its born interpreters, not heed? Shall we confess us failures, whom He lifts So high above these creatures that succeed? Or prove us worthy of our nobler gifts? 51. Shall we not prove us worthy? Ay, we will Because we can, we must — through peace and strife, Bright hope and black despair, come good, come ill. 'Tis man's sole title to his place in life. 52. To stand upright in all the winds that blow, Unbeaten as a tree in driving rain; In all our doubts, to do the best we know, From no base fear of loss or hope of gain. 262 53. To still the cry of self — give listening ears To stern Truth's message, whatsoe'er it be; To share our brother's toil and dry his tears — This is the task set forth for thee and me. 54. This is the lesson that we live to learn, And, by brave thought, by word and deed, to teach; These are the heights our lifted eyes discern Through cloud and darkness, that our souls must reach. 55. Not less am I in wisdom and in will Than ants and worms. I am full- furnished too My arduous errand hither to fulfil. I know my work, and what a man can do. 56. My God, I ask Thee nothing. Thou hast given This conscious mind, this brain without a flaw; And I will strive, as I have humbly striven, To make them serve their purpose and Thy law. 57. But thee, my soul's companion — thee I seek For daily courage to support my lot. In thee hath Nature made me strong or weak. My human comforter, forsake me not! 263 58. My nobler self, in whom I live my best, Strengthen me! Raise me! Help me to the last! Lay thy dear head upon my throbbing breast — Give me thy hands, that I may hold thee fast! 59. Come close — come closer! Let me feel thy heart, Thy pulsing heart, thy breathing lips, on mine. O love, let only death and graveyard part — If they must part — my flesh and soul from thine! 60. Let no mistrust, no doubt, no poor caprice Darken for me in thy transparent gaze; Let no self- wrought estrangement wreck our peace, Nor vain dissension waste our precious days. 61. Be thou my purer eyes, my keener ears, My finer conscience, steadfast, unafraid — Till these few, swift, inexorable years Have borne us both beyond the reach of aid. 62. Be thou my staff upon this lonely way. Be thou my lamp till need of light is past — Till the dark shadow, lengthening day by day, 264 Spreads over all and quenches us at last. 63. Keep me from falling! Keep me from despair! Keep me true man, if only man I be, Faithful and brave to bear what I must bear. For what else have I, if I have not thee? ~ Ada Cambridge,

1405:I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,   Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept     A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves: For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted oer the green. There was wide wandring for the greediest eye,     To peer about upon variety; Far round the horizons crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint, and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;   Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,     And many pleasures to my vision started; So I straightway began to pluck a posey Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. A bush of May flowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;     And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined,     And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones; there too should be The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, That with a score of light green breth[r]en shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:   Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly     By infant hands, left on the path to die. Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids     That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: So haply when I rove in some far vale,     His mighty voice may come upon the gale. Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush oer delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.   Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlets rushy banks, And watch intently Natures gentle doings: They will be found softer than ring-doves cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend;     Not the minutest whisper does it send To the oerhanging sallows: blades of grass Slowly across the chequerd shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach     A natural sermon oer their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Temperd with coolness. How they ever wrestle     With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. If you but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain; But turn your eye, and they are there again.     The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, And cool themselves among the emrald tresses; The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, And moisture, that the bowery green may live: So keeping up an interchange of favours,     Like good men in the truth of their behaviours. Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches; little space they stop; But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:     Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away, Than the soft rustle of a maidens gown     Fanning away the dandelions down; Than the light music of her nimble toes Patting against the sorrel as she goes. How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught Playing in all her innocence of thought.     O let me lead her gently oer the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me may she often turn     Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. What next? A tuft of evening primroses, Oer which the mind may hover till it dozes; Oer which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that tis ever startled by the leap     Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting; Or by the moon lifting her silver rim Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Coming into the blue with all her light.     O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers; Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,     Lover of loneliness, and wandering, Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories. For what has made the sage or poet write     But the fair paradise of Natures light? In the calm grandeur of a sober line, We see the waving of the mountain pine; And when a tale is beautifully staid, We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:   When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings: Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; Oerhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar,   And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles Charms us at once away from all our troubles: So that we feel uplifted from the world, Walking upon the white clouds wreathd and curld.     So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment; What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips First touchd; what amorous and fondling nips They gave each others cheeks; with all their sighs,   And how they kist each others tremulous eyes: The silver lamp,the ravishment,the wonder The darkness,loneliness,the fearful thunder; Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Joves throne.   So did he feel, who pulld the boughs aside, That we might look into a forest wide, To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades Coming with softest rustle through the trees; And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,     Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. Poor Nymph,poor Pan,how did he weep to find, Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind     Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain, Full of sweet desolationbalmy pain. What first inspired a bard of old to sing Narcissus pining oer the untainted spring? In some delicious ramble, he had found   A little space, with boughs all woven round; And in the midst of all, a clearer pool Than eer reflected in its pleasant cool, The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.   And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, Drooping its beauty oer the watery clearness, To woo its own sad image into nearness: Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;     But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, Some fainter gleamings oer his fancy shot; Nor was it long ere he had told the tale Of young Narcissus, and sad Echos bale.   Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, Coming ever to bless The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing     Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing From out the middle air, from flowery nests, And from the pillowy silkiness that rests Full in the speculation of the stars. Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;   Into some wondrous region he had gone, To search for thee, divine Endymion! He was a Poet, sure a lover too, Who stood on Latmus top, what time there blew Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;   And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow A hymn from Dians temple; while upswelling, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. But though her face was clear as infants eyes, Though she stood smiling oer the sacrifice,     The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, Wept that such beauty should be desolate: So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen   Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. O for three words of honey, that I might Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!   Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels, And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. The evening weather was so bright, and clear,   That men of health were of unusual cheer; Stepping like Homer at the trumpets call, Or young Apollo on the pedestal: And lovely women were as fair and warm, As Venus looking sideways in alarm.   The breezes were ethereal, and pure, And crept through half closed lattices to cure The languid sick; it coold their feverd sleep, And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting: And springing up, they met the wondring sight Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare, And on their placid foreheads part the hair.   Young men, and maidens at each other gazd With hands held back, and motionless, amazd To see the brightness in each others eyes; And so they stood, filld with a sweet surprise, Until their tongues were loosd in poesy.   Therefore no lover did of anguish die: But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, Made silken ties, that never may be broken. Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses, That followd thine, and thy dear shepherds kisses: Was there a Poet born?but now no more, My wandring spirit must no further soar. I stood tip-toe upon a little hill : Leigh Hunt tells us in 'Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries' that "this poem was suggested to Keats by a delightful summer's-day, as he stood beside the gate that leads from the Battery on Hampstead Heath into a field by Caen Wood." (lines 37-41) Of this passage Hunt says, "Any body who has seen a throng of young beeches, furnishing those natural clumpy seats at the root, must recognize the truth and grace of this description." He adds that the remainder of the poem, especially verses 47 to 86, "affords an exquisite proof of close observation of nature as well as the most luxuriant fancy." (lines 61-80) Charles Cowden Clarke says Keats told him this passage was the recollection of the friends' "having frequently loitered over the rail of a foot-bridge that spanned ... a little brook in the last field upon entering Edmonton." Keats, he says, "thought the picture correct, and acknowledged to a partiality for it." ~The Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill ,

1406:A Defence Of English Spring Unnamed, unknown, but surely bred Where Thames, once silver, now runs lead, Whose journeys daily ebb and flow 'Twixt Tyburn and the bells of Bow, You late in learnëd prose have told How, for the happy bards of old, Spring burst upon Sicilian seas, Or blossomed in the Cyclades, But never yet hath deigned to smile On poets of this shivering isle, Who, when to vernal strains they melt, Discourse of joys they never felt, And, pilfering from each other's page, Pass on the lie from age to age. Well, now in turn give ear to me, Who, with your leave, friend, claim to be, Degenerate, but withal allied, At least on mother Nature's side, To Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, all, Foremost or hindmost, great or small, My kindred, and whose numbers ring With woodnotes of the English Spring: Leave for awhile your polished town, Unto my rural home come down, Where you shall find such bed and board As rude bucolic roofs afford, And judge, with your own ear and eye, If Spring exists, or poets lie. Welcome! Now plunge at once with me Into the nearest copse you see. The boles are brown, the branches gray, Yet green buds live on every spray. But 'tis the ground most wins your gaze, And makes you question, with amaze, What these are! Shells flung far and wide By Winter's now fast-ebbing tide, In language called, for him who sees 20 But grossly, wood-anemones. Those, too? Nay, pluck not. You will find That they maintain a silent mind. You do not understand? I meant They will not talk to you in scent. Sweet violets you know; but these Have their own rustic way to please. Their charm is in their look, their free Unfrightened gaze of gaiety. Are they not everywhere? Their eyes Glance up to the cerulean skies, And challenge them to match the glow Of their own bluer heaven below. Anon the trunks and boughs fall back, And along winding track on track, Lo! wheresoe'er you onward press, Shine milky ways of primroses; So thick, there are, when these have birth, Far fewer stars in heaven than earth. You know them, for their face one meets Still smiling in your London streets; And one I loved, but who with Fame Sleeps quiet now, hath made their name, Even for those, alas! who share No fellowship with woodlands fair, Wherever English speech is heard, A meaning sound, a grateful word. Yet unto me they seem, when there, Like young things that should be elsewhere, In lanes, in dells, in rustic air. But looked on here, where they have space To peep from every sheltered place, Their simple, open faces seemOr doth again a poet dream?The wondering soul of child-like Spring, Inquisitive of everything. Now frowns the sky, the air bites bleak, The young boughs rock, the old trunks creak, And fast before the following gale Come slanting drops, then slashing hail, As keen as sword, as thick as shot. 21 Nay, do not cower, but heed them not! For these one neither flies nor stirs; They are but April skirmishers, Thrown out to cover the advance Of gleaming spear and glittering lance, With which the sunshine scours amain Heaven, earth, and air, and routs the rain. See how the sparkling branches sway, And, laughing, shake the drops away, While, glimmering through, the meads beyond Are emerald and diamond. And hark! behind baptismal shower, Whose drops, new-poured on leaf and flower, Unto their infant faces cling, The cuckoo, sponsor of the Spring, Breaks in, and strives, with loud acclaim, To christen it with his own name. Now he begins, he will not cease, Nor leave the woodlands any peace, That have to listen all day long To him reciting his one song. And oft you may, when all is still, And night lies smooth on vale and hill, Hear him call ``Cuckoo!'' in his dream, Still haunted by the egoist theme. Out of the wood now, and we gain, The freedom of the winding lane: Push through the open gap, and leap; What! have you tumbled all aheap? Only a scratch. See! ditch and bank With the same flowers are lush and rank, With more beside. As yet but single, The bluebells with the grasses mingle; But soon their azure will be scrolled Upon the primrose cloth-of-gold. Yes, those are early ladysmocks, The children crumple in their frocks, And carry many a zigzag mile, O'er meadow, footpath, gate, and stile, To stick in pots and jugs to dress Their cottage sills and lattices. 22 As yet they only fleck the grass; But again hither shortly pass, And with them knolls that now are bare Will be a blaze of lavender. What lends yon dingle such a sheen? How! Buttercups? No, celandine. Complete in its own self, each one A looking-glass is for the sun, Soon as his waking hours begin, To see his own effulgence in. Crave you for brighter still, behold Yon clusters of marsh-marigold. This is our rustic wealth, and found Not under, but above the ground; Mines that bring wealth without its sting, Enrich without impoverishing. Yes, Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo, still! Do you not feel an impulse thrill Your vernal blood to do the same, And, boylike, shout him back his name? But though he loudest, longest sings, Music is shook from myriad wings. Hear you the lark advancing now, Through seas of air, with rippling prow? They say that from the poet's tears Spring sweetest songs for unseen ears; And, from its moist and lowly bed, The lark mounts up aloft to shed, In heavenly fields beyond our view, Music still drenched with earthly dew. The robin, that in winter cheers With his lone voice our lonelier ears, Though warbling still on neighbouring bough, Sings all unheard, unnoticed now. Chatter the jays, the starlings flute, There's not a single throat that's mute. From tree to tree the finches flit, Nor once their carols intermit. The willow-warbler mounts, then drops, And in his silvery solo stops Just as it bubbles to the brim, 23 To hark if any answer him. High on a bare conspicuous spray, That none may doubt who chants the lay, Proud of his undisputed skill To breast whatever note he will, The thrush runs revelling all along The spacious gamut of his song; Varies, inverts, repeats the strain, Then sings it different again. The blackbird, less expert than he, Coaxes and scolds alternately; Then, with a sudden scream and rush, Is off into another bush, Feigning to fear for life and limb, Though none have interfered with him. But listen! ne'er on urban bough Was perched the note you caught just now. Hush! move a little down the lane; When we have passed, he'll start again. There! Did you ever hear a strain Of such apotheosized pain, Such sadness almost sung to bliss, Blending of woe and joy like this? Yes, he descants all day, despite The name he borrows from the night. Though then perchance the wails increase, When doth true anguish ever cease? He is the poet-bird that sings Through joy, through sorrow, through all things. 'Tis only we that do not hark Until our own bright days grow dark. Now, think you that I gleaned all this, This mite of wisdom, wealth of bliss, In dusty shelf and yellowing tome? Is it not rather that I roam, From dawn to noon, from noon till eve, Ready to gladden or to grieve With every aspect, impulse, mood, Of Nature's active solitude? Ah! if you knew the hours on hours One lives with birds, one spends with flowers; 24 How many a time one's eyes grow wet By gazing on the violet; How often all one has to show For days that come, and days that go, Are woodland nosegays all ablow; You then, I think, would scarcely deem One's songs of Spring a borrowed theme, But own that English poets learn, In every hour, at every turn, From Nature's page, from Nature's speech, What neither book nor bard can teach. Nor deem this pride. I am to her A student and interpreter, Loving to read what lessons lurk In her unlettered handiwork, To find the helpful meanings writ In waves that break, in clouds that flit, Some balm extract for weeping eyes From rain that falls, from dew that dries; Infer from her uncertain text A hopeful creed for souls perplexed, To them her busy calm impart, And harmonise the human heart. Halt we a little here, and gaze. Gambol the lambs, their mothers graze, While cloudland shadows o'er the grass In noiseless billows break and pass. Beholding these, would you not say The world was born but yesterday? And while the years such scenes unfold Afresh, it never can grow old. Yon yeanlings, by their dam's warm fleece, Fixed image of ephemeral peace, How cunningly and snug they cower From driving gust and drenching shower. One symbol more, for me at least, Who, let the world blow north or east, By mother Nature once reclined, Am sheltered from each bitter wind. Yet deeper lessons may we read 25 In this unacademic mead: The wisdom of untutored sense, Sagacity of reverence. See! the lambs kneel, that they may drain From life's sweet source a deeper strain. And if from Nature's lavish breast We would imbibe the fullest, best, All that she is so prompt to give, That we may learn, that we may live, Howe'er you proud town-sceptics view it, We too must bend our knees to do it. Confess this is not bookish lore; 'Tis feeling only, and no more. Poets lack what you learning call, And rustic poets, most of all. Why from the plain truth should I shrink? In woods men feel; in towns they think. Yet, which is best? Thought, stumbling, plods Past fallen temples, vanished gods, Altars unincensed, fanes undecked, Eternal systems flown or wrecked; Through trackless centuries that grant To the poor trudge refreshment scant, Age after age, pants on to find A melting mirage of the mind. But feeling never wanders far, Content to fare with things that are, The same old track, the same loved face, Familiar genius of the place; From nature's simples to distil Homely receipt for homely ill; And finds, betwixt the sky and ground, The sunshine of its daily round. So swallows, though awhile they range In quest of joy, in chase of change, Once tenderer instincts flood their breast, And twittering voices brim the nest, Grown far too wise and well to roam, Keep circling round the roof of home. Now understand you, friend, why here 26 I linger passive all the year, And let old thoughts and feelings gain Their growth, like lichen, on my brain?Why the loud gusts of blame and praise, That blow about your London ways, To me are but as wind that shrills About my orchard daffodils, Only to make them shake their scent Unto a wider continent! But ere you go, if go you must, Take this from me, at least, on trust. In that fair tract 'twixt hill and main, I sang of in my earliest strain, Where fades not flower, nor falls the leaf, And Godfrid brought Olympia grief, Oft have I heard, as Spring comes round, The snow-fed streams begin to sound; Oft have I seen the almonds bloom Round Dante's cradle, Petrarch's tomb; Been there when banksia roses fall In cataracts over Tuscan wall; Oft watched Rome's dead Campagna break To asphodels for April's sake; Smelt the green myrtle browsed and left By clambering goats in Ischian cleft; Gathered the cistus-blooms that lay, Like flecks of fresh unmelted spray, Round Paleocastrizza's bay; Drunk of the nectar wafted o'er The wave from Zante's perfumed shore; Plucked Delphi's flowering bays that twine No garlands now for brows divine; Stretched me on Acro-Corinth's brow, Just when the year was young as now; Have half-way up Hymettus heard In Attic grove the Attic bird; Sailed past the crimson Judas-trees That flame o'er Stamboul's narrow seas, And marked the cuckoo, from the shore, Bid wintry Danube thaw once more. But none of these, nor all, can match, At least for him who loves to watch 27 The wild-flowers come, hear wild birds sing, The rapture of an English Spring. With us it loiters more than where It comes, it goes, half unaware; Makes winter short, makes summer long, In autumn half renews its song, Nor even then doth hence depart, But hybernates within my heart. ~ Alfred Austin,

1407:The Kalevala - Rune Xxi ILMARINEN'S WEDDING-FEAST. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Ancient dame of Sariola, While at work within her dwelling, Heard the whips crack on the fenlands, Heard the rattle of the sledges; To the northward turned her glances, Turned her vision to the sunlight, And her thoughts ran on as follow: 'Who are these in bright apparel, On the banks of Pohya-waters, Are they friends or hostile armies?' Then the hostess of the Northland Looked again and well considered, Drew much nearer to examine, Found they were not hostile armies, Found that they were friends and suitors. In the midst was Ilmarinen, Son-in-law to ancient Louhi. When the hostess of Pohyola Saw the son-in-law approaching She addressed the words that follow: 'I had thought the winds were raging, That the piles of wood were falling, Thought the pebbles in commotion, Or perchance the ocean roaring; Then I hastened nearer, nearer, Drew still nearer and examined, Found the winds were not in battle, Found the piles of wood unshaken, Found the ocean was not roaring, Nor the pebbles in commotion, Found my son-in-law was coming With his heroes and attendants, Heroes counted by the hundreds. 'Should you ask of me the question, How I recognized the bridegroom 351 Mid the hosts of men and heroes, I should answer, I should tell you: 'As the hazel-bush in copses, As the oak-tree in the forest, As the Moon among the planets; Drives the groom a coal-black courser, Running like the famished black-dog, Flying like the hungry raven, Graceful as the lark at morning, Golden cuckoos, six in number, Twitter on the birchen cross-bow; There are seven bluebirds singing On the racer's hame and collar.' Noises hear they in the court-yard, On the highway hear the sledges, To the court comes Ilmarinen, With his body-guard of heroes; In the midst the chosen suitor, Not too far in front of others, Not too far behind his fellows. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Hie ye hither, men and heroes, Haste, ye watchers, to the stables, There unhitch the suitor's stallion, Lower well the racer's breast-plate, There undo the straps and buckles, Loosen well the shafts and traces, And conduct the suitor hither, Give my son-in-law good welcome!' Ilmarinen turned his racer Into Louhi's yard and stables, And descended from his snow-sledge. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Come, thou servant of my bidding, Best of all my trusted servants, Take at once the bridegroom's courser From the shafts adorned with silver, From the curving arch of willow, Lift the harness trimmed in copper, Tie the white-face to the manger, Treat the suitor's steed with kindness, Lead him carefully to shelter 352 By his soft and shining bridle, By his halter tipped with silver; Let him roll among the sand-hills, On the bottoms soft and even, On the borders of the snow-banks, In the fields of milky color. 'Lead the hero's steed to water, Lead him to the Pohya-fountains, Where the living streams are flowing, Sweet as milk of human kindness, From the roots of silvery birches, Underneath the shade of aspens. 'Feed the courser of the suitor, On the sweetest corn and barley, On the summer-wheat and clover, In the caldron steeped in sweetness; Feed him at the golden manger, In the boxes lined with copper, At my manger richly furnished, In the warmest of the stables; Tie him with a silk-like halter, To the golden rings and staples, To the hooks of purest silver, Set in beams of birch and oak-wood; Feed him on the hay the sweetest, Feed him on the corn nutritious, Give the best my barns can furnish. 'Curry well the suitor's courser With the curry-comb of fish-bone, Brush his hair with silken brushes, Put his mane and tail in order, Cover well with flannel blankets, Blankets wrought in gold and silver, Buckles forged from shining copper. 'Come, ye small lads of the village, Lead the suitor to my chambers, With your auburn locks uncovered, From your hands remove your mittens, See if ye can lead the hero Through the door without his stooping, Lifting not the upper cross-bar, Lowering not the oaken threshold, 353 Moving not the birchen casings, Great the hero who must enter. 'Ilmarinen is too stately, Cannot enter through the portals, Not the son-in-law and bridegroom, Till the portals have been heightened; Taller by a head the suitor Than the door-ways of the mansion.' Quick the servants of Pohyola Tore away the upper cross-bar, That his cap might not be lifted; Made the oaken threshold lower That the hero might not stumble; Made the birch-wood portals wider, Opened full the door of welcome, Easy entrance for the suitor. Speaks the hostess of the Northland As the bridegroom freely passes Through the doorway of her dwelling: 'Thanks are due to thee, O Ukko, That my son-in-law has entered! Let me now my halls examine; Make the bridal chambers ready, Finest linen on my tables, Softest furs upon my benches, Birchen flooring scrubbed to whiteness, All my rooms in perfect order.' Then the hostess of Pohyola Visited her spacious dwelling, Did not recognize her chambers; Every room had been remodeled, Changed by force of mighty magic; All the halls were newly burnished, Hedge-hog bones were used for ceilings, Bones of reindeer for foundations, Bones of wolverine for door-sills, For the cross-bars bones of roebuck, Apple-wood were all the rafters, Alder-wood, the window-casings, Scales of trout adorned the windows, And the fires were set in flowers. All the seats were made of silver, 354 All the floors of copper-tiling, Gold-adorned were all the tables, On the floor were silken mattings, Every fire-place set in copper, Every hearth-stone cut from marble, On each shelf were colored sea-shells, Kalew's tree was their protection. To the court-room came the hero, Chosen suitor from Wainola, These the words of Ilmarinen: 'Send, O Ukko, health and pleasure To this ancient home and dwelling, To this mansion richly fashioned!' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Let thy coming be auspicious To these halls of thee unworthy, To the home of thine affianced, To this dwelling lowly fashioned, Mid the lindens and the aspens. 'Come, ye maidens that should serve me, Come, ye fellows from the village, Bring me fire upon the birch-bark, Light the fagots of the fir-tree, That I may behold the bridegroom, Chosen suitor of my daughter, Fairy Maiden of the Rainbow, See the color of his eyeballs, Whether they are blue or sable, See if they are warm and faithful.' Quick the young lads from the village Brought the fire upon the birch-bark, Brought it on the tips of pine-wood; And the fire and smoke commingled Roll and roar about the hero, Blackening the suitor's visage, And the hostess speaks as follows; 'Bring the fire upon a taper, On the waxen tapers bring it!' Then the maidens did as bidden, Quickly brought the lighted tapers, Made the suitor's eyeballs glisten, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy; 355 Made his eyes of sable color Sparkle like the foam of waters, Like the reed-grass on the margin, Colored as the ocean jewels, Iridescent as the rainbow. 'Come, ye fellows of the hamlet, Lead my son-in-law and hero To the highest seat at table, To the seat of greatest honor, With his back upon the blue-wall, Looking on my bounteous tables, Facing all the guests of Northland.' Then the hostess of Pohyola Served her guests in great abundance, Richest drinks and rarest viands, First of all she, served the bridegroom On his platters, honeyed biscuit, And the sweetest river salmon, Seasoned butter, roasted bacon, All the dainties of Pohyola. Then the helpers served the others, Filled the plates of all invited With the varied food of Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Come, ye maidens from the village, Hither bring the beer in pitchers, In the urns with double handles, To the many guests in-gathered, Ere all others, serve the bridegroom.' Thereupon the merry maidens Brought the beer in silver pitchers From the copper-banded vessels, For the wedding-guests assembled; And the beer, fermenting, sparkled On the beard of Ilmarinen, On the beards of many heroes. When the guests had all partaken Of the wondrous beer of barley, Spake the beer in merry accents Through the tongues of the magicians, Through the tongue of many a hero, Through the tongue of Wainamoinen, 356 Famed to be the sweetest singer Of the Northland bards and minstrels, These the words of the enchanter: 'O thou beer of honeyed flavor, Let us not imbibe in silence, Let some hero sing thy praises, Sing thy worth in golden measures; Let the hostess start the singing, Let the bridegroom sound thy virtues! Have our songs thus quickly vanished, Have our joyful tongues grown silent? Evil then has been the brewing, Then the beer must be unworthy, That it does not cheer the singer, Does not move the merry minstrel, That the golden guests are joyless, And the cuckoo is not singing. Never will these benches echo Till the bench-guests chant thy virtues; Nor the floor resound thy praises Till the floor-guests sing in concord; Nor the windows join the chorus Till the window-guests have spoken; All the tables will keep silence Till the heroes toast thy virtues; Little singing from the chimney Till the chimney-guests have chanted.' On the floor a child was sitting, Thus the little boy made answer: 'I am small and young in singing, Have perchance but little wisdom; Be that as it may, my seniors, Since the elder minstrels sing not, Nor the heroes chant their legends, Nor the hostess lead the singing, I will sing my simple stories, Sing my little store of knowledge, To the pleasure of the evening, To the joy of the invited.' Near the fire reclined an old man, And the gray-beard thus made answer: 'Not the time for children's singing, 357 Children's wisdom is too ready, Children's songs are filled with trifles, Filled with shrewd and vain deceptions, Maiden-songs are full of follies; Leave the songs and incantations To the ancient wizard-singers; Leave the tales of times primeval To the minstrel of Wainola, To the hero of the Northland, To the, ancient Wainamoinen.' Thereupon Osmoinen answered: 'Are there not some sweeter singers In this honored congregation, That will clasp their hands together, Sing the ancient songs unbroken, Thus begin the incantations, Make these ancient halls re-echo For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of the in-gathered?' From the hearth-stone spake, the gray-beard 'Not a singer of Pohyola, Not a minstrel, nor magician, That was better skilled in chanting Legends of the days departed, Than was I when I was singing, In my years of vain ambition; Then I chanted tales of heroes, On the blue back of the waters, Sang the ballads of my people, In the vales and on the mountains, Through the verdant fields and forests; Sweet my voice and skilled my singing, All my songs were highly lauded, Rippled like the quiet rivers, Easy-flowing like the waters, Easy-gliding as the snow-shoes, Like the ship upon the ocean. 'Woe is me, my days are ended, Would not recognize my singing, All its sweetness gone to others, Flows no more like rippling waters, Makes no more the hills re-echo! 358 Now my songs are full of discord, Like the rake upon the stubble, Like the sledge upon the gravel, Like the boat upon the sea-shore!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake these words in magic measures: 'Since no other bard appeareth That will clasp my hand in singing, I will sing some simple legends, Sing my, garnered store of wisdom, Make these magic halls re-echo With my tales of ancient story, Since a bard I was created, Born an orator and singer; Do not ask the ways of others, Follow not the paths of strangers.' Wainamoinen, famous minstrel, Song's eternal, wise supporter, Then began the songs of pleasure, Made the halls resound with joyance, Filled the rooms with wondrous singing; Sang the ancient bard-magician All the oldest wisdom-sayings, Did not fail in voice nor legends, All the wisest thoughts remembered. Thus the ancient Wainamoinen Sang the joy of all assembled, To the pleasure of the evening, To the merriment of maidens, To the happiness of heroes; All the guests were stilled in wonder At the magic of his singing, At the songs of the magician. Spake again wise Wainamoinen, When his wonder-tales had ended: 'l have little worth or power, Am a bard of little value, Little consequence my singing, Mine abilities as nothing, If but Ukko, my Creator, Should intone his wisdom-sayings, Sing the source of good and evil, 359 Sing the origin of matter, Sing the legends of omniscience, Sing his songs in full perfection. God could sing the floods to honey, Sing the sands to ruddy berries, Sing the pebbles into barley, Sing to beer the running waters, Sing to salt the rocks of ocean, Into corn-fields sing the forests, Into gold the forest-fruitage, Sing to bread the hills and mountains, Sing to eggs the rounded sandstones; He could touch the springs of magic, He could turn the keys of nature, And produce within thy pastures, Hurdles filled with sheep and reindeer, Stables filled with fleet-foot stallions, Kine in every field and fallow; Sing a fur-robe for the bridegroom, For the bride a coat of ermine, For the hostess, shoes of silver, For the hero, mail of copper. 'Grant O Ukko, my Creator, God of love, and truth, and justice, Grant thy blessing on our feasting, Bless this company assembled, For the good of Sariola, For the happiness of Northland! May this bread and beer bring joyance, May they come in rich abundance, May they carry full contentment To the people of Pohyola, To the cabin and the mansion; May the hours we spend in singing, In the morning, in the evening, Fill our hearts with joy and gladness! Hear us in our supplications, Grant to us thy needed blessings, Send enjoyment, health, and comfort, To the people here assembled, To the host and to the hostess, To the bride and to the bridegroom, 360 To the sons upon the waters, To the daughters at their weavings, To the hunters on the mountains, To the shepherds in the fenlands, That our lives may end in honor, That we may recall with pleasure Ilmarinen's magic marriage To the Maiden of the Rainbow, Snow-white virgin of the Northland.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1408:Love in a hut, with water and a crust, IsLove, forgive us!cinders, ashes, dust; Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermits fast: That is a doubtful tale from faery land, Hard for the non-elect to understand. Had Lycius livd to hand his story down, He might have given the moral a fresh frown, Or clenchd it quite: but too short was their bliss To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss. Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare, Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair, Hoverd and buzzd his wings, with fearful roar, Above the lintel of their chamber door, And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. For all this came a ruin: side by side They were enthroned, in the even tide, Upon a couch, near to a curtaining Whose airy texture, from a golden string, Floated into the room, and let appear Unveild the summer heaven, blue and clear, Betwixt two marble shafts:there they reposed, Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed, Saving a tythe which love still open kept, That they might see each other while they almost slept; When from the slope side of a suburb hill, Deafening the swallows twitter, came a thrill Of trumpetsLycius startedthe sounds fled, But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. For the first time, since first he harbourd in That purple-lined palace of sweet sin, His spirit passd beyond its golden bourn Into the noisy world almost forsworn. The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, Saw this with pain, so arguing a want Of something more, more than her empery Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh Because he mused beyond her, knowing well That but a moments thought is passions passing bell. Why do you sigh, fair creature? whisperd he: Why do you think? returnd she tenderly: You have deserted me;where am I now? Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow: No, no, you have dismissd me; and I go From your breast houseless: ay, it must be so. He answerd, bending to her open eyes, Where he was mirrord small in paradise, My silver planet, both of eve and morn! Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn, While I am striving how to fill my heart With deeper crimson, and a double smart? How to entangle, trammel up and snare Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose? Ay, a sweet kissyou see your mighty woes. My thoughts! shall I unveil them? Listen then! What mortal hath a prize, that other men May be confounded and abashd withal, But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical, And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinths voice. Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, While through the thronged streets your bridal car Wheels round its dazzling spokes.The ladys cheek Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and meek, Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain Of sorrows at his words; at last with pain Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung, To change his purpose. He thereat was stung, Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim Her wild and timid nature to his aim: Besides, for all his love, in self despite, Against his better self, he took delight Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue Fierce and sanguineous as twas possible In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell. Fine was the mitigated fury, like Apollos presence when in act to strike The serpentHa, the serpent! certes, she Was none. She burnt, she lovd the tyranny, And, all subdued, consented to the hour When to the bridal he should lead his paramour. Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth, I have not askd it, ever thinking thee Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, As still I do. Hast any mortal name, Fit appellation for this dazzling frame? Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth, To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth? I have no friends, said Lamia, no, not one; My presence in wide Corinth hardly known: My parents bones are in their dusty urns Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns, Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me, And I neglect the holy rite for thee. Even as you list invite your many guests; But if, as now it seems, your vision rests With any pleasure on me, do not bid Old Apolloniusfrom him keep me hid. Lycius, perplexd at words so blind and blank, Made close inquiry; from whose touch she shrank, Feigning a sleep; and he to the dull shade Of deep sleep in a moment was betrayd. It was the custom then to bring away The bride from home at blushing shut of day, Veild, in a chariot, heralded along By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song, With other pageants: but this fair unknown Had not a friend. So being left alone, (Lycius was gone to summon all his kin) And knowing surely she could never win His foolish heart from its mad pompousness, She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress The misery in fit magnificence. She did so, but tis doubtful how and whence Came, and who were her subtle servitors. About the halls, and to and from the doors, There was a noise of wings, till in short space The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched grace. A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade Of palm and plantain, met from either side, High in the midst, in honour of the bride: Two palms and then two plantains, and so on, From either side their stems branchd one to one All down the aisled place; and beneath all There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall. So canopied, lay an untasted feast Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest, Silently paced about, and as she went, In pale contented sort of discontent, Missiond her viewless servants to enrich The fretted splendour of each nook and niche. Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, Came jasper pannels; then, anon, there burst Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees, And with the larger wove in small intricacies. Approving all, she faded at self-will, And shut the chamber up, close, hushd and still, Complete and ready for the revels rude, When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude. The day appeard, and all the gossip rout. O senseless Lycius! Madman! wherefore flout The silent-blessing fate, warm cloisterd hours, And show to common eyes these secret bowers? The herd approachd; each guest, with busy brain, Arriving at the portal, gazd amain, And enterd marveling: for they knew the street, Rememberd it from childhood all complete Without a gap, yet neer before had seen That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne; So in they hurried all, mazd, curious and keen: Save one, who lookd thereon with eye severe, And with calm-planted steps walkd in austere; Twas Apollonius: something too he laughd, As though some knotty problem, that had daft His patient thought, had now begun to thaw, And solve and melt:twas just as he foresaw. He met within the murmurous vestibule His young disciple. Tis no common rule, Lycius, said he, for uninvited guest To force himself upon you, and infest With an unbidden presence the bright throng Of younger friends; yet must I do this wrong, And you forgive me. Lycius blushd, and led The old man through the inner doors broad-spread; With reconciling words and courteous mien Turning into sweet milk the sophists spleen. Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, Filld with pervading brilliance and perfume: Before each lucid pannel fuming stood A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, Whose slender feet wide-swervd upon the soft Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke From fifty censers their light voyage took To the high roof, still mimickd as they rose Along the mirrord walls by twin-clouds odorous. Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered, High as the level of a mans breast reard On libbards paws, upheld the heavy gold Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told Of Ceres horn, and, in huge vessels, wine Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood, Each shrining in the midst the image of a God. When in an antichamber every guest Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure pressd, By ministring slaves, upon his hands and feet, And fragrant oils with ceremony meet Pourd on his hair, they all movd to the feast In white robes, and themselves in order placed Around the silken couches, wondering Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring. Soft went the music the soft air along, While fluent Greek a voweld undersong Kept up among the guests discoursing low At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow; But when the happy vintage touchd their brains, Louder they talk, and louder come the strains Of powerful instruments:the gorgeous dyes, The space, the splendour of the draperies, The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, Beautiful slaves, and Lamias self, appear, Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed, And every soul from human trammels freed, No more so strange; for merry wine, sweet wine, Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height; Flushd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright: Garlands of every green, and every scent From vales deflowerd, or forest-trees branch rent, In baskets of bright osierd gold were brought High as the handles heapd, to suit the thought Of every guest; that each, as he did please, Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillowd at his ease. What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius? What for the sage, old Apollonius? Upon her aching forehead be there hung The leaves of willow and of adders tongue; And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage, Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage War on his temples. Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an Angels wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made The tender-persond Lamia melt into a shade. By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, Scarce saw in all the room another face, Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took Full brimmd, and opposite sent forth a look Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance From his old teachers wrinkled countenance, And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher Had fixd his eye, without a twinkle or stir Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride. Lycius then pressd her hand, with devout touch, As pale it lay upon the rosy couch: Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins; Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start? Knowst thou that man? Poor Lamia answerd not. He gazd into her eyes, and not a jot Ownd they the lovelorn piteous appeal: More, more he gazd: his human senses reel: Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs; There was no recognition in those orbs. Lamia! he criedand no soft-toned reply. The many heard, and the loud revelry Grew hush; the stately music no more breathes; The myrtle sickend in a thousand wreaths. By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased; A deadly silence step by step increased, Until it seemd a horrid presence there, And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. Lamia! he shriekd; and nothing but the shriek With its sad echo did the silence break. Begone, foul dream! he cried, gazing again In the brides face, where now no azure vein Wanderd on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom Misted the cheek; no passion to illume The deep-recessed vision:all was blight; Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man! Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images Here represent their shadowy presences, May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn, In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright Of conscience, for their long offended might, For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries, Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. Corinthians! look upon that gray-beard wretch! Mark how, possessd, his lashless eyelids stretch Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see! My sweet bride withers at their potency. Fool! said the sophist, in an under-tone Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan From Lycius answerd, as heart-struck and lost, He sank supine beside the aching ghost. Fool! Fool! repeated he, while his eyes still Relented not, nor movd; from every ill Of life have I preservd thee to this day, And shall I see thee made a serpents prey? Then Lamia breathd death breath; the sophists eye, Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well As her weak hand could any meaning tell, Motiond him to be silent; vainly so, He lookd and lookd again a level--No! A Serpent! echoed he; no sooner said, Than with a frightful scream she vanished: And Lycius arms were empty of delight, As were his limbs of life, from that same night. On the high couch he lay!his friends came round-- Supported himno pulse, or breath they found, And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound. (line 50): Keats adopted here, in the manuscript, a pointing notice before: he placed the note of interrogation at the end of this line, a semi-colon at the end of line 51, and a full-stop at the end of line 54. The pointing of the text is from the first edition. (lines 124-6): Leigh Hunt notes - "This is the very quintessence of the romantic." (line 140): Rejected reading, "wainscoated" for "marbled plain." (line 239): In the Autobiography of Haydon, as edited by the late Mr. Tom Taylor, we read at page 354 of Volume 1 (edition of 1853) that Keats and Lamb, at one of the meetings at Haydon's house, agreed that Newton "had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow, by reducing it to the prismatic colours." This meeting was what Haydon calls "the immortal dinner" of the 28th of December 1817; so that the idea appears to have persisted in Keats's mind. Last line: The following extract is appended in Keats's edition as a note to the last line of Lamia:-- "Philostratus, in his fourth book 'de Vita Apollonii', hath a memorable instance in this kind, which I may not omit, of one Menippus Lycius, a young man twenty-five years of age, that going betwixt Cenchreas and Corinth, met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman, which taking him by the hand, carried him home to her house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and told him she was a Phoenician by birth, and if he would tarry with her, he should hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as never any drank, and no man should molest him; but she, being fair and lovely, would live and die with him, that was fair and lovely to behold. The young man, a philosopher, otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate his passions, though not this of love, tarried with her a while to his great content, and at last married her, to whose wedding, amongst other guests, came Apollonius; who, by some probable conjectures, found her out to be a serpent, a lamia; and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' gold, descried by Homer, no substance but mere illusions. When she saw herself descried, she wept, and desired Apollonius to be silent, but he would not be moved, and thereupon she, plate, house, and all that was in it, vanished in an instant: many thousands took notice of this fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece." ~ John Keats, Lamia. Part II ,

1409:The Kalevala - Rune Xxii THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. When the marriage was completed, When the many guests had feasted, At the wedding of the Northland, At the Dismal-land carousal, Spake the hostess of Pohyola To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Wherefore, bridegroom, dost thou linger, Why art waiting, Northland hero? Sittest for the father's pleasure, For affection of the mother, For the splendor of the maidens, For the beauty of the daughter? Noble son-in-law and brother, Wait thou longer, having waited Long already for the virgin, Thine affianced is not ready, Not prepared, thy life-companion, Only are her tresses braided. 'Chosen bridegroom, pride of Pohya, Wait thou longer, having waited Long already for the virgin, Thy beloved is preparing, Only is one hand made ready. 'Famous artist, Ilmarinen, Wait still longer, having waited Long already for the virgin, Thy beloved is not ready, Only is one foot in fur-shoes,' Spake again the ancient Louhi: 'Chosen suitor of my daughter, Thou hast thrice in kindness waited, Wait no longer for the virgin, Thy beloved now is ready, Well prepared thy life-companion, Fairy Maiden of the Rainbow. 'Beauteous daughter, join thy suitor, 362 Follow him, thy chosen husband, Very near is the uniting, Near indeed thy separation. At thy hand the honored bridegroom, Near the door he waits to lead thee, Guide thee to his home and kindred; At the gate his steed is waiting, Restless champs his silver bridle, And the sledge awaits thy presence. 'Thou wert anxious for a suitor, Ready to accept his offer, Wert in haste to take his jewels, Place his rings upon thy fingers; Now, fair daughter, keep thy promise; To his sledge, with happy footsteps, Hie in haste to join the bridegroom, Gaily journey to the village With thy chosen life-companion, With thy suitor, Ilmarinen. Little hast thou looked about thee, Hast not raised thine eyes above thee, Beauteous maiden of the Northland, Hast thou made a rueful bargain, Full of wailing thine engagement, And thy marriage full of sorrow, That thy father's ancient cottage Thou art leaving now forever, Leaving also friends and kindred, For the, blacksmith, Ilmarinen? 'O how beautiful thy childhood, In thy father's dwelling-places, Nurtured like a tender flower, Like the strawberry in spring-time Soft thy couch and sweet thy slumber, Warm thy fires and rich thy table; From the fields came corn in plenty, From the highlands, milk and berries, Wheat and barley in abundance, Fish, and fowl, and hare, and bacon, From thy father's fields and forests. 'Never wert thou, child, in sorrow, Never hadst thou grief nor trouble, 363 All thy cares were left to fir-trees, All thy worry to the copses, All thy weeping to the willows, All thy sighing to the lindens, All thy thinking to the aspens And the birches on the mountains, Light and airy as the leaflet, As a butterfly in summer, Ruddy as a mountain-berry, Beautiful as vernal flowers. 'Now thou leavest home and kindred, Wanderest to other firesides, Goest to another mother, Other sisters, other brothers, Goest to a second father, To the servant-folk of strangers, From thy native hills and lowlands. There and here the homes will differ, Happier thy mother's hearth-stone; Other horns will there be sounded, Other portals there swing open, Other hinges there be creaking; There the doors thou canst not enter Like the daughters of Wainola, Canst not tend the fires and ovens As will please the minds of strangers. 'Didst thou think, my fairest maiden, Thou couldst wed and on the morrow Couldst return, if thou shouldst wish it, To thy father's court and dwelling? Not for one, nor two, nor three days, Wilt thou leave thy mother's chambers, Leave thy sisters and thy brothers, Leave thy father's hills and lowlands. Long the time the wife must wander, Many months and years must wander, Work, and struggle, all her life long, Even though the mother liveth. Great, indeed, must be the changes When thou comest back to Pohya, Changed, thy friends and nearest kindred, Changed, thy father's ancient dwellings, 364 Changed, the valleys and the mountains, Other birds will sing thy praises!' When the mother thus had spoken, Then the daughter spake, departing: 'In my early days of childhood Often I intoned these measures: 'Art a virgin, yet no virgin, Guided by an aged mother, In a brother's fields and forests, In the mansion of a father! Only wilt become a virgin, Only when thou hast a suitor, Only when thou wedst a hero, One foot on the father's threshold, And the other for the snow-sledge That will speed thee and thy husband To his native vales and highlands!' 'I have wished thus many summers, Sang it often in my childhood, Hoped for this as for the flowers, Welcome as the birds of spring-time. Thus fulfilled are all my wishes, Very near is my departure, One foot on my father's threshold, And the, other for the journey With my husband to his people; Cannot understand the reason That has changed my former feelings, Cannot leave thee now with gladness, Cannot go with great rejoicing From my dear, old home and kindred, Where as maiden I have lingered, From the courts where I was nurtured, From my father's band and guidance, From my faithful mother's counsel. Now I go, a maid of sorrow, Heavy-hearted to the bridegroom, Like the bride of Night in winter, Like the ice upon the rivers. 'Such is not the mind of others, Other brides of Northland heroes; Others do not leave unhappy, 365 Have no tears, nor cares, nor sorrows, I alas! must weep and murmur, Carry to my grave great sadness, Heart as dark as Death's black river. 'Such the feelings of the happy, Such the minds of merry maidens: Like the early dawn of spring-time, Like the rising Sun in summer No such radiance awaits me, With my young heart filled with terror; Happiness is not my portion, Like the flat-shore of the ocean, Like the dark rift of the storm-cloud, Like the cheerless nights of winter! Dreary is the day in autumn, Dreary too the autumn evening, Still more dreary is my future!' An industrious old maiden, Ever guarding home and kindred, Spake these words of doubtful comfort: 'Dost thou, beauteous bride, remember, Canst thou not recall my counsels? These the words that I have taught thee: 'Look not joyfully for suitors, Never heed the tongues of wooers, Look not in the eyes of charmers, At their feet let fall thy vision. He that hath a mouth for sweetness, He that hath an eye for beauty, Offers little that will comfort; Lempo sits upon his forehead, In his mouth dwells dire Tuoni.' 'Thus, fair bride, did I advise thee, Thus advised my sister's daughter: Should there come the best of suitors, Noblest wooers, proudest lovers, Give to all these wisdom-sayings, Let thine answer be as follows: 'Never will I think it wisdom, Never will it be my pleasure, To become a second daughter, Linger with my husband's mother; 366 Never shall I leave my father, Never wander forth to bondage, At the bidding of a bridegroom: Never shall I be a servant, Wife and slave to any hero, Never will I be submissive To the orders of a husband.' 'Fairest bride, thou didst not heed me, Gav'st no thought to my advices, Didst not listen to my counsel; Wittingly thy feet have wandered Into boiling tar and water, Hastened to thy suitor's snow-sledge, To the bear-dens of thy husband, On his sledge to be ill-treated, Carried to his native country, To the bondage of his people, There, a subject to his mother. Thou hast left thy mother's dwelling, To the schooling of the master; Hard indeed the master's teachings, Little else than constant torture; Ready for thee are his bridles, Ready for thy bands the shackles, Were not forged for any other; Soon, indeed, thou'lt feel the hardness, Feel the weight of thy misfortune, Feel thy second father's censure, And his wife's inhuman treatment, Hear the cold words or thy brother, Quail before thy haughty sister. 'Listen, bride, to what I tell thee: In thy home thou wert a jewel, Wert thy father's pride and pleasure, 'Moonlight,' did thy father call thee, And thy mother called thee 'Sunshine,' 'Sea-foam' did thy brother call thee, And thy sister called thee 'Flower.' When thou leavest home and kindred Goest to a second mother, Often she will give thee censure, Never treat thee as her daughter, 367 Rarely will she give thee counsel, Never will she sound thy praises. 'Brush-wood,' will the father call thee, 'Sledge of Rags,' thy husband's mother, 'Flight of Stairs,' thy stranger brother, 'Scare-crow,' will the sister call thee, Sister of thy blacksmith-husband; Then wilt think of my good counsels, Then wilt wish in tears and murmurs, That as steam thou hadst ascended, That as smoke thy soul had risen, That as sparks thy life had vanished. As a bird thou canst not wander From thy nest to circle homeward, Canst not fall and die like leaflets, As the sparks thou canst not perish, Like the smoke thou canst not vanish. 'Youthful bride, and darling sister, Thou hast bartered all thy friendships, Hast exchanged thy loving father, Thou hast left thy faithful mother For the mother of thy husband; Hast exchanged thy loving brother, Hast renounced thy gentle sister, For the kindred of thy suitor; Hast exchanged thy snow-white covers For the rocky couch of sorrow; Hast exchanged these crystal waters For the waters of Wainola; Hast renounced these sandy sea-shores For the muddy banks of Kalew; Northland glens thou hast forsaken For thy husband's barren meadows; Thou hast left thy berry-mountains For the stubble-fields and deserts. 'Thou, O maiden, hast been thinking Thou wouldst happy be in wedlock; Neither work, nor care, nor sorrow, From this night would be thy portion, With thy husband for protection. Not to sleep art thou conducted, Not to happiness, nor joyance, 368 Wakefulness, thy night-companion, And thy day-attendant, trouble; Often thou wilt drink of sorrow, Often long for vanished pleasures. 'When at home thou hadst no head-gear, Thou hadst also little sadness; When thy couch was not of linen, No unhappiness came nigh thee; Head-gear brings but pain and sorrow, Linen breeds bad dispositions, Linen brings but deeps of anguish, And the flax untimely mourning. 'Happy in her home, the maiden, Happy at her father's fireside, Like the master in his mansion, Happy with her bows and arrows. 'Tis not thus with married women; Brides of heroes may be likened To the prisoners of Moskva, Held in bondage by their masters. 'As a wife, must weep and labor, Carry trouble on both shoulders; When the next hour passes over, Thou must tend the fire and oven, Must prepare thy husband's dinner, Must direct thy master's servants. When thine evening meal is ready, Thou must search for bidden wisdom In the brain of perch and salmon, In the mouths of ocean whiting, Gather wisdom from the cuckoo, Canst not learn it from thy mother, Mother dear of seven daughters; Cannot find among her treasures Where were born the human instincts, Where were born the minds of heroes, Whence arose the maiden's beauty, Whence the beauty of her tresses, Why all life revives in spring-time. 'Weep, O weep, my pretty young bride. When thou weepest, weep sincerely, Weep great rivers from thine eyelids, 369 Floods of tears in field and fallow, Lakelets in thy father's dwelling; Weep thy rooms to overflowing, Shed thy tears in great abundance, Lest thou weepest on returning To thy native hills and valleys, When thou visitest thy father In the smoke of waning glory, On his arm a withered tassel. 'Weep, O weep, my lovely maiden, When thou weepest, weep in earnest, Weep great rivers from thine eyelids; If thou dost not weep sincerely, Thou wilt weep on thy returning To thy Northland home and kindred, When thou visitest thy mother Old and breathless near the hurdles, In her arms a barley-bundle. 'Weep, O weep, sweet bride of beauty, When thou weepest, weep profusely; If thou dost not weep in earnest, Thou wilt weep on thy returning To thy native vales and highlands, When thou visitest thy brother Lying wounded by the way-side, In his hand but empty honors. 'Weep, O weep, my sister's daughter, Weep great rivers from thine eyelids; If thou dost not weep sufficient, Thou wilt weep on thy returning To the scenes of happy childhood, When thou visitest thy sister Lying, prostrate in the meadow, In her hand a birch-wood mallet.' When the ancient maid had ended, Then the young bride sighed in anguish, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, Spake these words in deeps of sorrow: 'O, ye sisters, my beloved, Ye companions of my childhood, Playmates of my early summers, Listen to your sister's counsel: 370 Cannot comprehend the reason, Why my mind is so dejected, Why this weariness and sadness, This untold and unseen torture, Cannot understand the meaning Of this mighty weight of sorrow! Differently I had thought it, I had hoped for greater pleasures, I had hoped to sing as cuckoos, On the hill-tops call and echo, When I had attained this station, Reached at last the goal expectant; But I am not like the cuckoo, Singing, merry on the hill-tops; I am like the songless blue-duck, As she swims upon the waters, Swims upon the cold, cold ocean, Icicles upon her pinions. 'Ancient father, gray-haired mother, Whither do ye wish to lead me, Whither take this bride, thy daughter, That this sorrow may pass over, Where this heavy heart may lighten, Where this grief may turn to gladness? Better it had been, O mother, Hadst thou nursed a block of birch-wood, Hadst thou clothed the colored sandstone, Rather than this hapless maiden, For the fulness of these sorrows, For this keen and killing trouble. Many sympathizers tell me: 'Foolish bride, thou art ungrateful, Do not grieve, thou child of sorrow, Thou hast little cause for weeping.' 'O, deceive me not, my people, Do not argue with me falsely, For alas! I have more troubles Than the waterfalls have pebbles, Than the Ingerland has willows, Than the Suomi-hills have berries; Never could the Pohya plow-horse Pull this mighty weight of sorrow, 371 Shaking not his birchen cross-bar, Breaking not his heavy collar; Never could the Northland reindeer Heavy shod and stoutly harnessed, Draw this load of care and trouble.' By the stove a babe was playing, And the young child spake as follows: 'Why, O fair bride, art thou weeping, Why these tears of pain and sadness? Leave thy troubles to the elk-herds, And thy grief to sable fillies, Let the steeds of iron bridles Bear the burden of thine anguish, Horses have much larger foreheads, Larger shoulders, stronger sinews, And their necks are made for labor, Stronger are their bones and muscles, Let them bear thy heavy burdens. There is little good in weeping, Useless are thy tears of sorrow; Art not led to swamps and lowlands, Nor to banks of little rivers; Thou art led to fields of flowers, Led to fruitful trees and forests, Led away from beer of Pohya To the sweeter mead of Kalew. At thy shoulder waits thy husband, On thy right side, Ilmarinen, Constant friend and life-protector, He will guard thee from all evil; Husband ready, steed in waiting, Gold-and-silver-mounted harness, Hazel-birds that sing and flutter On the courser's yoke and cross-bar; Thrushes also sing and twitter Merrily on hame and collar, Seven bluebirds, seven cuckoos, Sing thy wedding-march in concord. 'Be no longer full of sorrow, Dry thy tears, thou bride of beauty, Thou hast found a noble husband, Better wilt thou fare than ever, 372 By the side of Ilmarinen, Artist husband, metal-master, Bread-provider of thy table, On the arm of the fish-catcher, On the breast of the elk-hunter, By the side of the bear-killer. Thou hast won the best of suitors, Hast obtained a mighty hero; Never idle is his cross-bow, On the nails his quivers hang not, Neither are his dogs in kennel, Active agents is his bunting. Thrice within the budding spring-time In the early hours of morning He arises from his fare-couch, From his slumber in the brush-wood, Thrice within the sowing season, On his eyes the deer has fallen, And the branches brushed his vesture, And his locks been combed by fir-boughs. Hasten homeward with thy husband, Where thy hero's friends await thee, Where his forests sing thy welcome. 'Ilmarinen there possesses All the birds that fly in mid-air, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands, All that feed upon the mountains, All that graze on hill and valley, Sheep and cattle by the thousands; Sweet the grass upon his meadows, Sweet the barley in his uplands, In the lowlands corn abundant, Wheat upon the elm-wood fallows, Near the streamlets rye is waving, Waving grain on many acres, On his mountains gold and silver, Rich his mines of shining copper, Highlands filled with magic metals, Chests of jewels in his store-house, All the wealth of Kalevala.' 373 ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1410:Mother And Daughter- Sonnet Sequence Young laughters, and my music! Aye till now The voice can reach no blending minors near; 'Tis the bird's trill because the spring is here And spring means trilling on a blossomy bough; 'Tis the spring joy that has no why or how, But sees the sun and hopes not nor can fear-Spring is so sweet and spring seems all the year. Dear voice, the first-come birds but trill as thou. Oh music of my heart, be thus for long: Too soon the spring bird learns the later song; Too soon a sadder sweetness slays content Too soon! There comes new light on onward day, There comes new perfume o'er a rosier way: Comes not again the young spring joy that went. ROME, November 1881. II That she is beautiful is not delight, As some think mothers joy, by pride of her, To witness questing eyes caught prisoner And hear her praised the livelong dancing night; But the glad impulse that makes painters sight Bids me note her and grow the happier; And love that finds me as her worshipper Reveals me each best loveliness aright. Oh goddess head! Oh innocent brave eyes! Oh curved and parted lips where smiles are rare And sweetness ever! Oh smooth shadowy hair Gathered around the silence of her brow! Child, I'd needs love thy beauty stranger-wise: And oh the beauty of it, being thou! III I watch the sweet grave face in timorous thought Lest I should see it dawn to some unrest And read that in her heart is youth's ill guest, 117 The querulous young sadness, born of nought, That wearies of the strife it has not fought, And finds the life it has not had unblest, And asks it knows not what that should be best, And till Love come has never what it sought. But she is still. A full and crystal lake So gives it skies their passage to its deeps In an unruffled morn where no winds wake, And, strong and fretless, 'stirs not, nor yet sleeps. My darling smiles and 'tis for gladness' sake; She hears a woe, 'tis simple tears she weeps. IV 'Tis but a child. The quiet Juno gaze Breaks at a trifle into mirth and glow, Changed as a folded bud bursts into blow, And she springs, buoyant, on some busy craze, Or, in the rhythm of her girlish plays, Like light upon swift waves floats to and fro, And, whatsoe'er's her mirth, needs me to know, And keeps me young by her young innocent ways. Just now she and her kitten raced and sprang To catch the daisy ball she tossed about; Then they grew grave, and found a shady tree, And kitty tried to see the notes she sang: Now she flies hitherward--'Mother! Quick! Come see! Two hyacinths in my garden almost out!' Last night the broad blue lightnings flamed the sky; We watched, our breaths caught as each burst its way, And through its fire out-leaped the sharp white ray, And sudden dark re-closed when it went by: But she, that where we are will needs be nigh, Had tired with hunting orchids half the day. Her father thought she called us; he and I, Half anxious, reached the bedroom where she lay. Oh lily face upon the whiteness blent! 118 How calm she lay in her unconscious grace! A peal crashed on the silence ere we went; She stirred in sleep, a little changed her place, 'Mother,' she breathed, a smile grew on her face: 'Mother,' my darling breathed, and slept content. VI Sometimes, as young things will, she vexes me, Wayward, or too unheeding, or too blind. Like aimless birds that, flying on a wind, Strike slant against their own familiar tree; Like venturous children pacing with the sea, That turn but when the breaker spurts behind Outreaching them with spray: she in such kind Is borne against some fault, or does not flee. And so, may be, I blame her for her wrong, And she will frown and lightly plead her part, And then I bid her go. But 'tis not long: Then comes she lip to ear and heart to heart. And thus forgiven her love seems newly strong, And, oh my penitent, how dear thou art! VII Her father lessons me I at times am hard, Chiding a moment's fault as too grave ill, And let some little blot my vision fill, Scanning her with a narrow near regard. True. Love's unresting gaze is self-debarred From all sweet ignorance, and learns a skill, Not painless, of such signs as hurt love's will, That would not have its prize one tittle marred. Alas! Who rears and loves a dawning rose Starts at a speck upon one petal's rim: Who sees a dusk creep in the shrined pearl's glows, Is ruined at once: 'My jewel growing dim!' I watch one bud that on my bosom blows, I watch one treasured pearl for me and him. VIII A little child she, half defiant came 119 Reasoning her case--'twas not so long ago-'I cannot mind your scolding, for I know However bad I were you'd love the same.' And I, what countering answer could I frame? 'Twas true, and true, and God's self told her so. One does but ask one's child to smile and grow, And each rebuke has love for its right name. And yet, methinks, sad mothers who for years, Watching the child pass forth that was their boast, Have counted all the footsteps by new fears Till even lost fears seem hopes whereof they're reft And of all mother's good love sole is left-Is their Love, Love, or some remembered ghost? IX Oh weary hearts! Poor mothers that look back! So outcasts from the vale where they were born Turn on their road and, with a joy forlorn, See the far roofs below their arid track: So in chill buffets while the sea grows black And windy skies, once blue, are tost and torn, We are not yet forgetful of the morn, And praise anew the sunshine that we lack. Oh, sadder than pale sufferers by a tomb That say 'My dead is happier, and is more' Are they who dare no 'is' but tell what's o'er-Thus the frank childhood, those the lovable ways-Stirring the ashes of remembered days For yet some sparks to warm the livelong gloom. Love's Counterfeit. Not Love, not Love, that worn and footsore thrall Who, crowned with withered buds and leaves gone dry, Plods in his chains to follow one passed by, Guerdoned with only tears himself lets fall. Love is asleep and smiling in his pall, 120 And this that wears his shape and will not die Was once his comrade shadow, Memory-His shadow that now stands for him in all. And there are those who, hurrying on past reach, See the dim follower and laugh, content, 'Lo, Love pursues me, go where'er I will!' Yet, longer gazing, some may half beseech, 'This must be Love that wears his features still: Or else when was the moment that Love went?' XI Love's Mourner. 'Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain The woman's love, wife's, mother's, still will hold, And breathes the sweeter and will more unfold For winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain. So in a thousand voices has the strain Of this dear patient madness been retold, That men call woman's love. Ah! they are bold, Naming for love that grief which does remain. Love faints that looks on baseness face to face: Love pardons all; but by the pardonings dies, With a fresh wound of each pierced through the breast. And there stand pityingly in Love's void place Kindness of household wont familiar-wise, And faith to Love--faith to our dead at rest. XII She has made me wayside posies: here they stand, Bringing fresh memories of where they grew. As new-come travellers from a world we knew Wake every while some image of their land, So these whose buds our woodland breezes fanned Bring to my room the meadow where they blew, The brook-side cliff, the elms where wood-doves coo-And every flower is dearer for her hand. 121 Oh blossoms of the paths she loves to tread, Some grace of her is in all thoughts you bear: For in my memories of your homes that were The old sweet loneliness they kept is fled, And would I think it back I find instead A presence of my darling mingling there. XIII My darling scarce thinks music sweet save mine: 'Tis that she does but love me more than hear. She'll not believe my voice to stranger ear Is merely measure to the note and line; 'Not so,' she says; 'Thou hast a secret thine: The others' singing's only rich, or clear, But something in thy tones brings music near; As though thy song could search me and divine.' Oh voice of mine that in some day not far Time, the strong creditor, will call his debt, Will dull--and even to her--will rasp and mar, Sing Time asleep because of her regret, Be twice thy life the thing her fancies are, Thou echo to the self she knows not yet. CASERTA, April, 1882. XIV To love her as to-day is so great bliss I needs must think of morrows almost loth, Morrows wherein the flower's unclosing growth Shall make my darling other than she is. The breathing rose excels the bud I wis, Yet bud that will be rose is sweet for both; And by-and-by seems like some later troth Named in the moment of a lover's kiss. Yes, I am jealous, as of one now strange That shall instead of her possess my thought, Of her own self made new by any change, Of her to be by ripening morrows brought. My rose of women under later skies! Yet, ah! my child with the child's trustful eyes! 122 XV That some day Death who has us all for jest Shall hide me in the dark and voiceless mould, And him whose living hand has mine in hold, Where loving comes not nor the looks that rest, Shall make us nought where we are known the best, Forgotten things that leave their track untold As in the August night the sky's dropped gold-This seems no strangeness, but Death's natural hest. But looking on the dawn that is her face To know she too is Death's seems mis-belief; She should not find decay, but, as the sun Moves mightier from the veil that hides his place, Keep ceaseless radiance. Life is Death begun: But Death and her! That's strangeness passing grief. XVI She will not have it that my day wanes low, Poor of the fire its drooping sun denies, That on my brow the thin lines write good-byes Which soon may be read plain for all to know, Telling that I have done with youth's brave show; Alas! and done with youth in heart and eyes, With wonder and with far expectancies, Save but to say 'I knew such long ago.' She will not have it. Loverlike to me, She with her happy gaze finds all that's best, She sees this fair and that unfretted still, And her own sunshine over all the rest: So she half keeps me as she'd have me be, And I forget to age, through her sweet will. XVII And how could I grow old while she's so young? Methinks her heart sets tune for mine to beat, We are so near; her new thoughts, incomplete, Find their shaped wording happen on my tongue; Like bloom on last year's winterings newly sprung My youth upflowers with hers, and must repeat 123 Old joyaunces in me nigh obsolete. Could I grow older while my child's so young? And there are tales how youthful blood instilled Thawing frore Age's veins gave life new course, And quavering limbs and eyes made indolent Grew freshly eager with beginning force: She so breathes impulse. Were my years twice spent, Not burdening Age, with her, could make me chilled. XVIII 'Tis hard that the full summer of our round Is but the turn where winter's sign-post's writ; That to have reached the best is leaving it; That final loss bears date from having found. So some proud vessel in a narrow sound Sails at high water with the fair wind fit, And lo! the ebb along the sandy spit, Lower and lower till she jars, aground. 'Tis hard. We are young still but more content; 'Tis our ripe flush, the heyday of our prime; We learn full breath, how rich of the air we are! But suddenly we note a touch of time, A little fleck that scarcely seems to mar; And we know then that some time since youth went. XIX Life on the wane: yes, sudden that news breaks. And yet I would 'twere suddenly and less soon; Since no forewarning makes loss opportune. And now I watch that slow advance Time makes: Watch as, while silent flow spreads broad the lakes Mid the land levels of a smooth lagoon, One waiting, pitiful, on a tidal dune, Aware too long before it overtakes. Ah! there's so quick a joy in hues and sun, And will my eyes see dim? Will vacant sense Forget the lark, the surges on the beach? Shall I step wearily and wish 'twere done? Well, if it be love will not too go hence, 124 Love will have new glad secrets yet to teach. XX There's one I miss. A little questioning maid That held my finger, trotting by my side, And smiled out of her pleased eyes open wide, Wondering and wiser at each word I said. And I must help her frolics if she played, And I must feel her trouble if she cried; My lap was hers past right to be denied; She did my bidding, but I more obeyed. Dearer she is to-day, dearer and more; Closer to me, since sister womanhoods meet; Yet, like poor mothers some long while bereft, I dwell on toward ways, quaint memories left, I miss the approaching sound of pit-pat feet, The eager baby voice outside my door. XXI Hardly in any common tender wise, With petting talk, light lips on her dear cheek, The love I mean my child will bear to speak, Loth of its own less image for disguise; But liefer will it floutingly devise, Using a favourite jester's mimic pique, Prompt, idle, by-names with their sense to seek, And takes for language laughing ironies. But she, as when some foreign tongue is heard, Familiar on our lips and closely known, We feel the every purport of each word When ignorant ears reach empty sound alone, So knows the core within each merry gird, So gives back such a meaning in her own. XXII The brook leaps riotous with its life just found, That freshets from the mountain rains have fed, Beats at the boulders in its hindered bed, And fills the valley with its triumphing sound. The strong unthirsty tarn sunk in deep ground 125 Has never a sigh wherewith its wealth is said, Has no more ripples than the May-flies tread: Silence of waters is where they abound. And love, whatever love, sure, makes small boast: 'Tis the new lovers tell, in wonder yet. Oh happy need! Enriched stream's jubilant gush! But who being spouses well have learned love's most, Being child and mother learned not nor forget, These in their joyfulness feel the tarn's strong hush. XXIII Birds sing 'I love you, love' the whole day through, And not another song can they sing right; But, singing done with, loving's done with quite, The autumn sunders every twittering two. And I'd not have love make too much ado With sweet parades of fondness and delight, Lest iterant wont should make caresses trite, Love-names mere cuckoo ousters of the true. Oh heart can hear heart's sense in senseless nought, And heart that's sure of heart has little speech. What shall it tell? The other knows its thought. What shall one doubt or question or beseech Who is assured and knows and, unbesought, Possesses the dear trust that each gives each. XXIV 'You scarcely are a mother, at that rate. Only one child!' The blithe soul pitied loud. And doubtless she, amid her household crowd, When one brings care in another's fortunate; When one fares forth another's at her gate. Yea, were her first-born folded in his shroud, Not with a whole despair would she be bowed, She has more sons to make her heart elate. Many to love her singly, mother theirs, To give her the dear love of being their need, To storm her lap by turns and claim their kiss, To kneel around her at their bed-time prayers; 126 Many to grow her comrades! Some have this. Yet I, I do not envy them indeed. RAMSGATE, 1886. XXV You think that you love each as much as one, Mothers with many nestlings 'neath your wings. Nay, but you know not. Love's most priceless things Have unity that cannot be undone. You give the rays, I the englobed full sun; I give the river, you the separate springs: My motherhood's all my child's with all it brings-None takes the strong entireness from her: none. You know not. You love yours with various stress; This with a graver trust, this with more pride; This maybe with more needed tenderness: I by each uttermost passion of my soul Am turned to mine; she is one, she has the whole: How should you know who appraise love and divide? XXVI Of my one pearl so much more joy I gain As he that to his sole desire is sworn, Indifferent what women more were born, And if she loved him not all love were vain, Gains more, because of her--yea, through all pain, All love and sorrows, were they two forlorn-Than whoso happiest in the lands of morn Mingles his heart amid a wifely train. Oh! Child and mother, darling! Mother and child! And who but we? We, darling, paired alone? Thou hast all thy mother; thou art all my own. That passion of maternity which sweeps Tideless 'neath where the heaven of thee hath smiled Has but one channel, therefore infinite deeps. XXVII Since first my little one lay on my breast I never needed such a second good, Nor felt a void left in my motherhood 127 She filled not always to the utterest. The summer linnet, by glad yearnings pressed, Builds room enough to house a callow brood: I prayed not for another child--nor could; My solitary bird had my heart's nest. But she is cause that any baby thing If it but smile, is one of mine in truth, And every child becomes my natural joy: And, if my heart gives all youth fostering, Her sister, brother, seems the girl or boy: My darling makes me mother to their youth. ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

1411:Dante At Verona Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice. (Div. Com. Purg. xxx.) OF Florence and of Beatrice Servant and singer from of old, O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd The knell that gave his Lady peace; And now in manhood flew the dart Wherewith his City pierced his heart. Yet if his Lady's home above Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul; And if his City held control To cast the body forth to rove, The soul could soar from earth's vain throng, And Heaven and Hell fulfil the song. Follow his feet's appointed way;— But little light we find that clears The darkness of the exiled years. Follow his spirit's journey:—nay, What fires are blent, what winds are blown On paths his feet may tread alone? Yet of the twofold life he led In chainless thought and fettered will Some glimpses reach us,—somewhat still Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,— Of the soul's quest whose stern avow For years had made him haggard now. Alas! the Sacred Song whereto Both heaven and earth had set their hand Not only at Fame's gate did stand Knocking to claim the passage through, But toiled to ope that heavier door Which Florence shut for evermore. Shall not his birth's baptismal Town One last high presage yet fulfil, And at that font in Florence still His forehead take the laurel-crown? O God! or shall dead souls deny The undying soul its prophecy? Aye, 'tis their hour. Not yet forgot 69 The bitter words he spoke that day When for some great charge far away Her rulers his acceptance sought. “And if I go, who stays?”—so rose His scorn:—“and if I stay, who goes?” “Lo! thou art gone now, and we stay” (The curled lips mutter): “and no star Is from thy mortal path so far As streets where childhood knew the way. To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, But thine own house they come not in.” Therefore, the loftier rose the song To touch the secret things of God, The deeper pierced the hate that trod On base men's track who wrought the wrong; Till the soul's effluence came to be Its own exceeding agony. Arriving only to depart, From court to court, from land to land, Like flame within the naked hand His body bore his burning heart That still on Florence strove to bring God's fire for a burnt offering. Even such was Dante's mood, when now, Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, He dwelt at yet another court, There where Verona's knee did bow And her voice hailed with all acclaim Can Grande della Scala's name. As that lord's kingly guest awhile His life we follow; through the days Which walked in exile's barren ways,— The nights which still beneath one smile Heard through all spheres one song increase,— “Even I, even I am Beatrice.” At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Due reverence did his steps attend; The ushers on his path would bend At ingoing as at going out; The penmen waited on his call At council-board, the grooms in hall. And pages hushed their laughter down, 70 And gay squires stilled the merry stir, When he passed up the dais-chamber With set brows lordlier than a frown; And tire-maids hidden among these Drew close their loosened bodices. Perhaps the priests, (exact to span All God's circumference,) if at whiles They found him wandering in their aisles, Grudged ghostly greeting to the man By whom, though not of ghostly guild, With Heaven and Hell men's hearts were fill'd. And the court-poets (he, forsooth, A whole world's poet strayed to court!) Had for his scorn their hate's retort. He'd meet them flushed with easy youth, Hot on their errands. Like noon-flies They vexed him in the ears and eyes. But at this court, peace still must wrench Her chaplet from the teeth of war: By day they held high watch afar, At night they cried across the trench; And still, in Dante's path, the fierce Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. But vain seemed all the strength to him, As golden convoys sunk at sea Whose wealth might root out penury: Because it was not, limb with limb, Knit like his heart-strings round the wall Of Florence, that ill pride might fall. Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust Cleared from the sundered press of knights Ere yet again it swoops and smites, He almost deemed his longing must Find force to yield that multitude And hurl that strength the way he would. How should he move them,—fame and gain On all hands calling them at strife? He still might find but his one life To give, by Florence counted vain; One heart the false hearts made her doubt, One voice she heard once and cast out. Oh! if his Florence could but come, 71 A lily-sceptred damsel fair, As her own Giotto painted her On many shields and gates at home,— A lady crowned, at a soft pace Riding the lists round to the dais: Till where Can Grande rules the lists, As young as Truth, as calm as Force, She draws her rein now, while her horse Bows at the turn of the white wrists; And when each knight within his stall Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all: All the foul tale,—truth sworn untrue And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? Great God! and must she not prevail To fire them ere they heard it through,— And hand achieve ere heart could rest That high adventure of her quest? How would his Florence lead them forth, Her bridle ringing as she went; And at the last within her tent, 'Neath golden lilies worship-worth, How queenly would she bend the while And thank the victors with her smile! Also her lips should turn his way And murmur: “O thou tried and true, With whom I wept the long years through! What shall it profit if I say, Thee I remember? Nay, through thee All ages shall remember me.” Peace, Dante, peace! The task is long, The time wears short to compass it. Within thine heart such hopes may flit And find a voice in deathless song: But lo! as children of man's earth, Those hopes are dead before their birth. Fame tells us that Verona's court Was a fair place. The feet might still Wander for ever at their will In many ways of sweet resort; And still in many a heart around The Poet's name due honour found. Watch we his steps. He comes upon 72 The women at their palm-playing. The conduits round the gardens sing And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, Where wearied damsels rest and hold Their hands in the wet spurt of gold. One of whom, knowing well that he, By some found stern, was mild with them, Would run and pluck his garment's hem, Saying, “Messer Dante, pardon me,”— Praying that they might hear the song Which first of all he made, when young. “Donne che avete” . . . Thereunto Thus would he murmur, having first Drawn near the fountain, while she nurs'd His hand against her side: a few Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said: Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head. For then the voice said in his heart, “Even I, even I am Beatrice”; And his whole life would yearn to cease: Till having reached his room, apart Beyond vast lengths of palace-floor, He drew the arras round his door. At such times, Dante, thou hast set Thy forehead to the painted pane Full oft, I know; and if the rain Smote it outside, her fingers met Thy brow; and if the sun fell there, Her breath was on thy face and hair. Then, weeping, I think certainly Thou hast beheld, past sight of eyne,— Within another room of thine Where now thy body may not be But where in thought thou still remain'st,— A window often wept against: The window thou, a youth, hast sought, Flushed in the limpid eventime, Ending with daylight the day's rhyme Of her; where oftenwhiles her thought Held thee—the lamp untrimmed to write— In joy through the blue lapse of night. At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, 73 Guests seldom wept. It was brave sport, No doubt, at Can La Scala's court, Within the palace and without; Where music, set to madrigals, Loitered all day through groves and halls. Because Can Grande of his life Had not had six-and-twenty years As yet. And when the chroniclers Tell you of that Vicenza strife And of strifes elsewhere,—you must not Conceive for church-sooth he had got Just nothing in his wits but war: Though doubtless 'twas the young man's joy (Grown with his growth from a mere boy,) To mark his “Viva Cane!” scare The foe's shut front, till it would reel All blind with shaken points of steel. But there were places—held too sweet For eyes that had not the due veil Of lashes and clear lids—as well In favour as his saddle-seat: Breath of low speech he scorned not there Nor light cool fingers in his hair. Yet if the child whom the sire's plan Made free of a deep treasure-chest Scoffed it with ill-conditioned jest,— We may be sure too that the man Was not mere thews, nor all content With lewdness swathed in sentiment. So you may read and marvel not That such a man as Dante—one Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought— Now at the same guest-table far'd Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard. Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within the glass,— They feasting where no sun could pass: And when the women, all as one, Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing, we know. But Dante recked not of the wine; 74 Whether the women stayed or went, His visage held one stern intent: And when the music had its sign To breathe upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. And as he spared not to rebuke The mirth, so oft in council he To bitter truth bore testimony: And when the crafty balance shook Well poised to make the wrong prevail, Then Dante's hand would turn the scale. And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona's sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, “the Mars of war, Sole arbiter of life and death,”— Be sure that Dante saved his breath. And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante's guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In Folly's horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb. Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplexed If any day that could come next Were worth the waiting for or no, And mute he sat amid their din,— Can Grande called the Jester in. Rank words, with such, are wit's best wealth. Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i' the air. Then, facing on his guest, he cried,— 75 “Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide.” And Dante: “'Tis man's ancient whim That still his like seems good to him.” Also a tale is told, how once, At clearing tables after meat, Piled for a jest at Dante's feet Were found the dinner's well-picked bones; So laid, to please the banquet's lord, By one who crouched beneath the board. Then smiled Can Grande to the rest:— “Our Dante's tuneful mouth indeed Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!” “Fair host of mine,” replied the guest, “So many bones you'd not descry If so it chanced the dog were I.” But wherefore should we turn the grout In a drained cup, or be at strife From the worn garment of a life To rip the twisted ravel out? Good needs expounding; but of ill Each hath enough to guess his fill. They named him Justicer-at-Law: Each month to bear the tale in mind Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd And of the load an ox might draw; To cavil in the weight of bread And to see purse-thieves gibbeted. And when his spirit wove the spell (From under even to over-noon In converse with itself alone,) As high as Heaven, as low as Hell,— He would be summoned and must go: For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo? Therefore the bread he had to eat Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares; And the rush-strown accustomed stairs Each day were steeper to his feet; And when the night-vigil was done, His brows would ache to feel the sun. Nevertheless, when from his kin 76 There came the tidings how at last In Florence a decree was pass'd Whereby all banished folk might win Free pardon, so a fine were paid And act of public penance made,— This Dante writ in answer thus, Words such as these: “That clearly they In Florence must not have to say,— The man abode aloof from us Nigh fifteen years, yet lastly skulk'd Hither to candleshrift and mulct. “That he was one the Heavens forbid To traffic in God's justice sold By market-weight of earthly gold, Or to bow down over the lid Of steaming censers, and so be Made clean of manhood's obloquy. “That since no gate led, by God's will, To Florence, but the one whereat The priests and money-changers sat, He still would wander; for that still, Even through the body's prison-bars, His soul possessed the sun and stars.” Such were his words. It is indeed For ever well our singers should Utter good words and know them good Not through song only; with close heed Lest, having spent for the work's sake Six days, the man be left to make. Months o'er Verona, till the feast Was come for Florence the Free Town: And at the shrine of Baptist John The exiles, girt with many a priest And carrying candles as they went, Were held to mercy of the saint. On the high seats in sober state,— Gold neck-chains range o'er range below Gold screen-work where the lilies grow,— The Heads of the Republic sate, Marking the humbled face go by Each one of his house-enemy. And as each proscript rose and stood 77 From kneeling in the ashen dust On the shrine-steps, some magnate thrust A beard into the velvet hood Of his front colleague's gown, to see The cinders stuck in the bare knee. Tosinghi passed, Manelli passed, Rinucci passed, each in his place; But not an Alighieri's face Went by that day from first to last In the Republic's triumph; nor A foot came home to Dante's door. (RESPUBLICA—a public thing: A shameful shameless prostitute, Whose lust with one lord may not suit, So takes by turn its revelling A night with each, till each at morn Is stripped and beaten forth forlorn, And leaves her, cursing her. If she, Indeed, have not some spice-draught, hid In scent under a silver lid, To drench his open throat with—he Once hard asleep; and thrust him not At dawn beneath the stairs to rot. Such this Republic!—not the Maid He yearned for; she who yet should stand With Heaven's accepted hand in hand, Invulnerable and unbetray'd: To whom, even as to God, should be Obeisance one with Liberty.) Years filled out their twelve moons, and ceased One in another; and alway There were the whole twelve hours each day And each night as the years increased; And rising moon and setting sun Beheld that Dante's work was done. What of his work for Florence? Well It was, he knew, and well must be. Yet evermore her hate's decree Dwelt in his thought intolerable:— His body to be burned,*—his soul To beat its wings at hope's vain goal. What of his work for Beatrice? 78 Now well-nigh was the third song writ,— The stars a third time sealing it With sudden music of pure peace: For echoing thrice the threefold song, The unnumbered stars the tone prolong.† Each hour, as then the Vision pass'd, He heard the utter harmony Of the nine trembling spheres, till she Bowed her eyes towards him in the last, So that all ended with her eyes, Hell, Purgatory, Paradise. “It is my trust, as the years fall, To write more worthily of her Who now, being made God's minister, Looks on His visage and knows all.” Such was the hope that love dar'd blend With grief's slow fires, to make an end Of the “New Life,” his youth's dear book: Adding thereunto: “In such trust I labour, and believe I must Accomplish this which my soul took In charge, if God, my Lord and hers, Leave my life with me a few years.” The trust which he had borne in youth Was all at length accomplished. He At length had written worthily— Yea even of her; no rhymes uncouth 'Twixt tongue and tongue; but by God's aid The first words Italy had said. Ah! haply now the heavenly guide Was not the last form seen by him: But there that Beatrice stood slim And bowed in passing at his side, For whom in youth his heart made moan Then when the city sat alone Quomodo sedet sola civitas! —The words quoted by Dante in the Vita Nuova when he speaks of the death of Beatrice. Clearly herself: the same whom he Met, not past girlhood, in the street, Low-bosomed and with hidden feet; And then as woman perfectly, In years that followed, many an once,— 79 And now at last among the suns In that high vision. But indeed It may be memory might recall Last to him then the first of all,— The child his boyhood bore in heed Nine years. At length the voice brought peace,— “Even I, even I am Beatrice.” All this, being there, we had not seen. Seen only was the shadow wrought On the strong features bound in thought; The vagueness gaining gait and mien; The white streaks gathering clear to view In the burnt beard the women knew. For a tale tells that on his track, As through Verona's streets he went, This saying certain women sent:— “Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back At will! Behold him, how Hell's reek Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek.” “Whereat” (Boccaccio's words) “he smiled For pride in fame.” It might be so: Nevertheless we cannot know If haply he were not beguiled To bitterer mirth, who scarce could tell If he indeed were back from Hell. So the day came, after a space, When Dante felt assured that there The sunshine must lie sicklier Even than in any other place, Save only Florence. When that day Had come, he rose and went his way. He went and turned not. From his shoes It may be that he shook the dust, As every righteous dealer must Once and again ere life can close: And unaccomplished destiny Struck cold his forehead, it may be. No book keeps record how the Prince Sunned himself out of Dante's reach, Nor how the Jester stank in speech: While courtiers, used to cringe and wince, Poets and harlots, all the throng, 80 Let loose their scandal and their song. No book keeps record if the seat Which Dante held at his host's board Were sat in next by clerk or lord,— If leman lolled with dainty feet At ease, or hostage brooded there, Or priest lacked silence for his prayer. Eat and wash hands, Can Grande;—scarce We know their deeds now: hands which fed Our Dante with that bitter bread; And thou the watch-dog of those stairs Which, of all paths his feet knew well, Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

1412:In An Almshouse Oh the dear summer evening! How the air is mellow with the delicate breath of flowers and wafts of hay scent from the sunburnt swathes: how the glad song of life comes everywhence, from thousand harmless voices, from blithe birds that twitter on incessant sweet good-nights, from homeward bees that, through the clover tufts, stray booming, pilfering treasures to the last, from sleepless crickets clamouring in the grass. to tell the world they're happy day and night, from the persistent rooks in their high town, from sheep in far off meadows: life, life, life, it is the song they sing, and to my mind the song is very happy, very good. My God, I thank thee I have known this life, although, I doubt not, dying I shall learn how greater and how happier is death. Oh beautiful and various earth of ours, how good God made thee. Ah, I have lost much, mine is a very grey and dim earth now, but I can feel and hear and take in so the joy of present beauty to my soul, and then I see it there. O strange blurred mists, that mean the sky to me, my twilight eyes discern no more than you, but I see more; I see this gold and glowing sunset spread, and break the pale blue sky with flashing clouds, I see the shadows soften on the hills, and the green summits brighten one by one and purple in the nightfall one by one. Oh, seeing can be done without the eyes. Are those St Mary's church-bells in the town? How far sound spreads to-night! St Mary's bells, chiming for evensong. I would the way were not so over long for feeble limbs, and that the pathway and the still canal had not so like a glimmer in the dusk; 86 for I could gladly feel the peace of prayer among the others in the quiet church, with silent graves seen through the open door, and rustling heard of slowly stirring leaves. And then 'tis pleasant too to hear the rhythm of scholars' English and of words in books: 'tis like the voice of some rare foreign tongue familiar once and loved, that, howso heard, takes the glad ear with sweetness of old wont. Oh, there's no sermon now so trite and crude but makes for me a sort of literature: 'tis my one echo now from that far world where books are read and written, my world once; I listen as one listens, note by note, to some great symphony one knows by heart, played powerlessly, uncertainly, with change and thinner chords to suit a learner's hand, listening with pleasure part for what there is and more for what there should be and what was when long ago one used to hear the strain: I seem to love words now because they are words. Not that I'll call our Vicar's sermon words: no, no; he loves his God and loves his poor; he makes his life one task of doing good; can such a man speak idly? What he does is proof to what he urges, his week's life soul to his Sunday preachings, his shown faith the key to his expoundings; one may learn from such a man more things than he can teach: Alas, the busy patience of his life, eager and resolute for little things, strenuous on petty labours, which no voice shall ever herald past the parish bounds, which maybe those who see them do not see, and those whose gain they are know not for gain, does it not twit me with my languid years drifted along expectant of a day when all my world should thank me I had waked? My world--ah, after all, a lesser one than I discerned when I was of it still, 87 my world of men who learn and teach and learn, and then have only learned and taught and learned-my world that has forgotten me, a waif floated away from it on too rough tides, left spoiled and stranded to drop piece by piece. Ah me, the difference: I have not known what envy means unless I know it now when, in my helplessness, sick, blind, and poor, past all fulfilling now, with nought fulfilled, I see our Vicar, with his cheery look, hurried and overladen with small cares, glad in his work because it is his work. And he'll not envy me my garnered lore, stored up for moth and mildew; what to him is any wisdom but to work and pray? the denizens of our rustic market town, which ignorant strangers take, and break our hearts, or just a village, know no Tübingen, have never heard of varying codices, love, or love not, the Christ of Luke and John, and have no guess of Renan's; to their minds belief and unbelief are simplest things, mere Yes and No, and God must side with Yes, as kings must with the loyal. But the love that comes of faith and faith that comes of love; they can learn those of him and he can teach, that plain man, ignorant of philosophies but wise enough to do good all the day. Ah, why was I too weak for such a life, which once I might have chosen? A high life, full of most blessed service. But I thought it was not my life meant for me by God: and now I know not what I should have done, only I mourn that I have lived in vain, still daily dreaming some completed task that never was begun, still waiting force of impulse more than mine to waken mine, still dimly pondering "Shall I? Can I? How?" and waiting to be ready to begin. 88 Ah tardy useless labourer in the fields, who waits to think what weed he shall rout first; ah laggard sailor, who will not put out till the direct fair wind sets for his port. And time will never linger, and the world can wait for no man, must have its wants fed at the want's birth-cry--soldiers to the gap on the hot instant, else no need of you, no space for you to stand in. Long long since I thought to have been somewhat, to perhaps set some regardful honour round my name, but surely to receive a destined place, a part among the workers: for it seemed to have so far uptrodden, half alone, from peasant lowliness should prelude me a future as of one of whom they say "so low he was" to show how high he is. Dreams, dreams! I never had the pith, the sap, the strong aspiring pulses; I was one to think, and shiver, by the study fire "outside is the cold boisterous sea of life where I will plunge to-morrow and snatch pearls," to wait like a late sleeper in the morn, that with a drowsy logic lulls himself, and chides his tardiness on their delay who will not come to tell him it is time. And yet I did not sleep; no, to my thought I always was at school for work to come: but these days leave us little schooling time. Long since, and when the wisdom of the wise was to accept to live one with to learn, and men might find their work for half a life in thinking silent, and the other half in thinking out aloud, those were my days I should have lived in: I came out of date: like a reprinted tome of theories made reasonably ere the science shaped, which, all uncut, stands on the library shelf amid new essays on the daily art born long since of the science, and men say 89 "'Tis learned, curious, looks well on the shelf" and take its slighter useful neighbour down, so I showed wise and useless to the world. Wise with the oldworld wisdom grown unapt to this changed morrow, for the lesson now is to accept to live one with to do-the wisest wisdom plainly in this stir, this over crowding, this hot hurrying on, that make a tempest of our modern days. This anxious age is driven half mad with work, it bids us all work, world no need, no room, for contemplating sages counting life a time allowed for solving problems in and its own self a problem to be solved; on in the rush, or be swept out of sight, on in the rush, and find your place, and work. 'Tis right, 'tis very right; not only ours to fit what state God gives us but what times; and he who is thrown out in a fierce race can hardly chide, "the others ran too fast." And, as for me, if I grow old alone, hid out of memory of springtime peers, and have my roof and food by dead men's alms, it is that I have been an alien son, a dronish servant careful of his ease, to the master-Present, the strong century that gave our lives and will have use of them. I knew it always, but still while I thought. "To-morrow I go forth," the sudden Now had gone before I judged it had been there: I knew it always, but the stealthy years slid on while I was busy at my books, and when I, startled, waked and saw it time, lo the "Too late" which God has spoken me in blindness and in sickness. A strange life; fair bud, fair blossom, never perfect fruit; the river that seemed destined to push on long eager miles among its busy mills, 90 among its teeming meadows and its towns, hemmed stagnant by some little feeble dykes, some trivial sand-mounds barred against its way, and rounding to an issueless dull pool. And yet, but for that wondering vague remorse not to have been one stronger than myself, I look back very kindly on my life so changeful yet so still, not sorrowless and yet not sad; I love to think of it and tell it to myself like an old tale dear for its homely long-familiar turns. Oh, often I, the grey-haired palsied man, am yet again the child beneath the hedge, the village urchin, truant to his task, of scaring crows, to con a dog's-eared book, stealing his indolent scholar's luxury by naughty half-hours through the lonely day. Oh happy child, I never saw my guilt nor dreamed of trust betrayed and pence ill-earned, and it was such a joy to learn and pore and read great words and wonder what they meant, and sometimes see, as if a faint new star dawned on one through a dusky gap at night, a sudden meaning breaking on the doubt: poor as I was, ill cared for, with no kin but the sharp stepmother who, good at heart, for widow's duty called me hers, not love, and little Grace, the toddling sister thing she'd not let love me and not let me touch, who learned to scold me in her sweet babe's lisp and would not kiss me even when we played, no friends, no playmates, every way alone, yet 'twas a happy boyhood; not forlorn with the thumbed book for gossip, not forlorn with all the outdoor world for company. Oh, many and many a balmy eve like this, beside my pollard willows by the brook, I sat and watched the greyness creeping on, thinking 'twas pity days must end in nights and one must sleep away so many hours, losing such sweetness of the summer time. 91 Dulled wistful eyes, you cannot show me now the brown-ribbed hill behind whose rounded slope my village stands among its fields of flax; last year I still could find it, where to me it seemed a smooth dusk cloud against the sky, could say "there lies my home," and fancy out the well known landmarks, and go step by step mind-pilgrimage among the dear old haunts; but now the hill and sky are both one haze, the dusk cloud's place is lost in larger dusk. Well, well, 'tis present to me none the less, and I am glad to feel it near in sight with its white winding road that, from the top, looks on my home, and sudden slants to it. My home! and now 'tis twenty years and odd since I have journeyed down the slanting road and seen our envied boasts, the bridge and spire; yes, twenty years and odd since the last time, and then they called me stranger; yet I feel my true home there. Not in my happy town, my placid scholar's town of colleges, where the smooth river, lagging by its elms, bears on its painted breast oriels and towers and grey monastic courts made reverend with elder learning and historic lives; not in my Cornish schoolhouse near the rocks, where from the granite headland, with its crown of glossy sward and wee white heather bloom and rare and southern wildflowers of the moors, one looked on the illimitable plain, the vague mysterious ocean stretching forth into the space and silence of the sky; not in the city of the million homes, the throbbing heart of England--No, not there, how could I find home there? those pent black streets, that skyless prison room, where day by day my heart and head grew number, day by day I and my schoolboys seemed to grow less apt, that whirr and whirl of traffic, ceaseless change of unknown faces thronging to and fro! 92 my life went shrivelling there as if one brought some thirsty field plant maimed of half its root amid a ball-night glare of flashing lamps. And if I, even in this haven nook, sheltered out of the cold winds of the world, if here on the free hill-side, with the sounds of woodland quiet soothing in my ears, here where the dear home breezes blow to me over the well known meadows, yet have longed, like a sick schoolboy for his mother's face, to look on my remembered trees and fields, to touch them, to feel kin with them again, how else could it be with me in the din the blackness and the crowding? Oh my heart, how faint it grew long ere I grew all faint; long ere there came this swift decrepitude of too usurping age forestalling time; how desolate I felt, like a man wrecked on some far island in a burning clime where every voice clangs strangely, and all thoughts come to him yet more foreign than the words, and very kindness wears unhomeliness; how in my weariness I grew to loathe those prison bars of roofs across the sky. Well, when He pleased, God gave me the release, gave His good way not mine, I thank Him for it. Yes, it is well with me: life grows mere rest-I sit apart and am done with the world, no hopes, no fears, no changes; I have lost all part in aims and duties, like a tool blunted with little use I am laid by never to serve again; I sit apart useless, forgotten, a lone purblind man hid in an almshouse--but the rest is good, is very peaceful, and I feel God near, near as I never knew Him in old days when yet I thought I loved Him. Did I not? Was it because I did not love Him then 93 I could not choose His service? It seems strange: they all said I was fit, they urged me to it: and there on one hand was my worldly ease and (if I were fit) service to my God, on the other, chance and my poor single strength to wrest a pittance from the world's clenched hand: yes one might say it had been granted me to choose both God and Mammon virtuously: and yet I could not--never might my lips have spoken the great answers "Christ has called," "The Holy Ghost has moved me." Day by day I urged myself, I prayed to hear the call, and the call came not. Was it want of love? and would my warmer heart have been more brave, and known a summons where I did not know? Ah no, there was no need for such as I, who have no ministering gift, no rule on minds. Oh, the poor souls had perished which must lean on such a pastor; I, who never found the teacher's common secret how to write the accurate human lore on willing minds, how could I teach God's mysteries of love? how could I force rebellious hearts to know? I, who must reason with myself an hour to cross a room and give a friend good-day, where were my ready words to greet the poor, my instant tact, my sympathy, command? Oh, rather was I one to be content, to be most happy, cloistered in the peace of some grey convent where the even hours go measured out by prayers and each still day melts stealthily to night and has but seen change between chapel and the studious cell. Had such a life been granted by my creed I could have snatched at it ...... yes, even then before the silent too delusive hope died at her careless bidding. Susan Lee, you never guessed, I but half knew myself, how close a part you had of all my life 94 from the first time my schoolboy heart grew proud to feel itself beat quicker at a smile. I loved you patiently, content to dream what happy fireside future should be ours if you should ever love me; afterwards I sorrowed patiently; and in both whiles lived in my peace as if you had not been: but yet you always have been part of me, I cannot think upon my earlier self and not remember you. It was but chance that you were near me, following up the brook for water-cresses, on that birthday morn of my new life, when, as I basked and read, the young squire's tutor came and saw my book, and sat with me beneath my willow tree; it was but chance that, for your good-girl treat, you went a twelve miles' journey to your aunt's and saw the prize-day splendours of our school where I stood in my class-boy eminence (a shamefaced hero, conscious of renown, and bearing such a greatness bashfully), and that your face, set in a window frame, was still the one I saw when I looked up; it was but chance that made your merry voice the one to greet me first when, all elate with budding freshman honours of first term, I came back to our village ... where, good lack, I found small reverence for my dignities, and no one turned to watch me as I walked; it was but chance that I could see you lead a romping battle, armed with pelts of hay, against my Gracie and her rival band the time I got the germ and ringingest lines of the Greek ode which gained my earliest prize; it was but chance made Grace's letter come, talking of only you, the selfsame day I heard my name sound in the topmost list, the very roll of fame as I thought then-maybe I thought it too long afterwards, poor lad, who fancied I had won a race because I gained a vantage post to start; yes, chance and only chance so mingles you 95 with the young promise halos, but you stand always a star behind them, shining through, and, though I once was sad because of you, I have my happy memories of you now. They said you were not pretty, owed your charm to choice of ribbons from your father's shop, but, as for me, I saw not if you wore too many ribbons or too few, nor sought what charms you had beyond that one I knew, the kind and honest look in your grey eyes. Well, you chose fitlier; and you prosper well, and I can fancy you in your content, a busy prudent farmwife all the week and wearing silk on Sundays when you go to church among your children, proud to take your husband's arm ... a man who holds his own and rents a few more acres every year. And Grace chose wisely too, the wilful girl I would have made a lady of--not she, she would not stay at school, she would not learn your monkey French, she would not chirp words small like twittering birds, she would not crotchet lace; and she would marry sturdy William Ford; so found some rainy days at first, 'tis true, but they both took them with a cheery heart, and now she writes from their far western home that all goes well with them, and, as for her, she's happier than a queen the whole day through, and all the bairns as fresh as buttercups. 'Tis far away, my Gracie, far from me: I'd like to feel your hand in mine at last, for I have only you, and, as I think, you bear a kind heart to me; but that's vain, there'll be no meeting for us in this world. But bye and bye, my Gracie, bye and bye. Aye, there's the answer to one's every want, one's every doubt, that promise bye and bye; 96 it gives this life a beauty, as the glimpse between near hills of the great open sea gives to some inland nook among the woods; it is the full completed melody the shifting prelude hints at. Life is good, but most because, in its best perfectness, it comes like memory of that other life we have not known, but shall. What, little one, my truant playmate, "Mother gives you leave to come and say good night for half an hour": well; on my knee--so. Stories must it be? "The story about Jesus"? Yes, my child, that is the best one ...... story of our peace; you'll know that someday, maybe. Now begins... ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

1413:Lohengrin THE holy bell, untouched by human hands, Clanged suddenly, and tolled with solemn knell. Between the massive, blazoned temple-doors, Thrown wide, to let the summer morning in, Sir Lohengrin, the youngest of the knights, Had paused to taste the sweetness of the air. All sounds came up the mountain-side to him, Softened to music,— noise of laboring men, The cheerful cock-crow and the low of kine, Bleating of sheep, and twittering of the birds, Commingled into murmurous harmonies— When harsh, and near, and clamorous tolled the bell. He started, with his hand upon his sword; His face, an instant since serene and fair, And simple with the beauty of a boy, Heroic, flushed, expectant all at once. The lovely valley stretching out beneath Was now a painted picture,— nothing more; All music of the mountain or the vale Rang meaningless to him who heard the bell. 'I stand upon the threshold, and am called,' His clear, young voice shrilled gladly through the air, And backward through the sounding corridors. 'And have ye heard the bell, my brother knights, Untouched by human hands or winds of heaven? It called me, yea, it called my very name!' So, breathing still of morning, Lohengrin Sprang 'midst the gathering circle of the knights, Eager, exalted. 'Nay, it called us all: It rang as it hath often rung before,— Because the good cause, somewhere on the earth, Requires a champion,' with a serious smile, An older gravely answered. 'Where to go? We know not, and we know not whom to serve.' Then spake Sir Percivale, their holiest knight, And father of the young Sir Lohengrin: 'All that to us seems old, familiar, stale, 106 Unto the boy is vision, miracle. Cross him not, brethren, in his first desire. I will dare swear the summons rang to him, Not sternly solemn, as it tolled to us, But gracious, sweet, and gay as marriage-bells.' His pious hands above the young man's head Wandered in blessing, lightly touching it, As fondly as a mother. 'Lohengrin, My son, farewell,— God send thee faith and strength.' ' God send me patience and humility,' Murmured the boyish knight, from contrite heart, With head downcast for those anointing hands. Then raising suddenly wide, innocent eyes,— 'Father, my faith is boundless as God's love.' Complete in glittering silver armor clad, With silver maiden-shield, blank of device, Sir Lohengrin rode down the Montsalvatsch, With Percivale and Tristram, Frimutelle And Eliduc, to speed him on his quest. They fared in silence, for the elder knights Were filled with grave misgivings, solemn thoughts Of fate and sorrow, and they heard the bell Tolling incessant; while Sir Lohengrin, Buoyant with hope, and dreaming like a girl, With wild blood dancing in his veins, had made The journey down the mount unconsciously, Surprised to find that he had reached the vale. Distinct and bowered in green the mountain loomed, Topped with the wondrous temple, with its cross Smitten to splendor by the eastern sun. Around them lay the valley beautiful, Imparadised with flowers and light of June; And through the valley flowed a willowy stream, Golden and gray, at this delicious hour, With purity and sunshine. Here the knights, Irresolute, gave pause — which path to choose? 'God lead me right!' said meek Sir Lohengrin; And as he spoke afar upon the stream, He saw a shining swan approaching them. Full-breasted, with the current it sailed down, Dazzling in sun and shadow, air and wave, 107 With unseen movement, wings a little spread, Their downy under-feathers fluttering, Stirred by its stately progress; in its beak It held a silver chain, and drew thereby A dainty carven shallop after it, Embossed with silver and with ivory. 'Lead ye my charger up the mount again,' Cried Lohengrin, and leaped unto the ground, 'For I will trust my guidance to the swan.' ' Nay, hold, Sir Lohengrin,' said Eliduc, ' Thou hast not made provision for this quest.' ' God will provide,' the pious knight replied. Then Percival: 'Be faithful to thy vows; Bethink thee of thine oath when thou art asked Thy mission in the temple, or thy race. Farewell, farewell.' 'Farewell,' cried Lohengrin, And sprang into the shallop as it passed, And waved farewells unto his brother knights, Until they saw the white and silver shine Of boat and swan and armor less and less, Till in the willowy distance they were lost. Skirting the bases of the rolling hills, He glided on the river hour by hour, All through the endless summer day. At first On either side the willows brushed his boat, Then underneath their sweeping arch he passed, Into a rich, enchanted wilderness, Cool, full of mystic shadows and rare lights, Wherein the very river changed its hue, Reflecting tender shades of waving green, And mossy undergrowth of grass and fern. Here yellow lilies floated 'midst broad leaves, Upon their reedy stalks, and far below, Beneath the flags and rushes, coppery bream Sedately sailed, and flickering perch, and dace With silvery lustres caught the glancing rays Of the June sun upon their mottled scales. 'Midst the close sedge the bright-eyed water-mouse Nibbled its food, while overhead, its kin, The squirrel, frisked among the trees. The air Was full of life and sound of restless birds, 108 Darting with gayer tints of red and blue And speckled plumage 'mid gray willow leaves, And sober alders, and light-foliaged birch. Unnumbered insects fluttered o'er the banks, Some dimpling the smooth river's slippery floor, Leaping from point to point. Then passed the knight 'Twixt broad fields basking in excess of light, And girt around by range on range of hills, Green, umber, purple, waving limitless, Unto the radiant crystal of the sky. Through unfamiliar solitudes the swan Still led him, and he saw no living thing Save creatures of the wood, no human face, Nor sign of human dwelling. But he sailed, Holding high thoughts and vowing valorous vows, Filled with vast wonder and keen happiness, At the world's very beauty, and his life Opened in spacious vistas measureless, As lovely as the stream that bore him on. So dazzled was the boyish Lohengrin By all the vital beauty of the real, And the yet wilder beauty of his dreams, That he had lost all sense of passing time, And woke as from a trance of centuries, To find himself within the heart of hills, The river widened to an ample lake, And the swan faring towards a narrow gorge, That seemed to lead him to the sunset clouds. Suffused with color were the extremest heights; The river rippled in a glassy flood, Glorying in the glory of the sky. O what a moment for a man to take Down with him in his memory to the grave! Life at that hour appeared as infinite As expectation, sacred, wonderful, A vision and a privilege. The stream Lessened to force its way through rocky walls, Then swerved and flowed, a purple brook, through woods Dewy with evening, sunless, odorous. There Lohengrin, with eyes upon the stream, Now brighter than the earth, saw, deep and clear, The delicate splendor of the earliest star. 109 All night, too full of sweet expectancy, Too reverent of the loveliness, for sleep, He watched the rise and setting of the stars.. All things were new upon that magic day, Suggesting nobler possibilities, For a life passed in wise serenity, Confided with sublimely simple faith Unto the guidance of the higher will. In the still heavens hung the large round moon, White on the blue-black ripples glittering, And rolled soft floods of slumberous, misty light Over dim fields and colorless, huge hills. But the pure swan still bore its burden on, The ivory shallop and the silver knight, Pale-faced in that white lustre, neither made For any port, but seemed to float at will Aimlessly in a strange, unpeopled land. So passed the short fair night, and morning broke Upon the river where it flowed through flats Wide, fresh, and vague in gray, uncertain dawn, With cool air sweet from leagues of dewy grass. Then 'midst the flush and beauty of the east, The risen sun made all the river flow, Smitten with light, in gold and gray again. Rightly he judged his voyage but begun, When the swan loitered by low banks set thick With cresses, and red berries, and sweet herbs, That he might pluck and taste thereof; for these Such wondrous vigor in his frame infused, They seemed enchanted and ambrosial fruits. Day waxed and waned and vanished many times, And many suns still found him journeying; But when the sixth night darkened hill and wold, He seemed bewitched as by a wizard's spell, By this slow, constant progress, and deep sleep Possessed his spirit, and his head drooped low On the hard pillow of his silver shield. Unconscious he was borne through silent hours, Nor wakened by the dawn of a new day, But in his dreamless sleep he never lost The sense of moving forward on a stream. Now fared the swan through tilled and cultured lands, 110 Dappled with sheep and kine on pastures soft, Sprinkled with trim and pleasant cottages, With men and women working noiselessly, As in a picture; nearer then they drew, And sounds of rural labor, spoken words, Sir Lohengrin might hear, but still he slept, Nor saw the shining turrets of a town, Gardens and castles, domes and cross-topped spires Fair in the distance, and the flowing stream, Cleaving its liquid path 'midst many men, And glittering galleries filled with courtly folk, Ranged for a tourney-show in open air. Ah! what a miracle it seemed to these,— The white bird bearing on the river's breast That curious, sparkling shallop, and within The knight in silver armor, with bared head, And crisp hair blown about his angel face, Asleep upon his shield! They gazed on him As on the incarnate spirit of pure faith, And as the very ministrant of God. But one great damsel throned beside a king, With coroneted head and white, wan face, Flushed suddenly, and clasped her hands in prayer, And raised large, lucid eyes in thanks to Heaven. Then, in his dreamless slumber, Lohengrin, Feeling the steady motion of the boat Suddenly cease, awoke. Refreshed, alert, He knew at once that he had reached his port, And saw that peerless maiden thanking Heaven For his own advent, and his heart leaped up Into his throat, and love o'ermastered him. After the blare of flourished trumpets died, A herald thus proclaimed the tournament: 'Greetings and glory to the majesty Of the imperial Henry. By his grace, This tourney has been granted to the knight, Frederick of Telramund, who claims the hand Of Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant, His ward, and stands prepared to prove in arms His rights against all champions in the lists, Whom his unwilling mistress may select. Sir Frederick, Lord of Telramund, is here: 111 What champion will espouse the lady's cause?' Sir Frederick, huge in stature and in bulk, In gleaming armor terribly equipped, Advanced defiant, as the herald ceased. Then Lohengrin, with spear and shield in hand, Sprang lightly, from his shallop, in the lists. His beaver raised disclosed his ardent face, His whole soul shining from inspired eyes. With cast-back head, sun-smitten silver mail, Quivering with spirit, light, and life, he stood, And flung his gauntlet at Sir Frederick's feet, Crying with shrill, clear voice that rang again, 'Sir Lohengrin adopts the lady's cause.' Then these with shock of conflict couched their spears In deadly combat; but their weapons clanged Harmless against their mail impregnable, Or else were nimbly foiled by dexterous shields. Unequal and unjust it seemed at first,— The slender boy matched with the warrior huge, Who bore upon him with the skill and strength Of a tried conqueror; but the stranger knight Displayed such agile grace in parrying blows, Such fiery valor dealing his own strokes, That men looked on in wonder, and his foe Was hardly put upon it for his life. Thrice they gave praise, to breathe, and to prepare For fiercer battle, and the galleries rang With plaudits, and the names of both the knights. And they, with spirits whetted by the strife, Met for the fourth, last time, and fenced and struck, And the keen lance of Lohengrin made way, Between the meshes of Sir Frederick's mail, Through cuirass and through jerkin, to the flesh, With pain so sharp and sudden that he fell. Then Henry threw his warder to the ground, And cried the stranger knight had won the day; And all the lesser voices, following his, Called, ' Lohengrin—Sir Lohengrin hath won!' He, flushed with victory, standing in the lists, Deafened with clamor of his very name, Reëchoed to the heavens, felt himself Alone and alien, and would fain float back 112 Unto the temple, had he not recalled The fair, great damsel throned beside the king. But lo! the swan had vanished, and the boat He fancied he descried a tiny star, Glimmering in the shining distances. 'His Majesty would greet Sir Lohengrin; And Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant, Would thank him for his prowess.' Thus proclaimed The herald, while the unknown knight was led To the imperial throne. Then Elsie spake: 'Thou hast redeemed my life from misery; How may I worthily reward or thank? Be thou the nearest to our ducal throne, The highest knight of Limburg and Brabant, The greatest gentleman,— unless thy rank, In truth, be suited to thine own deserts, And thou, a prince, art called to higher aims.' 'Madam, my thanks are rather due to Fate, For having chosen so poor an instrument For such a noble end. A knight am I, The champion of the helpless and oppressed, Bound by fast vows to own no other name Than Lohengrin, the Stranger, in this land, And to depart when asked my race or rank. Trusting in God I came, and, trusting Him, I must remain, for all my fate hath changed, All my desires and hopes, since I am here.' So ended that great joust, and in the days Thereafter Elsie and Sir Lohengrin, United by a circumstance so strange, Loved and were wedded. A more courteous duke, A braver chevalier, Brabant ne'er saw. Such grace breathed from his person and his deeds, Such simple innocence and faith looked forth From eyes well-nigh too beautiful for man, That whom he met, departed as his friend. But Elsie, bound to him by every bond Of love and honor and vast gratitude, Being of lesser faith and confidence, Tortured herself with envious jealousies, Misdoubting her own beauty, and her power 113 To win and to retain so great a heart. Each year Sir Lohengrin proclaimed a joust In memory of the tourney where he won His lovely Duchess, and his lance prevailed Against all lesser knights. When his twain sons, Loyal and brave and gentle as their sire, Had grown to stalwart men, and his one girl, Eyed like himself and as his Duchess fair, Floramie, grew to gracious maidenhood, He gave a noble tourney, and o'erthrew The terrible and potent Duke of Cleves. 'Ha!' sneered the Dame of Cleves, 'this Lohengrin May be a knight adroit and valorous, But who knows whence he sprang?' and lightly laughed, Seeing the hot blood kindle Elsie's cheek. That night Sir Lohengrin sought rest betimes, By hours of crowded action quite forespent, And found the Duchess Elsie on her couch, Staining the silken broideries with her tears. 'Why dost thou weep?' he questioned tenderly, Kissing her delicate hands, and parting back Her heavy yellow hair from brow and face. 'The Duchess Anne of Cleves hath wounded me.' 'Sweet, am not I at hand to comfort thee?' And he caressed her as an ailing child, Until she smiled and slept. But the next night He found her weeping, and he questioned her, With the same answer, and again she slept; Then the third night he asked her why she grieved And she uprising, white, with eager eyes, Cried, 'Lohengrin, my lord, my only love, For our sons' sake, who know not whence they spring, Our daughter who remains a virgin yet, Let me not hear folk girding at thy race. I know thy blood is royal, I have faith; But tell me all, that I may publish it Unto our dukedom.' Hurt and wondering, He answered simply, 'I am Lohengrin, Son to Sir Percivale, and ministrant Within the holy temple of the Grail. I would thy faith were greater, this is all. Now must I bid farewell.' ' O Lohengrin, 114 What have I done?' She clung about his neck, And moistened all his beard with streaming tears; But he with one long kiss relaxed her arms Calmly from his embrace, and stood alone. ' Blame not thy nature now with vain reproofs. This also is our fate: in all things else. We have submitted,—let us yield in this, With no less grace now that God tries our hearts, Than when He sent us victory and love.' ' Yea, go, — you never loved me,' faltered she; ' I will not blame my nature, but your own. Through all our wedded years I doubted you; Your eyes have never brightened meeting mine As I have seen them in religious zeal, Or in exalted hours of victory.' A look of perfect weariness, unmixed With wrath or grief, o'erspread the knight's pale face; But with the pity that a god might show Towards one with ills impossible to him, He drew anear, caressing her, and sighed: ' Through all our wedded years you doubted me? Poor child, poor child! and it has come to this. Thank Heaven, I gave no cause for your mistrust, Desiring never an ideal more fair Of womanhood than was my chosen wife.' She, broken, sobbing, leaned her delicate head On his great shoulder, and remorseful cried, ' O loyal, honest, simple Lohengrin, Thy wife has been unworthy: this is why Thou sayest farewell in accents cold and strange, With alien eyes that even now behold Things fairer, better, than her mournful face.' But he with large allowance answered her: 'If this be truth, it is because I feel That I belong no more unto myself, Neither to thee, for God withdraws my soul Beyond all earthly passions unto Him. Now that we know our doom, with serious calm, Beside thee I will sit, till break of day, Thus holding thy chill hand and tell thee all. This will resign thee, for I cannot think How any human soul that hath beheld 115 Life's compensations and its miracles, Can fail to trust in what is yet to come.' Then he began from that auroral hour When he first heard the temple bell, and told The wonder of the swan that came for him, His journey down the stream, the tournament, His strength unwonted, combating the knight Who towered above him with superior force Of flesh and sinew,— how he prayed through all, Imploring God to let the just cause win, Unconscious of the close-thronged galleries, Feeling two eyes alone that burned his soul. She knew the rest. Therewith he kissed her brow And ended,—' Now the knights will take me back Into the temple; all who keep their vows, Are welcomed there again to peace and rest. There will my years fall from me like a cloak, And I will stand again at manhood's prime. Then when all errors of the flesh are purged From these I loved here, they may follow me, Unto perpetual worship and to peace.' She lay quite calm, and smiling heard his voice, Already grown to her remote and changed, And when he ceased, arose and gazed in awe On his transfigured face and kissed his brow, And understood, accepting all her fate. Anon he called his children, and to these: 'Farewell, sweet Florance and dear Percivale; Here is my horn, and here mine ancient sword,— Guard them with care and win with them repute. Here, Elsie, is the ring my mother gave,— Part with it never; and thou, Floramie, Take thou my love,—I have naught else to give; Be of strong faith in him thou mean'st to wed.' So these communed together, till the night Died from the brightening skies, and in the east The morning star hung in aerial rose, And the blue deepened; while moist lawn and hedge Breathed dewy freshness through the windows oped. Then on the stream, that nigh the palace flowed, A stainless swan approached them; in its beak It held a silver chain, and drew thereby 116 A dainty, carven shallop after it, Embossed with silver and with ivory. Followed by waved farewells and streaming eyes, Sir Lohengrin embarked and floated forth Unto perpetual worship and to peace. ~ Emma Lazarus,

1414:The Kalevala - Rune L MARIATTA--WAINAMOINEN'S DEPARTURE. Mariatta, child of beauty, Grew to maidenhood in Northland, In the cabin of her father, In the chambers of her mother, Golden ringlets, silver girdles, Worn against the keys paternal, Glittering upon her bosom; Wore away the father's threshold With the long robes of her garments; Wore away the painted rafters With her beauteous silken ribbons; Wore away the gilded pillars With the touching of her fingers; Wore away the birchen flooring With the tramping of her fur-shoes. Mariatta, child of beauty, Magic maid of little stature, Guarded well her sacred virtue, Her sincerity and honor, Fed upon the dainty whiting, On the inner bark of birch-wood, On the tender flesh of lambkins. When she hastened in the evening To her milking in the hurdles, Spake in innocence as follows: 'Never will the snow-white virgin Milk the kine of one unworthy!' When she journeyed over snow-fields, On the seat beside her father, Spake in purity as follows: 'Not behind a steed unworthy Will I ever ride the snow-sledge!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a virgin with her mother, As a maiden highly honored, Lived in innocence and beauty, 68 Daily drove her flocks to pasture, Walking with the gentle lambkins. When the lambkins climbed the mountains, When they gamboled on the hill-tops, Stepped the virgin to the meadow, Skipping through a grove of lindens, At the calling of the cuckoo, To the songster's golden measures. Mariatta, child of beauty, Looked about, intently listened, Sat upon the berry-meadow Sat awhile, and meditated On a hillock by the forest, And soliloquized as follows: 'Call to me, thou golden cuckoo, Sing, thou sacred bird of Northland, Sing, thou silver breasted songster, Speak, thou strawberry of Ehstland, Tell bow long must I unmarried, As a shepherdess neglected, Wander o'er these bills and mountains, Through these flowery fens and fallows. Tell me, cuckoo of the woodlands, Sing to me how many summers I must live without a husband, As a shepherdess neglected!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a shepherd-maid for ages, As a virgin with her mother. Wretched are the lives of shepherds, Lives of maidens still more wretched, Guarding flocks upon the mountains; Serpents creep in bog and stubble, On the greensward dart the lizards; But it was no serpent singing, Nor a sacred lizard calling, It was but the mountain-berry Calling to the lonely maiden: 'Come, O virgin, come and pluck me, Come and take me to thy bosom, Take me, tinsel-breasted virgin, Take me, maiden, copper-belted, 69 Ere the slimy snail devours me, Ere the black-worm feeds upon me. Hundreds pass my way unmindful, Thousands come within my hearing, Berry-maidens swarm about me, Children come in countless numbers, None of these has come to gather, Come to pluck this ruddy berry.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Listened to its gentle pleading, Ran to pick the berry, calling, With her fair and dainty fingers,. Saw it smiling near the meadow, Like a cranberry in feature, Like a strawberry in flavor; But be Virgin, Mariatta, Could not pluck the woodland-stranger, Thereupon she cut a charm-stick, Downward pressed upon the berry, When it rose as if by magic, Rose above her shoes of ermine, Then above her copper girdle, Darted upward to her bosom, Leaped upon the maiden's shoulder, On her dimpled chin it rested, On her lips it perched a moment, Hastened to her tongue expectant To and fro it rocked and lingered, Thence it hastened on its journey, Settled in the maiden's bosom. Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus became a bride impregnate, Wedded to the mountain-berry; Lingered in her room at morning, Sat at midday in the darkness, Hastened to her couch at evening. Thus the watchful mother wonders: 'What has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, That she throws aside her girdle, Shyly slips through hall and chamber, Lingers in her room at morning, 70 Hastens to her couch at evening, Sits at midday in the darkness?' On the floor a babe was playing, And the young child thus made answer: 'This has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, This misfortune to the maiden: She has lingered by the meadows, Played too long among the lambkins, Tasted of the mountain-berry.' Long the virgin watched and waited, Anxiously the days she counted, Waiting for the dawn of trouble. Finally she asked her mother, These the words of Mariatta: 'Faithful mother, fond and tender, Mother whom I love and cherish, Make for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the mother: 'Woe to thee, thou Hisi-maiden, Since thou art a bride unworthy, Wedded only to dishonor!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus replied in truthful measures: 'I am not a maid of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; As a shepherdess I wandered With the lambkins to the glen-wood, Wandered to the berry-mountain, Where the strawberry had ripened; Quick as thought I plucked the berry, On my tongue I gently laid it, To and fro it rocked and lingered, Settled in my heaving bosom. This the source of all my trouble, Only cause of my dishonor!' As the mother was relentless, Asked the maiden of her father, This the virgin-mother's pleading: 71 O my father, full of pity, Source of both my good and evil, Build for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the father, Of the father unforgiving: 'Go, thou evil child of Hisi, Go, thou child of sin and sorrow, Wedded only to dishonor, To the Great Bear's rocky chamber, To the stone-cave of the growler, There to lessen all thy troubles, There to cast thy heavy burdens!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus made answer to her father: 'I am not a child of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; I shall bear a noble hero, I shall bear a son immortal, Who will rule among the mighty, Rule the ancient Wainamoinen.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Wandered hither, wandered thither, Seeking for a place befitting, Seeking for a worthy birth-place For her unborn son and hero; Finally these words she uttered 'Piltti, thou my youngest maiden, Trustiest of all my servants, Seek a place within the village, Ask it of the brook of Sara, For the troubled Mariatta, Child of sorrow and misfortune.' Thereupon the little maiden, Piltti, spake these words in answer: 'Whom shall I entreat for succor, Who will lend me his assistance? These the words of Mariatta: 'Go and ask it of Ruotus, Where the reed-brook pours her waters.' 72 Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Ever hopeful, ever willing, Hastened to obey her mistress, Needing not her exhortation; Hastened like the rapid river, Like the flying smoke of battle To the cabin of Ruotus. When she walked the hill-tops tottered, When she ran the mountains trembled; Shore-reeds danced upon the pasture, Sandstones skipped about the heather As the maiden, Piltti, hastened To the dwelling of Ruotus. At his table in his cabin Sat Ruotus, eating, drinking, In his simple coat of linen. With his elbows on the table Spake the wizard in amazement: 'Why hast thou, a maid of evil, Come to see me in my cavern, What the message thou art bringing? Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Gave this answer to the wizard: 'Seek I for a spot befitting, Seek I for a worthy birth-place, For an unborn child and hero; Seek it near the Sara-streamlet, Where the reed-brook pours her waters. Came the wife of old Ruotus, Walking with her arms akimbo, Thus addressed the maiden, Piltti: 'Who is she that asks assistance, Who the maiden thus dishonored, What her name, and who her kindred?' 'I have come for Mariatta, For the worthy virgin-mother.' Spake the wife of old Ruotus, Evil-minded, cruel-hearted: 'Occupied are all our chambers, All our bath-rooms near the reed-brook; in the mount of fire are couches, is a stable in the forest, 73 For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta!' Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Hastened to her anxious mistress, Spake these measures, much regretting. 'There is not a place befitting, on the silver brook of Sara. Spake the wife of old Ruotus: 'Occupied are all the chambers, All the bath-rooms near the reed-brook; In the mount of fire are couches, Is a stable, in the forest, For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger, Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta.'' Thereupon the hapless maiden, Mariatta, virgin-mother, Fell to bitter tears and murmurs, Spake these words in depths of sorrow: 'I, alas! must go an outcast, Wander as a wretched hireling, Like a servant in dishonor, Hasten to the burning mountain, To the stable in the forest, Make my bed within a manger, Near the flaming steed of Hisi!' Quick the hapless virgin-mother, Outcast from her father's dwelling, Gathered up her flowing raiment, Grasped a broom of birchen branches, Hastened forth in pain and sorrow To the stable in the woodlands, On the heights of Tapio's mountains, Spake these words in supplication: 'Come, I pray thee, my Creator, Only friend in times of trouble, Come to me and bring protection 74 To thy child, the virgin-mother, To the maiden, Mariatta, In this hour of sore affliction. Come to me, benignant Ukko, Come, thou only hope and refuge, Lest thy guiltless child should perish, Die the death of the unworthy!' When the virgin, Mariatta, Had arrived within the stable Of the flaming horse of Hisi, She addressed the steed as follows: 'Breathe, O sympathizing fire-horse, Breathe on me, the virgin-mother, Let thy heated breath give moisture, Let thy pleasant warmth surround me, Like the vapor of the morning; Let this pure and helpless maiden Find a refuge in thy manger!' Thereupon the horse, in pity, Breathed the moisture of his nostrils On the body of the virgin, Wrapped her in a cloud of vapor, Gave her warmth and needed comforts, Gave his aid to the afflicted, To the virgin, Mariatta. There the babe was born and cradled Cradled in a woodland-manger, Of the virgin, Mariatta, Pure as pearly dews of morning, Holy as the stars in heaven. There the mother rocks her infant, In his swaddling clothes she wraps him, Lays him in her robes of linen; Carefully the babe she nurtures, Well she guards her much-beloved, Guards her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver. But alas! the child has vanished, Vanished while the mother slumbered. Mariatta, lone and wretched, Fell to weeping, broken-hearted, Hastened off to seek her infant. 75 Everywhere the mother sought him, Sought her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver; Sought him underneath the millstone, In the sledge she sought him vainly, Underneath the sieve she sought him, Underneath the willow-basket, Touched the trees, the grass she parted, Long she sought her golden infant, Sought him on the fir-tree-mountain, In the vale, and hill, and heather; Looks within the clumps of flowers, Well examines every thicket, Lifts the juniper and willow, Lifts the branches of the alder. Lo! a star has come to meet her, And the star she thus beseeches-. 'O, thou guiding-star of Northland, Star of hope, by God created, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Thus the star of Northland answers: 'If I knew, I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Set me here to watch at evening, In the cold to shine forever, Here to twinkle in the darkness.' Comes the golden Moon to meet her, And the Moon she thus beseeches: 'Golden Moon, by Ukko fashioned, Hope and joy of Kalevala, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden? Speaks the golden Moon in answer: 'If I knew I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Here to wander in the darkness, All alone at eve to wander On my cold and cheerless journey, Sleeping only in the daylight, 76 Shining for the good of others.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Falls again to bitter weeping, Hastens on through fen and forest, Seeking for her babe departed. Comes the silver Sun to meet her, And the Sun she thus addresses: 'Silver Sun by Ukko fashioned, Source of light and life to Northland, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Wisely does the Sun make answer: 'Well I know thy babe's dominions, Where thy holy child is sleeping, Where Wainola's light lies hidden; 'Tis thy child that me created, Made me king of earth and ether, Made the Moon and Stars attend me, Set me here to shine at midday, Makes me shine in silver raiment, Lets me sleep and rest at evening; Yonder is thy golden infant, There thy holy babe lies sleeping, Hidden to his belt in water, Hidden in the reeds and rushes.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Virgin-mother of the Northland, Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land, Finds him in the reeds and rushes; Takes the young child on her bosom To the dwelling of her father. There the infant grew in beauty, Gathered strength, and light, and wisdom, All of Suomi saw and wondered. No one knew what name to give him; When the mother named him, Flower, Others named him, Son-of-Sorrow. When the virgin, Mariatta, Sought the priesthood to baptize him, Came an old man, Wirokannas, With a cup of holy water, 77 Bringing to the babe his blessing; And the gray-beard spake as follows: 'I shall not baptize a wizard, Shall not bless a black-magician With the drops of holy water; Let the young child be examined, Let us know that he is worthy, Lest he prove the son of witchcraft.' Thereupon old Wirokannas Called the ancient Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, To inspect the infant-wonder, To report him good or evil. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Carefully the child examined, Gave this answer to his people: 'Since the child is but an outcast, Born and cradled in a manger, Since the berry is his father; Let him lie upon the heather, Let him sleep among the rushes, Let him live upon the mountains; Take the young child to the marshes, Dash his head against the birch-tree.' Then the child of Mariatta, Only two weeks old, made answer: 'O, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Son of Folly and Injustice, Senseless hero of the Northland, Falsely hast thou rendered judgment. In thy years, for greater follies, Greater sins and misdemeanors, Thou wert not unjustly punished. In thy former years of trouble, When thou gavest thine own brother, For thy selfish life a ransom, Thus to save thee from destruction, Then thou wert not sent to Swamp-land To be murdered for thy follies. In thy former years of sorrow, When the beauteous Aino perished In the deep and boundless blue-sea, 78 To escape thy persecutions, Then thou wert not evil-treated, Wert not banished by thy people.' Thereupon old Wirokannas, Of the wilderness the ruler, Touched the child with holy water, Crave the wonder-babe his blessing, Gave him rights of royal heirship, Free to live and grow a hero, To become a mighty ruler, King and Master of Karyala. As the years passed Wainamoinen Recognized his waning powers, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Sang his farewell song to Northland, To the people of Wainola; Sang himself a boat of copper, Beautiful his bark of magic; At the helm sat the magician, Sat the ancient wisdom-singer. Westward, westward, sailed the hero O'er the blue-back of the waters, Singing as he left Wainola, This his plaintive song and echo: 'Suns may rise and set in Suomi, Rise and set for generations, When the North will learn my teachings, Will recall my wisdom-sayings, Hungry for the true religion. Then will Suomi need my coming, Watch for me at dawn of morning, That I may bring back the Sampo, Bring anew the harp of joyance, Bring again the golden moonlight, Bring again the silver sunshine, Peace and plenty to the Northland.' Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, In his copper-banded vessel, Left his tribe in Kalevala, Sailing o'er the rolling billows, Sailing through the azure vapors, Sailing through the dusk of evening, 79 Sailing to the fiery sunset, To the higher-landed regions, To the lower verge of heaven; Quickly gained the far horizon, Gained the purple-colored harbor. There his bark be firmly anchored, Rested in his boat of copper; But be left his harp of magic, Left his songs and wisdom-sayings, To the lasting joy of Suomi. EPILOGUE. Now I end my measured singing, Bid my weary tongue keep silence, Leave my songs to other singers. Horses have their times of resting After many hours of labor; Even sickles will grow weary When they have been long at reaping; Waters seek a quiet haven After running long in rivers; Fire subsides and sinks in slumber At the dawning of the morning Therefore I should end my singing, As my song is growing weary, For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of morn arising. Often I have heard it chanted, Often heard the words repeated: 'Worthy cataracts and rivers Never empty all their waters.' Thus the wise and worthy singer Sings not all his garnered wisdom; Better leave unsung some sayings Than to sing them out of season. Thus beginning, and thus ending, Do I roll up all my legends, Roll them in a ball for safety, In my memory arrange them, In their narrow place of resting, Lest the songs escape unheeded, While the lock is still unopened, While the teeth remain unparted, 80 And the weary tongue is silent. Why should I sing other legends, Chant them in the glen and forest, Sing them on the hill and heather? Cold and still my golden mother Lies beneath the meadow, sleeping, Hears my ancient songs no longer, Cannot listen to my singing; Only will the forest listen, Sacred birches, sighing pine-trees, Junipers endowed with kindness, Alder-trees that love to bear me, With the aspens and the willows. When my loving mother left me, Young was I, and low of stature; Like the cuckoo of the forest, Like the thrush upon the heather, Like the lark I learned to twitter, Learned to sing my simple measures, Guided by a second mother, Stern and cold, without affection; Drove me helpless from my chamber To the wind-side of her dwelling, To the north-side of her cottage, Where the chilling winds in mercy Carried off the unprotected. As a lark I learned to wander, Wander as a lonely song-bird, Through the forests and the fenlands Quietly o'er hill and heather; Walked in pain about the marshes, Learned the songs of winds and waters, Learned the music of the ocean, And the echoes of the woodlands. Many men that live to murmur, Many women live to censure, Many speak with evil motives; Many they with wretched voices Curse me for my wretched singing, Blame my tongue for speaking wisdom, Call my ancient songs unworthy, Blame the songs and curse the singer. 81 Be not thus, my worthy people, Blame me not for singing badly, Unpretending as a minstrel. I have never had the teaching, Never lived with ancient heroes, Never learned the tongues of strangers, Never claimed to know much wisdom. Others have had language-masters, Nature was my only teacher, Woods and waters my instructors. Homeless, friendless, lone, and needy, Save in childhood with my mother, When beneath her painted rafters, Where she twirled the flying spindle, By the work-bench of my brother, By the window of my sister, In. the cabin of my father, In my early days of childhood. Be this as it may, my people, This may point the way to others, To the singers better gifted, For the good of future ages, For the coming generations, For the rising folk of Suomi. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1415:or Callistratus. Similarly, the hero in The Acharnians complains about Cleon "dragging me into court" over "last year's play" but here again it is not clear if this was said on behalf of ~ Aristophanes or Callistratus, either of whom might have been prosecuted by Cleon. Comments made by the Chorus on behalf of ~ Aristophanes in The Clouds have been interpreted as evidence that he can have been hardly more than 18 years old when his first play The Banqueters was produced. The second parabasis in Wasps appears to indicate that he reached some kind of temporary accommodation with Cleon following either the controversy over The Babylonians or a subsequent controversy over The Knights.[ It has been inferred from statements in The Clouds and Peace that ~ Aristophanes was prematurely bald. We know that ~ Aristophanes was probably victorious at least once at the City Dionysia (with Babylonians in 427)and at least three times at the Lenaia, with Acharnians in 425, Knights in 424, and Frogs in 405. Frogs in fact won the unique distinction of a repeat performance at a subsequent festival. We know that a son of ~ Aristophanes , Araros, was also a comic poet and he could have been heavily involved in the production of his father's play Wealth II in s is also thought to have been responsible for the posthumous performances of the now lost plays Aeolosicon II and Cocalus, and it is possible that the last of these won the prize at the City Dionysia in 387. It appears that a second son, Philippus, was twice victorious at the Lenaia and he could have directed some of Eubulus’ comedies.A third son was called either Nicostratus or Philetaerus, and a man by the latter name appears in the catalogue of Lenaia victors with two victories, the first probably in the late 370s. Plato's The Symposium appears to be a useful source of biographical information about ~ Aristophanes , but its reliability is open to doubt. It purports to be a record of conversations at a dinner party at which both ~ Aristophanes and Socrates are guests, held some seven years after the performance of The Clouds, the play in which Socrates was cruelly caricatured. One of the guests, Alcibiades, even quotes from the play when teasing Socrates over his appearance and yet there is no indication of any ill-feeling between Socrates and ~ Aristophanes . Plato's ~ Aristophanes is in fact a genial character and this has been interpreted as evidence of Plato's own friendship with him (their friendship appears to be corroborated by an epitaph for ~ Aristophanes , reputedly written by Plato, in which the playwright's soul is compared to an eternal shrine for the Graces). Plato was only a boy when the events in The Symposium are supposed to have occurred and it is possible that his ~ Aristophanes is in fact based on a reading of the plays. For example, conversation among the guests turns to the subject of Love and ~ Aristophanes explains his notion of it in terms of an amusing allegory, a device he often uses in his plays. He is represented as suffering an attack of hiccoughs and this might be a humorous reference to the crude physical jokes in his plays. He tells the other guests that he is quite happy to be thought amusing but he is wary of appearing ridiculous. This fear of being ridiculed is consistent with his declaration in The Knights that he embarked on a career of comic playwright warily after witnessing the public contempt and ridicule that other dramatists had incurred. ~ Aristophanes survived The Peloponnesian War, two oligarchic revolutions and two democratic restorations; this has been interpreted as evidence that he was not actively involved in politics despite his highly political plays. He was probably appointed to the Council of Five Hundred for a year at the beginning of the fourth century but such appointments were very common in democratic tes, in the trial leading up to his own death, put the issue of a personal conscience in those troubled times quite succinctly: "...he who will really fight for the right, if he would live even for a little while, must have a private station and not a public one. ~ Aristophanes the Poet The language in ~ Aristophanes ' plays, and in Old Comedy generally, was valued by ancient commentators as a model of the Attic dialect. The orator Quintilian believed that the charm and grandeur of the Attic dialect made Old Comedy an example for orators to study and follow, and he considered it inferior in these respects only to the works of A full appreciation of ~ Aristophanes ' plays requires an understanding of the poetic forms he employed with virtuoso skill, and of their different rhythms and associations. There were three broad poetic forms: iambic dialogue, tetrameter verses and lyrics: Iambic dialogue: ~ Aristophanes achieves an effect resembling natural speech through the use of the iambic hexameter (corresponding to the effects achieved by English poets such as based on words that are similar rather than identical, and it has been observed that there could be more of them than scholars have yet been able to identify. Others are based on double meanings. Sometimes entire scenes are constructed on puns, as in The Acharnians with the Megarian farmer and his pigs: the Megarian farmer defies the Athenian embargo against Megarian trade, and tries to trade his daughters disguised as pigs, except "pig" was ancient slang for "vagina". Since the embargo against Megara was the pretext for the Peloponnesian War, ~ Aristophanes naturally concludes that this whole mess happened because of "three cunts". It can be argued that the most important feature of the language of the plays is imagery, particularly the use of similes, metaphors and pictorial expressions. In 'The Knights', for example, the ears of a character with selective hearing are represented as parasols that open and close.In The Frogs, Aeschylus is said to compose verses in the manner of a horse rolling in a sandpit. Some plays feature revelations of human perfectibility that are poetic rather than religious in character, such as the marriage of the hero Pisthetairos to Zeus's paramour in The Birds and the 'recreation' of old Athens, crowned with roses, at the end of The Knights. ~ Aristophanes and Old Comedy The Greek word for 'comedy' (komoidía) derives from the words for 'revel' and 'song' (komos and ode) and according to Aristotle comic drama actually developed from song. The first, official comedy at the City Dionysia was not staged until 487/6 BC, by which time tragedy had already been long established there. The first comedy at the Lenaia was staged later still, only about 20 years before the performance there of The Acharnians, the first of ~ Aristophanes ' surviving plays. According to Aristotle, comedy was slow to gain official acceptance because nobody took it seriously yet, only sixty years after comedy first appeared at 'The City Dionysia', ~ Aristophanes observed that producing comedies was the most difficult work of tition at the Dionysian festivals needed dramatic conventions for plays to be judged, but it also fuelled innovations. Developments were quite rapid and Aristotle was able to distinguish between 'old' and 'new' comedy by 330 BC. The trend from Old Comedy to New Comedy saw a move away from highly topical concerns with real individuals and local issues towards generalized situations and stock characters. This was partly due to the internationalization of cultural perspectives during and after the Peloponnesian War. For ancient commentators such as Plutarch, New Comedy was a more sophisticated form of drama than Old Comedy. However Old Comedy was in fact a complex and sophisticated dramatic form incorporating many approaches to humour and entertainment. In ~ Aristophanes ' early plays, the genre appears to have developed around a complex set of dramatic conventions and these were only gradually simplified and abandoned. The City Dionysia and the Lenaia were celebrated in honour of Dionysus, a god who represented Man's darker nature (Euripides' play The Bacchae offers the best insight into 5th Century ideas about this god). Old Comedy can be understood as a celebration of the exuberant sense of release inherent in his worship It was more interested in finding targets for satire than in any kind of advocacy. During the City Dionysia, a statue of the god was brought to the theatre from a temple outside the city and it remained in the theatre throughout the festival, overseeing the plays like a privileged member of the audience.[102] In The Frogs, the god appears also as a dramatic character and he enters the theatre ludicrously disguised as Hercules. He observes to the audience that every time he is on hand to hear a joke from a comic dramatist like Phrynichus (one of ~ Aristophanes ' rivals) he ages by more than a year. The scene opens the play and it is a reminder to the audience that nobody is above mockery in Old Comedy — not even its patron god and its practitioners! Gods, artists, politicians and ordinary citizens were legitimate targets, comedy was a kind of licensed buffoonery and there was no legal redress for anyone who was slandered in a play. There were some limits to the scope of the satire, but they are not easily defined. Impiety could be punished in 5th century Athens but absurdities implicit in traditional religion were open to ridicule. The polis was not allowed to be slandered but, as stated in the biography section of this article, that could depend on who was in the audience and which festival was involved. For convenience, Old Comedy, as represented by ~ Aristophanes ' early plays, is analysed below in terms of three broad characteristics — topicality, festivity and complexity. Dramatic structure contributes to the complexity of ~ Aristophanes ' plays. However it is associated with poetic rhythms and meters that have little relevance to English translations and it is therefore treated in a separate section. Influence and legacy The tragic dramatists, Sophocles and Euripides, died near the end of the Peloponnesian War and the art of tragedy thereafter ceased to develop, yet comedy did continue to develop after the defeat of Athens and it is possible that it did so because, in ~ Aristophanes , it had a master craftsman who lived long enough to help usher it into a new age. Indeed, according to one ancient source (Platonius, c.9th Century AD), one of ~ Aristophanes 's last plays, Aioliskon, had neither a parabasis nor any choral lyrics (making it a type of Middle Comedy), while Kolakos anticipated all the elements of New Comedy, including a rape and a recognition scene. ~ Aristophanes seems to have had some appreciation of his formative role in the development of comedy, as indicated by his comment in Clouds that his audience would be judged by other times according to its reception of his plays. Clouds was awarded third (i.e. last) place after its original performance and the text that has come down to the modern age was a subsequent draft that ~ Aristophanes intended to be read rather than circulation of his plays in manuscript extended their influence beyond the original audience, over whom in fact they seem to have had little or no practical influence: they did not affect the career of Cleon, they failed to persuade the Athenians to pursue an honourable peace with Sparta and it is not clear that they were instrumental in the trial and execution of Socrates, whose death probably resulted from public animosity towards the philosopher's disgraced associates (such as Alcibiades), exacerbated of course by his own intransigence during the plays, in manuscript form, have been put to some surprising uses — as indicated earlier, they were used in the study of rhetoric on the recommendation of Quintilian and by students of the Attic dialect in the Fourth and Fifth Centuries AD. It is possible that Plato sent copies of the plays to Dionysius of Syracuse so that he might learn about Athenian life and government. Latin translations of the plays by Andreas Divus (Venice 1528) were circulated widely throughout Europe in the Renaissance and these were soon followed by translations and adaptations in modern languages. Racine, for example, drew Les Plaideurs (1668) from The Wasps. winged." Drama 1909: Wasps, original Greek, Cambridge University undergraduate production, music by Vaughan Williams; 2004, July–October: The Frogs (musical), adapted by Nathan Lane, music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, performed at The Vivian Beaumont Theatre Broadway; 1962-2006: various plays by students and staff, Kings College London, in the original Greek:Frogs 1962,1971,1988; Thesmophoriazusae 1965, 1974, 1985; Acharnians 1968, 1992, 2004; Clouds 1977, 1990; Birds 1982, 2000; Ecclesiazusae 2006; Peace 1970; Wasps 1981 2002: Lysistrata, adapted by Robert Brustein, music by Galt McDermot, performed by American Repertory Theatre, Boston U.S.A.; 10 2008, May–June: Frogs, adapted by David Greenspan, music by Thomas Cabaniss, performed by Classic Stage Company, New York, U.S.A. Literature The romantic poet, Percy Shelley, wrote a comic, lyrical drama (Swellfoot the Tyrrant) in imitation of ~ Aristophanes ' play The Frogs after he was reminded of the Chorus in that play by a herd of pigs passing to market under the window of his lodgings in San Giuliano, Italy. ~ Aristophanes (particularly in reference to The Clouds) is mentioned frequently by the character Menedemos in the Hellenic Traders series of novels by H N Turteltaub. A liberal version of the comedies have been published in comic book format, initially by "Agrotikes Ekdoseis" during the 1990s and republished over the years by other companies. The plot was written by Tasos Apostolidis and the sketches were of George Akokalidis. The stories feature either ~ Aristophanes narrating them, directing the play, or even as a character inside one of his stories. Electronic Media The Wasps, radio play adapted by David Pountney, music by Vaughan Williams, recorded 26–28 July 2005, Albert Halls, Bolten, in association with BBC, under Halle label; Acropolis Now is a comedy radio show for the BBC set in Ancient Greece. It features ~ Aristophanes , Socrates and many other famous Greeks. (Not to be confused with the Australian sitcom of the same name.) ~ Aristophanes is characterised as a celebrity playwright, and most of his plays have the title formula: One of Our [e.g] Slaves has an Enormous Knob (a reference to the exaggerated appendages worn by Greek comic actors) ~ Aristophanes Against the World was a radio play by Martyn Wade and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Loosely based on several of his plays, it featured Clive Merrison as ~ Aristophanes . In The Odd Couple, Oscar and Felix are on Password, and when the password is bird, Felix’s esoteric clue is "~ Aristophanes " because of his play The Birds. During the commercial break (having failed to guess the password and lost the round), Oscar orders Felix not to give any more Greek clues and angrily growls, "~ Aristophanes is ridiculous"! Then when it's Oscar’s turn to give the clue on the 11 team’s next shot, the password is ridiculous and Oscar angrily growls "~ Aristophanes ", to which Felix gleefully responds, "Ridiculous!" Music Satiric Dances for a Comedy by ~ Aristophanes is a three-movement piece for concert band composed by Norman Dello Joio. It was commissioned in commemoration of the Bicentennial of April 19, 1775 (the start of the American Revolutionary War) by the Concord (Massachusetts) Band. The commission was funded by the Town of Concord and assistance was given by the Eastern National Park and Monument Association in cooperation with the National Park Service. 12 A Parody On Euripides's Lyric Verse Halcyons ye by the flowing sea Waves that warble twitteringly, Circling over the tumbling blue, Dipping your down in its briny dew, Spi-i-iders in corners dim Spi-spi-spinning your fairy film, Shuttles echoing round the room Silver notes of the whistling loom, Where the light-footed dolphin skips Down the wake of the dark-prowed ships, Over the course of the racing steed Where the clustering tendrils breed Grapes to drown dull care in delight, Oh! mother make me a child again just for to-night! I don't exactly see how that last line is to scan, But that's a consideration I leave to our musical man. ~ Aristophanes,

1416:The Kalevala - Rune Xviii THE RIVAL SUITORS Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Long considered, long debated, How to woo and win the daughter Of the hostess of Pohyola, How to lead the Bride of Beauty, Fairy maiden of the rainbow, To the meadows of Wainola, From the dismal Sariola. Now he decks his magic vessel, Paints the boat in blue and scarlet, Trims in gold the ship's forecastle, Decks the prow in molten silver; Sings his magic ship down gliding, On the cylinders of fir-tree: Now erects the masts of pine-wood, On each mast the sails of linen, Sails of blue, and white, and scarlet, Woven into finest fabric. Wainamoinen, the magician, Steps aboard his wondrous vessel, Steers the bark across the waters, On the blue back of the broad-sea, Speaks these words in sailing northward, Sailing to the dark Pohyola: 'Come aboard my ship, O Ukko, Come with me, thou God of mercy, To protect thine ancient hero, To support thy trusting servant, On the breasts of raging billows, On the far out-stretching waters. 'Rock, O winds, this wondrous vessel, Causing not a single ripple; Rolling waves, bear ye me northward, That the oar may not be needed In my journey to Pohyola, O'er this mighty waste of waters.' 317 Ilmarinen's beauteous sister, Fair and goodly maid, Annikki, Of the Night and Dawn, the daughter, Who awakes each morning early, Rises long before the daylight, Stood one morning on the sea-shore, Washing in the foam her dresses, Rinsing out her silken ribbons, On the bridge of scarlet color, On the border of the highway, On a headland jutting seaward, On the forest-covered island. Here Annikki, looking round her, Looking through the fog and ether, Looking through the clouds of heaven, Gazing far out on the blue-sea, Sees the morning sun arising, Glimmering along the billows, Looks with eyes of distant vision Toward the sunrise on the waters, Toward the winding streams of Suomi, Where the Wina-waves were flowing. There she sees, on the horizon, Something darkle in the sunlight, Something blue upon the billows, Speaks these words in wonder guessing: What is this upon the surges, What this blue upon the waters, What this darkling in the sunlight? 'Tis perhaps a flock of wild-geese, Or perchance the blue-duck flying; Then upon thy wings arising, Fly away to highest heaven. 'Art thou then a shoal of sea-trout, Or perchance a school of salmon? Dive then to the deep sea-bottom, In the waters swim and frolic. 'Art thou then a cliff of granite, Or perchance a mighty oak-tree, Floating on the rough sea-billows? May the floods then wash and beat thee Break thee to a thousand fragments.' 318 Wainamoinen, sailing northward, Steers his wondrous ship of magic Toward the headland jutting seaward, Toward the island forest-covered. Now Annikki, goodly maiden, Sees it is the magic vessel Of a wonderful enchanter, Of a mighty bard and hero, And she asks this simple question: 'Art thou then my father's vessel, Or my brother's ship of magic? Haste away then to thy harbor, To thy refuge in Wainola. Hast thou come a goodly distance? Sail then farther on thy journey, Point thy prow to other waters.' It was not her father's vessel, Not a sail-boat from the distance, 'Twas the ship of Wainamoinen, Bark of the eternal singer; Sails within a hailing distance, Swims still nearer o'er the waters, Brings one word and takes another, Brings a third of magic import. Speaks the goodly maid, Annikki, Of the Night and Dawn, the daughter, To the sailor of the vessel: 'Whither sailest, Wainamoinen, Whither bound, thou friend of waters, Pride and joy of Kalevala?' From the vessel Wainamomen Gives this answer to the maiden: 'I have come to catch some sea-trout, Catch the young and toothsome whiting, Hiding in tbese-reeds and rushes.' This the answer of Annikki: 'Do not speak to me in falsehood, Know I well the times of fishing; Long ago my honored father Was a fisherman in Northland, Came to catch the trout and whiting, Fished within these seas and rivers. 319 Very well do I remember How the fisherman disposes, How he rigs his fishing vessel, Lines, and gaffs, and poles, and fish-nets; Hast not come a-fishing hither. Whither goest, Wainamoinen, Whither sailest, friend of waters? Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'I have come to catch some wild-geese, Catch the hissing birds of Suomi, In these far-extending borders, In the Sachsensund dominions.' Good Annikki gives this answer: 'Know I well a truthful speaker, Easily detect a falsehood; Formerly my aged father Often came a-hunting hither, Came to hunt the hissing wild-geese, Hunt the red-bill of these waters. Very well do I remember How the hunter rigs his vessel, Bows, and arrows, knives, and quiver, Dogs enchained within the vessel, Pointers hunting on the sea-shore, Setters seeking in the marshes, Tell the truth now Wainamoinen, Whither is thy vessel sailing?' Spake the hero of the Northland: 'To the wars my ship is sailing, To the bloody fields of battle, Where the streams run scarlet-colored, Where the paths are paved with bodies!' These the words of fair Annikki: 'Know I well the paths to battle. Formerly my aged father Often sounded war's alarum, Often led the hosts to conquest; In each ship a hundred rowers, And in arms a thousand heroes, Oil the prow a thousand cross-bows, Swords, and spears, and battle-axes; Know I well the ship of battle. 320 Speak Do longer fruitless falsehoods, Whither sailest, Wainamoinen, Whither steerest, friend of waters? These the words of Wainamoinen: 'Come, O maiden, to my vessel, In my magic ship be seated, Then I'll give thee truthful answer.' Thus Annikki, silver-tinselled, Answers ancient Wainamoinen: 'With the winds I'll fill thy vessel, To thy bark I'll send the storm-winds And capsize thy ship of magic, Break in pieces its forecastle, If the truth thou dost not tell me, If thou dost not cease thy falsehoods, If thou dost not tell me truly Whither sails thy magic vessel.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'Now I make thee truthful answer, Though at first I spake deception: I am sailing to the Northland To the dismal Sariola, Where the ogres live and flourish, Where they drown the worthy heroes, There to woo the Maid of Beauty Sitting on the bow of heaven, Woo and win the fairy virgin, Bring her to my home and kindred, To the firesides of Walnola.' Then Aunikki, graceful maiden, Of the Night and Dawn, the daughter, As she heard the rightful answer, Knew the truth was fully spoken, Straightway left her coats unbeaten, Left unwashed her linen garments, Left unrinsed her silks and ribbons On the highway by the sea-shore, On the bridge of scarlet color On her arm she threw her long-robes, Hastened off with speed of roebuck To the shops of Ilmarinen, To the iron-forger's furnace, 321 To the blacksmith's home and smithy, Here she found the hero-artist, Forging out a bench of iron, And adorning it with silver. Soot lay thick upon his forehead, Soot and coal upon his shoulders. On the threshold speaks Annikki, These the words his sister uses: 'Ilmarinen, dearest brother, Thou eternal artist-forger, Forge me now a loom of silver, Golden rings to grace my fingers, Forge me gold and silver ear-rings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for my bosom, For my head forge golden trinkets, And I'll tell a tale surprising, Tell a story that concerns thee Truthfully I'll tell the story.' Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen Spake and these the words he uttered: 'If thou'lt tell the tale sincerely, I will forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge thee gold and silver ear-rings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom, For thy head forge golden trinkets; But if thou shouldst tell me falsely, I shall break thy beauteous jewels, Break thine ornaments in pieces, Hurl them to the fire and furnace, Never forge thee other trinkets.' This the answer of Annikki: 'Ancient blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Dost thou ever think to marry Her already thine affianced, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Fairest virgin of the Northland, Chosen bride of Sariola? Shouldst thou wish the Maid of Beauty, Thou must forge, and forge unceasing, 322 Hammering the days and nights through; Forge the summer hoofs for horses, Forge them iron hoofs for winter, In the long nights forge the snow-sledge, Gaily trim it in the daytime, Haste thou then upon thy journey To thy wooing in the Northland, To the dismal Sariola; Thither journeys one more clever, Sails another now before thee, There to woo thy bride affianced, Thence to lead thy chosen virgin, Woo and win the Maid of Beauty; Three long years thou hast been wooing. Wainamoinen now is sailing On the blue back of the waters, Sitting at his helm of copper; On the prow are golden carvings, Beautiful his boat of magic, Sailing fleetly o'er the billows, To the never-pleasant Northland, To the dismal Sariola.' Ilmarinen stood in wonder, Stood a statue at the story; Silent grief had settled o'er him, Settled o'er the iron-artist; From one hand the tongs descended, From the other fell the hammer, As the blacksmith made this answer: 'Good Annikki, worthy sister, I shall forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge thee gold and silver ear-rings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom; Go and heat for me the bath-room, Fill with heat the honey-chambers, Lay the faggots on the fire-place, Lay the smaller woods around them, Pour some water through the ashes, Make a soap of magic virtue, Thus to cleanse my blackened visage, 323 Thus to cleanse the blacksmith's body, Thus remove the soot and ashes.' Then Annikki, kindly sister, Quickly warmed her brother's bath-room, Warmed it with the knots of fir-trees, That the thunder-winds had broken; Gathered pebbles from the fire-stream, Threw them in the heating waters; Broke the tassels from the birch-trees, Steeped the foliage in honey, Made a lye from milk and ashes, Made of these a strong decoction, Mixed it with the fat and marrow Of the reindeer of the mountains, Made a soap of magic virtue, Thus to cleanse the iron-artist, Thus to beautify the suitor, Thus to make the hero worthy. Ilmarinen, ancient blacksmith, The eternal metal-worker, Forged the wishes of his sister, Ornaments for fair Annikki, Rings, and bracelets, pins and ear-drops, Forged for her six golden girdles, Forged a weaving loom of silver, While the maid prepared the bath-room, Set his toilet-room in order. To the maid he gave the trinkets, Gave the loom of molten silver, And the sister thus made answer: 'I have heated well thy bath-room, Have thy toilet-things in order, Everything as thou desirest; Go prepare thyself for wooing, Lave thy bead to flaxen whiteness, Make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, Lave thyself in Love's aroma, That thy wooing prove successful.' Ilmarinen, magic artist, Quick repairing to his bath-room, Bathed his head to flaxen whiteness, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy, 324 Laved his eyes until they sparkled Like the moonlight on the waters; Wondrous were his form and features, And his cheeks like ruddy berries. These the words of Ilmarinen: 'Fair Annikki, lovely sister, Bring me now my silken raiment, Bring my best and richest vesture, Bring me now my softest linen, That my wooing prove successful.' Straightway did the helpful sister Bring the finest of his raiment, Bring the softest of his linen, Raiment fashioned by his mother; Brought to him his silken stockings, Brought him shoes of marten-leather, Brought a vest of sky-blue color, Brought him scarlet-colored trousers, Brought a coat with scarlet trimming, Brought a red shawl trimmed in ermine Fourfold wrapped about his body; Brought a fur-coat made of seal-skin, Fastened with a thousand bottons, And adorned with countless jewels; Brought for him his magic girdle, Fastened well with golden buckles, That his artist-mother fashioned; Brought him gloves with golden wristlets, That the Laplanders had woven For a head of many ringlets; Brought the finest cap in Northland, That his ancient father purchased When he first began his wooing. Ilmarinen, blacksmith-artist, Clad himself to look his finest, When he thus addressed a servant: 'Hitch for me a fleet-foot racer, Hitch him to my willing snow-sledge, For I start upon a journey To the distant shores of Pohya, To the dismal Sariola.' Spake the servant thus in answer: 325 'Thou hast seven fleet-foot racers, Munching grain within their mangers, Which of these shall I make ready?' Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Take the fleetest of my coursers, Put the gray steed in the harness, Hitch him to my sledge of magic; Place six cuckoos on the break-board, Seven bluebirds on the cross-bars, Thus to charm the Northland maidens, Thus to make them look and listen, As the cuckoos call and echo. Bring me too my largest bear-skin, Fold it warm about the cross-bench; Bring me then my marten fur-robes, As a cover and protection.' Straightway then the trusty servant Of the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Put the gray steed in the harness, Hitched the racer to the snow-sledge, Placed six cuckoos on the break-board, Seven bluebirds on the cross-bars, On the front to sing and twitter; Then he brought the largest bear-skin, Folded it upon the cross-bench; Brought the finest robes of marten, Warm protection for the master. Ilmarinen, forger-artist, The eternal metal-worker, Earnestly entreated Ukko: 'Send thy snow-flakes, Ukko, father, Let them gently fall from heaven, Let them cover all the heather, Let them hide the berry-bushes, That my sledge may glide in freedom O'er the hills to Sariola!' Ukko sent the snow from heaven, Gently dropped the crystal snow-flakes, Lending thus his kind assistance To the hero, Ilmarinen, On his journey to the Northland. Reins in hand, the ancient artist 326 Seats him in his metal snow-sledge, And beseeches thus his Master: 'Good luck to my reins and traces, Good luck to my shafts and runners! God protect my magic snow-sledge, Be my safeguard on my journey To the dismal Sariola!' Now the ancient Ilmarinen Draws the reins upon the racer, Snaps his whip above the courser, To the gray steed gives this order, And the charger plunges northward: 'Haste away, my flaxen stallion, Haste thee onward, noble white-face, To the never-pleasant Pohya, To the dreary Sariola!' Fast and faster flies the fleet-foot, On the curving snow-capped sea-coast, On the borders of the lowlands, O'er the alder-hills and mountains. Merrily the steed flies onward, Bluebirds singing, cuckoos calling, On the sea-shore looking northward, Through the sand and falling snow-flakes Blinding winds, and snow, and sea-foam, Cloud the hero, Ilmarinen, As he glides upon his journey, Looking seaward for the vessel Of the ancient Wainamoinen; Travels one day, then a second, Travels all the next day northward, Till the third day Ilmarinen Overtakes old Wainamoinen, Rails him in his magic vessel, And addresses thus the minstrel: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Let us woo in peace the maiden, Fairest daughter or the Northland, Sitting on the bow of heaven, Let each labor long to win her, Let her wed the one she chooses, Him selecting, let her follow.' 327 Wainamoinen thus makes answer: 'I agree to thy proposal, Let us woo in peace the maiden, Not by force, nor faithless measures, Shall we woo the Maid of Beauty, Let her follow him she chooses; Let the unsuccessful suitor Harbor neither wrath nor envy For the hero that she follows.' Thus agreeing, on they journey, Each according to his pleasure; Fleetly does the steed fly onward, Quickly flies the magic vessel, Sailing on the broad-sea northward; Ilmarinen's fleet-foot racer Makes the hills of Northland tremble, As he gallops on his journey To the dismal Sariola. Wainamoinen calls the South-winds, And they fly to his assistance; Swiftly sails his ship of beauty, Swiftly plows the rough sea-billows In her pathway to Pohyola. Time had gone but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, Ere the dogs began their barking, In the mansions of the Northland, In the courts of Sariola, Watch-dogs of the court of Louhi; Never had they growled so fiercely, Never had they barked so loudly, Never with their tails had beaten Northland into such an uproar. Spake the master of Pohyola: 'Go and learn, my worthy daughter, Why the watch-dogs have been barking, Why the black-dog signals danger.' Quickly does the daughter answer: 'I am occupied, dear father, I have work of more importance, I must tend my flock of lambkins, I must turn the nether millstone, 328 Grind to flour the grains of barley, Run the grindings through the sifter, Only have I time for grinding.' Lowly growls the faithful watch-dog, Seldom does he growl so strangely. Spake the master of Pohyola: 'Go and learn, my trusted consort, Why the Northland dogs are barking, Why the black-dog signals danger.' Thus his aged wife makes answer; 'Have no time, nor inclination, I must feed my hungry household, Must prepare a worthy dinner, I must bake the toothsome biscuit, Knead the dough till it is ready, Only have I strength for kneading.' Spake the master of Pohyola: 'Dames are always in a hurry, Maidens too are ever busy, Whether warming at the oven, Or asleep upon their couches; Go my son, and learn the danger, Why the black-dog growls displeasure,' Quickly does the son give answer: 'Have no time, nor inclination, Am in haste to grind my hatchet; I must chop this log to cordwood, For the fire must cut the faggots, I must split the wood in fragments, Large the pile and small the fire-wood, Only have I strength for chopping.' Still the watch-dog growls in anger, Growl the whelps within the mansion, Growl the dogs chained in the kennel, Growls the black-dog on the hill-top, Setting Northland in an uproar. Spake the master of Pohyola: 'Never, never does my black-dog Growl like this without a reason; Never does he bark for nothing, Does not growl at angry billows, Nor the sighing of the pine-trees.' 329 Then the master of Pohyola Went himself to learn the reason For the barking of the watch-dogs; Strode he through the spacious court-yard, Through the open fields beyond it, To the summit of the uplands. Looking toward his black-dog barking, He beholds the muzzle pointed To a distant, stormy hill-top, To a mound with alders covered; There he learned the rightful reason, Why his dogs had barked so loudly, Why had growled the wool-tail bearer, Why his whelps had signalled danger. At full sail, he saw a vessel, And the ship was scarlet-colored, Entering the bay of Lempo; Saw a sledge of magic colors, Gliding up the curving sea-shore, O'er the snow-fields of Pohyola. Then the master of the Northland Hastened straightway to his dwelling, Hastened forward to his court-room, These the accents of the master: 'Often strangers journey hither, On the blue back of the ocean, Sailing in a scarlet vessel, Rocking in the bay of Lempo; Often strangers come in sledges To the honey-lands of Louhi.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: How shall we obtain a token Why these strangers journey hither? My beloved, faithful daughter, Lay a branch upon the fire-place, Let it burn with fire of magic If it trickle drops of scarlet, War and bloodshed do they bring us; If it trickle drops of water, Peace and plenty bring the strangers.' Northland's fair and slender maiden, Beautiful and modest daughter, 330 Lays a sorb-branch on the fire-place, Lights it with the fire of magic; Does not trickle drops of scarlet, Trickles neither blood, nor water, From the wand come drops of honey. From the corner spake Suowakko, This the language of the wizard: 'If the wand is dripping honey, Then the strangers that are coming Are but worthy friends and suitors.' Then the hostess of the Northland, With the daughter of the hostess, Straightway left their work, and hastened From their dwelling to the court-yard; Looked about in all directions, Turned their eyes upon the waters, Saw a magic-colored vessel Rocking slowly in the harbor, Having sailed the bay of Lempo, Triple sails, and masts, and rigging, Sable was the nether portion, And the upper, scarlet-colored, At the helm an ancient hero Leaning on his oars of copper; Saw a fleet-foot racer running, Saw a red sledge lightly follow, Saw the magic sledge emblazoned, Guided toward the courts of Louhi; Saw and heard six golden cuckoos Sitting on the break-board, calling, Seven bluebirds richly colored Singing from the yoke and cross-bar; In the sledge a magic hero, Young, and strong, and proud, and handsome, Holding reins upon the courser. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Dearest daughter, winsome maiden, Dost thou wish a noble suitor? Should these heroes come to woo thee, Wouldst thou leave thy home and country, Be the bride of him that pleases, Be his faithful life-companion? 331 'He that comes upon the waters, Sailing in a magic vessel, Having sailed the bay of Lempo, Is the good, old Wainamoinen; In his ship are countless treasures, Richest presents from Wainola. 'He that rides here in his snow-sledge In his sledge of magic beauty, With the cuckoos and the bluebirds, Is the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Cometh hither empty-handed, Only brings some wisdom-sayings. When they come within the dwelling, Bring a bowl of honeyed viands, Bring a pitcher with two handles, Give to him that thou wouldst follow Give it to old Wainamoinen, Him that brings thee countless treasures, Costly presents in his vessel, Priceless gems from Kalevala.' Spake the Northland's lovely daughter, This the language of the maiden 'Good, indeed, advice maternal, But I will not wed for riches, Wed no man for countless treasures; For his worth I'll choose a husband, For his youth and fine appearance, For his noble form and features; In the olden times the maidens Were not sold by anxious mothers To the suitors that they loved not. I shall choose without his treasures Ilmarinen for his wisdom, For his worth and good behavior, Him that forged the wondrous Sampo, Hammered thee the lid in colors.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Senseless daughter, child of folly, Thus to choose the ancient blacksmith, From whose brow drips perspiration, Evermore to rinse his linen, Lave his hands, and eyes, and forehead, 332 Keep his ancient house in order; Little use his wit and wisdom When compared with gold and silver.' This the answer of the daughter: 'I will never, never, never, Wed the ancient Wainamoinen With his gold and priceless jewels; Never will I be a helpmate To a hero in his dotage, Little thanks my compensation.' Wainamoinen, safely landing In advance of Ilmarinen, Pulls his gaily-covered vessel From the waves upon the sea-beach, On the cylinders of birch-wood, On the rollers copper-banded, Straightway hastens to the guest-room Of the hostess of Pohyola, Of the master of the Northland, Speaks these words upon the threshold To the famous Maid of Beauty: 'Come with me, thou lovely virgin, Be my bride and life-companion, Share with me my joys and sorrows, Be my honored wife hereafter!' This the answer of the maiden: 'Hast thou built for me the vessel, Built for me the ship of magic From the fragments of the distaff, From the splinters of the spindle?' Wainamoinen thus replying: 'I have built the promised vessel, Built the wondrous ship for sailing, Firmly joined the parts by magic; It will weather roughest billows, Will outlive the winds and waters, Swiftly glide upon the blue-back Of the deep and boundless ocean It will ride the waves in beauty, Like an airy bubble rising, Like a cork on lake and river, Through the angry seas of Northland, 333 Through Pohyola's peaceful waters.' Northland's fair and slender daughter Gives this answer to her suitor: 'Will not wed a sea-born hero, Do not care to rock the billows, Cannot live with such a husband Storms would bring us pain and trouble, Winds would rack our hearts and temples; Therefore thee I cannot follow, Cannot keep thy home in order, Cannot be thy life-companion, Cannot wed old Wainamoinen.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1417:The Princess (Part 4) 'There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun, If that hypothesis of theirs be sound' Said Ida; 'let us down and rest;' and we Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, By every coppice-feathered chasm and cleft, Dropt through the ambrosial gloom to where below No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she leaned on me, Descending; once or twice she lent her hand, And blissful palpitations in the blood, Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. But when we planted level feet, and dipt Beneath the satin dome and entered in, There leaning deep in broidered down we sank Our elbows: on a tripod in the midst A fragrant flame rose, and before us glowed Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. Then she, 'Let some one sing to us: lightlier move The minutes fledged with music:' and a maid, Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. 'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. 'Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 'Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 748 The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 'Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.' She ended with such passion that the tear, She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain Answered the Princess, 'If indeed there haunt About the mouldered lodges of the Past So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool And so pace by: but thine are fancies hatched In silken-folded idleness; nor is it Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, While down the streams that float us each and all To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice, Throne after throne, and molten on the waste Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time Toward that great year of equal mights and rights, Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end Found golden: let the past be past; let be Their cancelled Babels: though the rough kex break The starred mosaic, and the beard-blown goat Hang on the shaft, and the wild figtree split Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear A trumpet in the distance pealing news Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns Above the unrisen morrow:' then to me; 'Know you no song of your own land,' she said, 'Not such as moans about the retrospect, But deals with the other distance and the hues Of promise; not a death's-head at the wine.' Then I remembered one myself had made, What time I watched the swallow winging south 749 From mine own land, part made long since, and part Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 'O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 'O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. 'O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 'O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 'Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 'O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made. 'O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 'O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.' I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each, Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, Stared with great eyes, and laughed with alien lips, And knew not what they meant; for still my voice 750 Rang false: but smiling 'Not for thee,' she said, O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan Shall burst her veil: marsh-divers, rather, maid, Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake Grate her harsh kindred in the grass: and this A mere love-poem! O for such, my friend, We hold them slight: they mind us of the time When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men, That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, And dress the victim to the offering up, And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, And play the slave to gain the tyranny. Poor soul! I had a maid of honour once; She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, A rogue of canzonets and serenades. I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. So they blaspheme the muse! But great is song Used to great ends: ourself have often tried Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dashed The passion of the prophetess; for song Is duer unto freedom, force and growth Of spirit than to junketing and love. Love is it? Would this same mock-love, and this Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats, Till all men grew to rate us at our worth, Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough! But now to leaven play with profit, you, Know you no song, the true growth of your soil, That gives the manners of your country-women?' She spoke and turned her sumptuous head with eyes Of shining expectation fixt on mine. Then while I dragged my brains for such a song, Cyril, with whom the bell-mouthed glass had wrought, Or mastered by the sense of sport, began To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, I frowning; Psyche flushed and wanned and shook; The lilylike Melissa drooped her brows; 751 'Forbear,' the Princess cried; 'Forbear, Sir' I; And heated through and through with wrath and love, I smote him on the breast; he started up; There rose a shriek as of a city sacked; Melissa clamoured 'Flee the death;' 'To horse' Said Ida; 'home! to horse!' and fled, as flies A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk, When some one batters at the dovecote-doors, Disorderly the women. Alone I stood With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart, In the pavilion: there like parting hopes I heard them passing from me: hoof by hoof, And every hoof a knell to my desires, Clanged on the bridge; and then another shriek, 'The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the Head!' For blind with rage she missed the plank, and rolled In the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom: There whirled her white robe like a blossomed branch Rapt to the horrible fall: a glance I gave, No more; but woman-vested as I was Plunged; and the flood drew; yet I caught her; then Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left The weight of all the hopes of half the world, Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree Was half-disrooted from his place and stooped To wrench his dark locks in the gurgling wave Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and caught, And grasping down the boughs I gained the shore. There stood her maidens glimmeringly grouped In the hollow bank. One reaching forward drew My burthen from mine arms; they cried 'she lives:' They bore her back into the tent: but I, So much a kind of shame within me wrought, Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes, Nor found my friends; but pushed alone on foot (For since her horse was lost I left her mine) Across the woods, and less from Indian craft Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at length The garden portals. Two great statues, Art And Science, Caryatids, lifted up A weight of emblem, and betwixt were valves 752 Of open-work in which the hunter rued His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. A little space was left between the horns, Through which I clambered o'er at top with pain, Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks, And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to hue, Now poring on the glowworm, now the star, I paced the terrace, till the Bear had wheeled Through a great arc his seven slow suns. A step Of lightest echo, then a loftier form Than female, moving through the uncertain gloom, Disturbed me with the doubt 'if this were she,' But it was Florian. 'Hist O Hist,' he said, 'They seek us: out so late is out of rules. Moreover "seize the strangers" is the cry. How came you here?' I told him: 'I' said he, 'Last of the train, a moral leper, I, To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, returned. Arriving all confused among the rest With hooded brows I crept into the hall, And, couched behind a Judith, underneath The head of Holofernes peeped and saw. Girl after girl was called to trial: each Disclaimed all knowledge of us: last of all, Melissa: trust me, Sir, I pitied her. She, questioned if she knew us men, at first Was silent; closer prest, denied it not: And then, demanded if her mother knew, Or Psyche, she affirmed not, or denied: From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, Easily gathered either guilt. She sent For Psyche, but she was not there; she called For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors; She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face; And I slipt out: but whither will you now? And where are Psyche, Cyril? both are fled: What, if together? that were not so well. Would rather we had never come! I dread 753 His wildness, and the chances of the dark.' 'And yet,' I said, 'you wrong him more than I That struck him: this is proper to the clown, Though smocked, or furred and purpled, still the clown, To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame That which he says he loves: for Cyril, howe'er He deal in frolic, as tonight--the song Might have been worse and sinned in grosser lips Beyond all pardon--as it is, I hold These flashes on the surface are not he. He has a solid base of temperament: But as the waterlily starts and slides Upon the level in little puffs of wind, Though anchored to the bottom, such is he.' Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk near Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 'Names:' He, standing still, was clutched; but I began To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind And double in and out the boles, and race By all the fountains: fleet I was of foot: Before me showered the rose in flakes; behind I heard the puffed pursuer; at mine ear Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, And secret laughter tickled all my soul. At last I hooked my ankle in a vine, That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, And falling on my face was caught and known. They haled us to the Princess where she sat High in the hall: above her drooped a lamp, And made the single jewel on her brow Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head, Prophet of storm: a handmaid on each side Bowed toward her, combing out her long black hair Damp from the river; and close behind her stood Eight daughters of the plough, stronger than men, Huge women blowzed with health, and wind, and rain, And labour. Each was like a Druid rock; Or like a spire of land that stands apart Cleft from the main, and wailed about with mews. 754 Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove An advent to the throne: and therebeside, Half-naked as if caught at once from bed And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay The lily-shining child; and on the left, Bowed on her palms and folded up from wrong, Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs, Melissa knelt; but Lady Blanche erect Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 'It was not thus, O Princess, in old days: You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips: I led you then to all the Castalies; I fed you with the milk of every Muse; I loved you like this kneeler, and you me Your second mother: those were gracious times. Then came your new friend: you began to change-I saw it and grieved--to slacken and to cool; Till taken with her seeming openness You turned your warmer currents all to her, To me you froze: this was my meed for all. Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, And partly that I hoped to win you back, And partly conscious of my own deserts, And partly that you were my civil head, And chiefly you were born for something great, In which I might your fellow-worker be, When time should serve; and thus a noble scheme Grew up from seed we two long since had sown; In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd, Up in one night and due to sudden sun: We took this palace; but even from the first You stood in your own light and darkened mine. What student came but that you planed her path To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, I your old friend and tried, she new in all? But still her lists were swelled and mine were lean; Yet I bore up in hope she would be known: Then came these wolves: ~they~ knew her: ~they~ endured, Long-closeted with her the yestermorn, 755 To tell her what they were, and she to hear: And me none told: not less to an eye like mine A lidless watcher of the public weal, Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot Was to you: but I thought again: I feared To meet a cold "We thank you, we shall hear of it From Lady Psyche:" you had gone to her, She told, perforce; and winning easy grace No doubt, for slight delay, remained among us In our young nursery still unknown, the stem Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat Were all miscounted as malignant haste To push my rival out of place and power. But public use required she should be known; And since my oath was ta'en for public use, I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. I spoke not then at first, but watched them well, Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done; And yet this day (though you should hate me for it) I came to tell you; found that you had gone, Ridden to the hills, she likewise: now, I thought, That surely she will speak; if not, then I: Did she? These monsters blazoned what they were, According to the coarseness of their kind, For thus I hear; and known at last (my work) And full of cowardice and guilty shame, I grant in her some sense of shame, she flies; And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, I, that have lent my life to build up yours, I that have wasted here health, wealth, and time, And talent, I--you know it--I will not boast: Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, Divorced from my experience, will be chaff For every gust of chance, and men will say We did not know the real light, but chased The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread.' She ceased: the Princess answered coldly, 'Good: Your oath is broken: we dismiss you: go. For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) Our mind is changed: we take it to ourself.' 756 Thereat the Lady stretched a vulture throat, And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 'The plan was mine. I built the nest' she said 'To hatch the cuckoo. Rise!' and stooped to updrag Melissa: she, half on her mother propt, Half-drooping from her, turned her face, and cast A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung, A Niobëan daughter, one arm out, Appealing to the bolts of Heaven; and while We gazed upon her came a little stir About the doors, and on a sudden rushed Among us, out of breath as one pursued, A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear Stared in her eyes, and chalked her face, and winged Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell Delivering sealed dispatches which the Head Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood Tore open, silent we with blind surmise Regarding, while she read, till over brow And cheek and bosom brake the wrathful bloom As of some fire against a stormy cloud, When the wild peasant rights himself, the rick Flames, and his anger reddens in the heavens; For anger most it seemed, while now her breast, Beaten with some great passion at her heart, Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard In the dead hush the papers that she held Rustle: at once the lost lamb at her feet Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam; The plaintive cry jarred on her ire; she crushed The scrolls together, made a sudden turn As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, She whirled them on to me, as who should say 'Read,' and I read--two letters--one her sire's. 'Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your way, We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, We, conscious of what temper you are built, Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell Into his father's hands, who has this night, You lying close upon his territory, 757 Slipt round and in the dark invested you, And here he keeps me hostage for his son.' The second was my father's running thus: 'You have our son: touch not a hair of his head: Render him up unscathed: give him your hand: Cleave to your contract: though indeed we hear You hold the woman is the better man; A rampant heresy, such as if it spread Would make all women kick against their Lords Through all the world, and which might well deserve That we this night should pluck your palace down; And we will do it, unless you send us back Our son, on the instant, whole.' So far I read; And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 'O not to pry and peer on your reserve, But led by golden wishes, and a hope The child of regal compact, did I break Your precinct; not a scorner of your sex But venerator, zealous it should be All that it might be: hear me, for I bear, Though man, yet human, whatsoe'er your wrongs, From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life Less mine than yours: my nurse would tell me of you; I babbled for you, as babies for the moon, Vague brightness; when a boy, you stooped to me From all high places, lived in all fair lights, Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south And blown to inmost north; at eve and dawn With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods; The leader wildswan in among the stars Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glowworm light The mellow breaker murmured Ida. Now, Because I would have reached you, had you been Sphered up with Cassiopëia, or the enthroned Persephonè in Hades, now at length, Those winters of abeyance all worn out, A man I came to see you: but indeed, Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, O noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 758 On you, their centre: let me say but this, That many a famous man and woman, town And landskip, have I heard of, after seen The dwarfs of presage: though when known, there grew Another kind of beauty in detail Made them worth knowing; but in your I found My boyish dream involved and dazzled down And mastered, while that after-beauty makes Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, Within me, that except you slay me here, According to your bitter statute-book, I cannot cease to follow you, as they say The seal does music; who desire you more Than growing boys their manhood; dying lips, With many thousand matters left to do, The breath of life; O more than poor men wealth, Than sick men health--yours, yours, not mine--but half Without you; with you, whole; and of those halves You worthiest; and howe'er you block and bar Your heart with system out from mine, I hold That it becomes no man to nurse despair, But in the teeth of clenched antagonisms To follow up the worthiest till he die: Yet that I came not all unauthorized Behold your father's letter.' On one knee Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dashed Unopened at her feet: a tide of fierce Invective seemed to wait behind her lips, As waits a river level with the dam Ready to burst and flood the world with foam: And so she would have spoken, but there rose A hubbub in the court of half the maids Gathered together: from the illumined hall Long lanes of splendour slanted o'er a press Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes, And rainbow robes, and gems and gemlike eyes, And gold and golden heads; they to and fro Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale, All open-mouthed, all gazing to the light, Some crying there was an army in the land, And some that men were in the very walls, 759 And some they cared not; till a clamour grew As of a new-world Babel, woman-built, And worse-confounded: high above them stood The placid marble Muses, looking peace. Not peace she looked, the Head: but rising up Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so To the open window moved, remaining there Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light Dash themselves dead. She stretched her arms and called Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 'What fear ye, brawlers? am not I your Head? On me, me, me, the storm first breaks: ~I~ dare All these male thunderbolts: what is it ye fear? Peace! there are those to avenge us and they come: If not,--myself were like enough, O girls, To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, Or, falling, promartyr of our cause, Die: yet I blame you not so much for fear: Six thousand years of fear have made you that From which I would redeem you: but for those That stir this hubbub--you and you--I know Your faces there in the crowd--tomorrow morn We hold a great convention: then shall they That love their voices more than duty, learn With whom they deal, dismissed in shame to live No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame, Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown, The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time, Whose brains are in their hands and in their heels But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour, For ever slaves at home and fools abroad.' She, ending, waved her hands: thereat the crowd Muttering, dissolved: then with a smile, that looked A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff, 760 When all the glens are drowned in azure gloom Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said: 'You have done well and like a gentleman, And like a prince: you have our thanks for all: And you look well too in your woman's dress: Well have you done and like a gentleman. You saved our life: we owe you bitter thanks: Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood-Then men had said--but now--What hinders me To take such bloody vengeance on you both?-Yet since our father--Wasps in our good hive, You would-be quenchers of the light to be, Barbarians, grosser than your native bears-O would I had his sceptre for one hour! You that have dared to break our bound, and gulled Our servants, wronged and lied and thwarted us-~I~ wed with thee! ~I~ bound by precontract Your bride, our bondslave! not though all the gold That veins the world were packed to make your crown, And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir, Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us: I trample on your offers and on you: Begone: we will not look upon you more. Here, push them out at gates.' In wrath she spake. Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough Bent their broad faces toward us and addressed Their motion: twice I sought to plead my cause, But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands, The weight of destiny: so from her face They pushed us, down the steps, and through the court, And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. We crossed the street and gained a petty mound Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard the voices murmuring. While I listened, came On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt: I seemed to move among a world of ghosts; The Princess with her monstrous woman-guard, The jest and earnest working side by side, The cataract and the tumult and the kings 761 Were shadows; and the long fantastic night With all its doings had and had not been, And all things were and were not. This went by As strangely as it came, and on my spirits Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy; Not long; I shook it off; for spite of doubts And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one To whom the touch of all mischance but came As night to him that sitting on a hill Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sun Set into sunrise; then we moved away. Thy voice is heard through rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands; Thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands: A moment, while the trumpets blow, He sees his brood about thy knee; The next, like fire he meets the foe, And strikes him dead for thine and thee. So Lilia sang: we thought her half-possessed, She struck such warbling fury through the words; And, after, feigning pique at what she called The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime-Like one that wishes at a dance to change The music--clapt her hands and cried for war, Or some grand fight to kill and make an end: And he that next inherited the tale Half turning to the broken statue, said, 'Sir Ralph has got your colours: if I prove Your knight, and fight your battle, what for me?' It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb Lay by her like a model of her hand. She took it and she flung it. 'Fight' she said, 'And make us all we would be, great and good.' He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, A cap of Tyrol borrowed from the hall, Arranged the favour, and assumed the Prince. 762 ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1418:Gotham - Book Iii Can the fond mother from herself depart? Can she forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed; To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live? Yes, from herself the mother may depart, She may forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed, To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live; But I cannot forget, whilst life remains, And pours her current through these swelling veins, Whilst Memory offers up at Reason's shrine; But I cannot forget that Gotham's mine. Can the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast tear her young child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone? Yes, the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast may tear her child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone; But I, (forbid it, Heaven!) but I can ne'er The love of Gotham from this bosom tear; Can ne'er so far true royalty pervert From its fair course, to do my people hurt. With how much ease, with how much confidence-As if, superior to each grosser sense, Reason had only, in full power array'd, To manifest her will, and be obey'd-Men make resolves, and pass into decrees The motions of the mind! with how much ease, In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw, And bring to nothing what was raised to law! In empire young, scarce warm on Gotham's throne, The dangers and the sweets of power unknown, Pleased, though I scarce know why, like some young child, 55 Whose little senses each new toy turns wild, How do I hold sweet dalliance with my crown, And wanton with dominion, how lay down, Without the sanction of a precedent, Rules of most large and absolute extent; Rules, which from sense of public virtue spring, And all at once commence a Patriot King! But, for the day of trial is at hand, And the whole fortunes of a mighty land Are staked on me, and all their weal or woe Must from my good or evil conduct flow, Will I, or can I, on a fair review, As I assume that name, deserve it too? Have I well weigh'd the great, the noble part I'm now to play? have I explored my heart, That labyrinth of fraud, that deep dark cell, Where, unsuspected e'en by me, may dwell Ten thousand follies? have I found out there What I am fit to do, and what to bear? Have I traced every passion to its rise, Nor spared one lurking seed of treacherous vice? Have I familiar with my nature grown? And am I fairly to myself made known? A Patriot King!--why, 'tis a name which bears The more immediate stamp of Heaven; which wears The nearest, best resemblance we can show Of God above, through all his works below. To still the voice of Discord in the land; To make weak Faction's discontented band, Detected, weak, and crumbling to decay, With hunger pinch'd, on their own vitals prey; Like brethren, in the self-same interests warm'd, Like different bodies, with one soul inform'd; To make a nation, nobly raised above All meaner thought, grow up in common love; To give the laws due vigour, and to hold That secret balance, temperate, yet bold, With such an equal hand, that those who fear May yet approve, and own my justice clear; To be a common father, to secure The weak from violence, from pride the poor; Vice and her sons to banish in disgrace, 56 To make Corruption dread to show her face; To bid afflicted Virtue take new state, And be at last acquainted with the great; Of all religions to elect the best, Nor let her priests be made a standing jest; Rewards for worth with liberal hand to carve, To love the arts, nor let the artists starve; To make fair Plenty through the realm increase, Give fame in war, and happiness in peace; To see my people virtuous, great, and free, And know that all those blessings flow from me; Oh! 'tis a joy too exquisite, a thought Which flatters Nature more than flattery ought; 'Tis a great, glorious task, for man too hard; But no less great, less glorious the reward, The best reward which here to man is given, 'Tis more than earth, and little short of heaven; A task (if such comparison may be) The same in Nature, differing in degree, Like that which God, on whom for aid I call, Performs with ease, and yet performs to all. How much do they mistake, how little know Of kings, of kingdoms, and the pains which flow From royalty, who fancy that a crown, Because it glistens, must be lined with down! With outside show, and vain appearance caught, They look no further, and, by Folly taught, Prize high the toys of thrones, but never find One of the many cares which lurk behind. The gem they worship which a crown adorns, Nor once suspect that crown is lined with thorns. Oh, might Reflection Folly's place supply, Would we one moment use her piercing eye, Then should we find what woe from grandeur springs, And learn to pity, not to envy kings! The villager, born humbly and bred hard, Content his wealth, and Poverty his guard, In action simply just, in conscience clear, By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear, His means but scanty, and his wants but few, Labour his business, and his pleasure too, Enjoys more comforts in a single hour 57 Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power. Call'd up by health, he rises with the day, And goes to work, as if he went to play, Whistling off toils, one half of which might make The stoutest Atlas of a palace quake; 'Gainst heat and cold, which make us cowards faint, Harden'd by constant use, without complaint He bears what we should think it death to bear; Short are his meals, and homely is his fare; His thirst he slakes at some pure neighbouring brook, Nor asks for sauce where appetite stands cook. When the dews fall, and when the sun retires Behind the mountains, when the village fires, Which, waken'd all at once, speak supper nigh, At distance catch, and fix his longing eye, Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood Of raw-boned cubs enjoys that clean, coarse food, Which, season'd with good-humour, his fond bride 'Gainst his return is happy to provide; Then, free from care, and free from thought, he creeps Into his straw, and till the morning sleeps. Not so the king--with anxious cares oppress'd His bosom labours, and admits not rest: A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight Of majesty, and gives up ease for state. E'en when his smiles, which, by the fools of pride, Are treasured and preserved from side to side, Fly round the court, e'en when, compell'd by form, He seems most calm, his soul is in a storm. Care, like a spectre, seen by him alone, With all her nest of vipers, round his throne By day crawls full in view; when Night bids sleep, Sweet nurse of Nature! o'er the senses creep; When Misery herself no more complains, And slaves, if possible, forget their chains; Though his sense weakens, though his eyes grow dim, That rest which comes to all, comes not to him. E'en at that hour, Care, tyrant Care, forbids The dew of sleep to fall upon his lids; From night to night she watches at his bed; Now, as one moped, sits brooding o'er his head; Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings, 58 Croaks forth aloud--'Sleep was not made for kings!' Thrice hath the moon, who governs this vast ball, Who rules most absolute o'er me and all; To whom, by full conviction taught to bow, At new, at full, I pay the duteous vow; Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since, (bless'd be that season, for before I was a mere, mere mortal, and no more, One of the herd, a lump of common clay, Inform'd with life, to die and pass away) Since I became a king, and Gotham's throne, With full and ample power, became my own; Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since sleep, kind sleep! who like a friend supplies New vigour for new toil, hath closed these eyes. Nor, if my toils are answer'd with success, And I am made an instrument to bless The people whom I love, shall I repine; Theirs be the benefit, the labour mine. Mindful of that high rank in which I stand, Of millions lord, sole ruler in the land, Let me,--and Reason shall her aid afford,-Rule my own spirit, of myself be lord. With an ill grace that monarch wears his crown, Who, stern and hard of nature, wears a frown 'Gainst faults in other men, yet all the while Meets his own vices with a partial smile. How can a king (yet on record we find Such kings have been, such curses of mankind) Enforce that law 'gainst some poor subject elf Which conscience tells him he hath broke himself? Can he some petty rogue to justice call For robbing one, when he himself robs all? Must not, unless extinguish'd, Conscience fly Into his cheek, and blast his fading eye, To scourge the oppressor, when the State, distress'd And sunk to ruin, is by him oppress'd? Against himself doth he not sentence give; If one must die, t' other's not fit to live. Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, 59 Which takes not solid virtue for its ground. All envy power in others, and complain Of that which they would perish to obtain. Nor can those spirits, turbulent and bold, Not to be awed by threats, nor bought with gold, Be hush'd to peace, but when fair legal sway Makes it their real interest to obey; When kings, and none but fools can then rebel, Not less in virtue, than in power, excel. Be that my object, that my constant care, And may my soul's best wishes centre there; Be it my task to seek, nor seek in vain, Not only how to live, but how to reign; And to those virtues which from Reason spring, And grace the man, join those which grace the king. First, (for strict duty bids my care extend And reach to all who on that care depend, Bids me with servants keep a steady hand, And watch o'er all my proxies in the land) First, (and that method Reason shall support) Before I look into, and purge my court, Before I cleanse the stable of the State, Let me fix things which to myself relate. That done, and all accounts well settled here, In resolution firm, in honour clear, Tremble, ye slaves! who dare abuse your trust, Who dare be villains, when your king is just. Are there, amongst those officers of state, To whom our sacred power we delegate, Who hold our place and office in the realm, Who, in our name commission'd, guide the helm; Are there, who, trusting to our love of ease, Oppress our subjects, wrest our just decrees, And make the laws, warp'd from their fair intent, To speak a language which they never meant; Are there such men, and can the fools depend On holding out in safety to their end? Can they so much, from thoughts of danger free, Deceive themselves, so much misdeem of me, To think that I will prove a statesman's tool, And live a stranger where I ought to rule? What! to myself and to my state unjust, 60 Shall I from ministers take things on trust, And, sinking low the credit of my throne, Depend upon dependants of my own? Shall I,--most certain source of future cares,-Not use my judgment, but depend on theirs? Shall I, true puppet-like, be mock'd with state, Have nothing but the name of being great; Attend at councils which I must not weigh; Do what they bid, and what they dictate, say; Enrobed, and hoisted up into my chair, Only to be a royal cipher there? Perish the thought--'tis treason to my throne-And who but thinks it, could his thoughts be known Insults me more than he, who, leagued with Hell, Shall rise in arms, and 'gainst my crown rebel. The wicked statesman, whose false heart pursues A train of guilt; who acts with double views, And wears a double face; whose base designs Strike at his monarch's throne; who undermines E'en whilst he seems his wishes to support; Who seizes all departments; packs a court; Maintains an agent on the judgment-seat, To screen his crimes, and make his frauds complete; New-models armies, and around the throne Will suffer none but creatures of his own, Conscious of such his baseness, well may try, Against the light to shut his master's eye, To keep him coop'd, and far removed from those Who, brave and honest, dare his crimes disclose, Nor ever let him in one place appear, Where truth, unwelcome truth, may wound his ear. Attempts like these, well weigh'd, themselves proclaim, And, whilst they publish, balk their author's aim. Kings must be blind into such snares to run, Or, worse, with open eyes must be undone. The minister of honesty and worth Demands the day to bring his actions forth; Calls on the sun to shine with fiercer rays, And braves that trial which must end in praise. None fly the day, and seek the shades of night, But those whose actions cannot bear the light; None wish their king in ignorance to hold 61 But those who feel that knowledge must unfold Their hidden guilt; and, that dark mist dispell'd By which their places and their lives are held, Confusion wait them, and, by Justice led, In vengeance fall on every traitor's head. Aware of this, and caution'd 'gainst the pit Where kings have oft been lost, shall I submit, And rust in chains like these? shall I give way, And whilst my helpless subjects fall a prey To power abused, in ignorance sit down, Nor dare assert the honour of my crown? When stern Rebellion, (if that odious name Justly belongs to those whose only aim, Is to preserve their country; who oppose, In honour leagued, none but their country's foes; Who only seek their own, and found their cause In due regard for violated laws) When stern Rebellion, who no longer feels Nor fears rebuke, a nation at her heels, A nation up in arms, though strong not proud, Knocks at the palace gate, and, calling loud For due redress, presents, from Truth's fair pen, A list of wrongs, not to be borne by men: How must that king be humbled, how disgrace All that is royal in his name and place, Who, thus call'd forth to answer, can advance No other plea but that of ignorance! A vile defence, which, was his all at stake, The meanest subject well might blush to make; A filthy source, from whence shame ever springs; A stain to all, but most a stain to kings. The soul with great and manly feelings warm'd, Panting for knowledge, rests not till inform'd; And shall not I, fired with the glorious zeal, Feel those brave passions which my subjects feel? Or can a just excuse from ignorance flow To me, whose first great duty is--to know? Hence, Ignorance!--thy settled, dull, blank eye Would hurt me, though I knew no reason why. Hence, Ignorance!--thy slavish shackles bind The free-born soul, and lethargise the mind. Of thee, begot by Pride, who look'd with scorn 62 On every meaner match, of thee was born That grave inflexibility of soul, Which Reason can't convince, nor Fear control; Which neither arguments nor prayers can reach, And nothing less than utter ruin teach. Hence, Ignorance!--hence to that depth of night Where thou wast born, where not one gleam of light May wound thine eye--hence to some dreary cell Where monks with superstition love to dwell; Or in some college soothe thy lazy pride, And with the heads of colleges reside; Fit mate for Royalty thou canst not be, And if no mate for kings, no mate for me. Come, Study! like a torrent swell'd with rains, Which, rushing down the mountains, o'er the plains Spreads horror wide, and yet, in horror kind, Leaves seeds of future fruitfulness behind; Come, Study!--painful though thy course, and slow, Thy real worth by thy effects we know-Parent of Knowledge, come!--Not thee I call, Who, grave and dull, in college or in hall Dost sit, all solemn sad, and moping weigh Things which, when found, thy labours can't repay-Nor, in one hand, fit emblem of thy trade, A rod; in t' other, gaudily array'd, A hornbook gilt and letter'd, call I thee, Who dost in form preside o'er A, B, C: Nor (siren though thou art, and thy strange charms, As 'twere by magic, lure men to thine arms) Do I call thee, who, through a winding maze, A labyrinth of puzzling, pleasing ways, Dost lead us at the last to those rich plains, Where, in full glory, real Science reigns; Fair though thou art, and lovely to mine eye, Though full rewards in thy possession lie To crown man's wish, and do thy favourites grace; Though (was I station'd in an humbler place) I could be ever happy in thy sight, Toil with thee all the day, and through the night, Toil on from watch to watch, bidding my eye, Fast rivetted on Science, sleep defy; Yet (such the hardships which from empire flow) 63 Must I thy sweet society forego, And to some happy rival's arms resign Those charms which can, alas! no more be mine! No more from hour to hour, from day to day, Shall I pursue thy steps, and urge my way Where eager love of science calls; no more Attempt those paths which man ne'er trod before; No more, the mountain scaled, the desert cross'd, Losing myself, nor knowing I was lost, Travel through woods, through wilds, from morn to night, From night to morn, yet travel with delight, And having found thee, lay me down content, Own all my toil well paid, my time well spent. Farewell, ye Muses too!--for such mean things Must not presume to dwell with mighty kings-Farewell, ye Muses! though it cuts my heart E'en to the quick, we must for ever part. When the fresh morn bade lusty Nature wake; When the birds, sweetly twittering through the brake, Tune their soft pipes; when, from the neighbouring bloom Sipping the dew, each zephyr stole perfume; When all things with new vigour were inspired, And seem'd to say they never could be tired; How often have we stray'd, whilst sportive rhyme Deceived the way and clipp'd the wings of Time, O'er hill, o'er dale; how often laugh'd to see, Yourselves made visible to none but me, The clown, his works suspended, gape and stare, And seem to think that I conversed with air! When the sun, beating on the parched soil, Seem'd to proclaim an interval of toil; When a faint langour crept through every breast, And things most used to labour wish'd for rest, How often, underneath a reverend oak, Where safe, and fearless of the impious stroke, Some sacred Dryad lived; or in some grove, Where, with capricious fingers, Fancy wove Her fairy bower, whilst Nature all the while Look'd on, and view'd her mockeries with a smile, Have we held converse sweet! How often laid, Fast by the Thames, in Ham's inspiring shade, Amongst those poets which make up your train, 64 And, after death, pour forth the sacred strain, Have I, at your command, in verse grown gray, But not impair'd, heard Dryden tune that lay Which might have drawn an angel from his sphere, And kept him from his office listening here! When dreary Night, with Morpheus in her train, Led on by Silence to resume her reign, With darkness covering, as with a robe, The scene of levity, blank'd half the globe; How oft, enchanted with your heavenly strains, Which stole me from myself; which in soft chains Of music bound my soul; how oft have I, Sounds more than human floating through the sky, Attentive sat, whilst Night, against her will, Transported with the harmony, stood still! How oft in raptures, which man scarce could bear, Have I, when gone, still thought the Muses there; Still heard their music, and, as mute as death, Sat all attention, drew in every breath, Lest, breathing all too rudely, I should wound, And mar that magic excellence of sound; Then, Sense returning with return of day, Have chid the Night, which fled so fast away! Such my pursuits, and such my joys of yore, Such were my mates, but now my mates no more. Placed out of Envy's walk, (for Envy, sure, Would never haunt the cottage of the poor, Would never stoop to wound my homespun lays) With some few friends, and some small share of praise, Beneath oppression, undisturb'd by strife, In peace I trod the humble vale of life. Farewell, these scenes of ease, this tranquil state; Welcome the troubles which on empire wait! Light toys from this day forth I disavow; They pleased me once, but cannot suit me now: To common men all common things are free, What honours them, might fix disgrace on me. Call'd to a throne, and o'er a mighty land Ordain'd to rule, my head, my heart, my hand, Are all engross'd; each private view withstood, And task'd to labour for the public good: Be this my study; to this one great end 65 May every thought, may every action tend! Let me the page of History turn o'er, The instructive page, and needfully explore What faithful pens of former times have wrote Of former kings; what they did worthy note, What worthy blame; and from the sacred tomb Where righteous monarchs sleep, where laurels bloom, Unhurt by Time, let me a garland twine, Which, robbing not their fame, may add to mine. Nor let me with a vain and idle eye Glance o'er those scenes, and in a hurry fly, Quick as the post, which travels day and night; Nor let me dwell there, lured by false delight; And, into barren theory betray'd, Forget that monarchs are for action made. When amorous Spring, repairing all his charms, Calls Nature forth from hoary Winter's arms, Where, like a virgin to some lecher sold, Three wretched months she lay benumb'd, and cold; When the weak flower, which, shrinking from the breath Of the rude North, and timorous of death, To its kind mother earth for shelter fled, And on her bosom hid its tender head, Peeps forth afresh, and, cheer'd by milder sties, Bids in full splendour all her beauties rise; The hive is up in arms--expert to teach, Nor, proudly, to be taught unwilling, each Seems from her fellow a new zeal to catch; Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch, The bee goes forth; from herb to herb she flies, From flower to flower, and loads her labouring thighs With treasured sweets, robbing those flowers, which, left, Find not themselves made poorer by the theft, Their scents as lively, and their looks as fair, As if the pillager had not been there. Ne'er doth she flit on Pleasure's silken wing; Ne'er doth she, loitering, let the bloom of Spring Unrifled pass, and on the downy breast Of some fair flower indulge untimely rest; Ne'er doth she, drinking deep of those rich dews Which chemist Night prepared, that faith abuse Due to the hive, and, selfish in her toils, 66 To her own private use convert the spoils. Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam, And to the stock she brings her booty home. Be this my pattern--as becomes a king, Let me fly all abroad on Reason's wing; Let mine eye, like the lightning, through the earth Run to and fro, nor let one deed of worth, In any place and time, nor let one man, Whose actions may enrich dominion's plan, Escape my note; be all, from the first day Of Nature to this hour, be all my prey. From those whom Time, at the desire of Fame, Hath spared, let Virtue catch an equal flame; From those who, not in mercy, but in rage, Time hath reprieved, to damn from age to age, Let me take warning, lesson'd to distil, And, imitating Heaven, draw good from ill. Nor let these great researches, in my breast A monument of useless labour rest; No--let them spread--the effects let Gotham share, And reap the harvest of their monarch's care: Be other times, and other countries known, Only to give fresh blessings to my own. Let me, (and may that God to whom I fly, On whom for needful succour I rely In this great hour, that glorious God of truth, Through whom I reign, in mercy to my youth, Assist my weakness, and direct me right; From every speck which hangs upon the sight Purge my mind's eye, nor let one cloud remain To spread the shades of Error o'er my brain!) Let me, impartial, with unwearied thought, Try men and things; let me, as monarchs ought, Examine well on what my power depends; What are the general principles and ends Of government; how empire first began; And wherefore man was raised to reign o'er man. Let me consider, as from one great source We see a thousand rivers take their course, Dispersed, and into different channels led, Yet by their parent still supplied and fed, That Government, (though branch'd out far and wide, 67 In various modes to various lands applied) Howe'er it differs in its outward frame, In the main groundwork's every where the same; The same her view, though different her plan, Her grand and general view--the good of man. Let me find out, by Reason's sacred beams, What system in itself most perfect seems, Most worthy man, most likely to conduce To all the purposes of general use; Let me find, too, where, by fair Reason tried, It fails, when to particulars applied; Why in that mode all nations do not join, And, chiefly, why it cannot suit with mine. Let me the gradual rise of empires trace, Till they seem founded on Perfection's base; Then (for when human things have made their way To excellence, they hasten to decay) Let me, whilst Observation lends her clue Step after step to their decline pursue, Enabled by a chain of facts to tell Not only how they rose, but why they fell. Let me not only the distempers know Which in all states from common causes grow, But likewise those, which, by the will of Fate, On each peculiar mode of empire wait; Which in its very constitution lurk, Too sure at last to do its destined work: Let me, forewarn'd, each sign, each symptom learn, That I my people's danger may discern, Ere 'tis too late wish'd health to reassure, And, if it can be found, find out a cure. Let me, (though great, grave brethren of the gown Preach all Faith up, and preach all Reason down, Making those jar whom Reason meant to join, And vesting in themselves a right divine), Let me, through Reason's glass, with searching eye, Into the depth of that religion pry Which law hath sanction'd; let me find out there What's form, what's essence; what, like vagrant air, We well may change; and what, without a crime, Cannot be changed to the last hour of time. Nor let me suffer that outrageous zeal 68 Which, without knowledge, furious bigots feel, Fair in pretence, though at the heart unsound, These separate points at random to confound. The times have been when priests have dared to tread, Proud and insulting, on their monarch's head; When, whilst they made religion a pretence, Out of the world they banish'd common-sense; When some soft king, too open to deceit, Easy and unsuspecting join'd the cheat, Duped by mock piety, and gave his name To serve the vilest purposes of shame. Pear not, my people! where no cause of fear Can justly rise--your king secures you here; Your king, who scorns the haughty prelate's nod, Nor deems the voice of priests the voice of God. Let me, (though lawyers may perhaps forbid Their monarch to behold what they wish hid, And for the purposes of knavish gain, Would have their trade a mystery remain) Let me, disdaining all such slavish awe, Dive to the very bottom of the law; Let me (the weak, dead letter left behind) Search out the principles, the spirit find, Till, from the parts, made master of the whole, I see the Constitution's very soul. Let me, (though statesmen will no doubt resist, And to my eyes present a fearful list Of men, whose wills are opposite to mine, Of men, great men, determined to resign) Let me, (with firmness, which becomes a king. Conscious from what a source my actions spring, Determined not by worlds to be withstood, When my grand object is my country's good) Unravel all low ministerial scenes, Destroy their jobs, lay bare their ways and means, And track them step by step; let me well know How places, pensions, and preferments go; Why Guilt's provided for when Worth is not, And why one man of merit is forgot; Let me in peace, in war, supreme preside, And dare to know my way without a guide. Let me, (though Dignity, by nature proud, 69 Retires from view, and swells behind a cloud,-As if the sun shone with less powerful ray, Less grace, less glory, shining every day,-Though when she comes forth into public sight, Unbending as a ghost, she stalks upright, With such an air as we have often seen, And often laugh'd at, in a tragic queen, Nor, at her presence, though base myriads crook The supple knee, vouchsafes a single look) Let me, (all vain parade, all empty pride, All terrors of dominion laid aside, All ornament, and needless helps of art, All those big looks, which speak a little heart) Know (which few kings, alas! have ever known) How Affability becomes a throne, Destroys all fear, bids Love with Reverence live, And gives those graces Pride can never give. Let the stern tyrant keep a distant state, And, hating all men, fear return of hate, Conscious of guilt, retreat behind his throne, Secure from all upbraidings but his own: Let all my subjects have access to me, Be my ears open, as my heart is free; In full fair tide let information flow; That evil is half cured, whose cause we know. And thou, where'er thou art, thou wretched thing, Who art afraid to look up to a king, Lay by thy fears; make but thy grievance plain, And, if I not redress thee, may my reign Close up that very moment. To prevent The course of Justice from her vain intent, In vain my nearest, dearest friend shall plead, In vain my mother kneel; my soul may bleed, But must not change. When Justice draws the dart, Though it is doom'd to pierce a favourite's heart, 'Tis mine to give it force, to give it aim-I know it duty, and I feel it fame. ~ Charles Churchill,

1419:The Last Tournament Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall. And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, And from the crown thereof a carcanet Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, Came Tristram, saying, `Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?' For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutched at the crag, and started through mid air Bearing an eagle's nest: and through the tree Rushed ever a rainy wind, and through the wind Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarred from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Received, and after loved it tenderly, And named it Nestling; so forgot herself A moment, and her cares; till that young life Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, `Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize.' To whom the King, `Peace to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honour after death, Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, 631 And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.' `Would rather you had let them fall,' she cried, `Plunge and be lost-ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me!-ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as givenSlid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river-that unhappy child Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go With these rich jewels, seeing that they came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, But the sweet body of a maiden babe. Perchance-who knows?-the purest of thy knights May win them for the purest of my maids.' She ended, and the cry of a great jousts With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Armed for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall staggered, his visage ribbed From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And one with shattered fingers dangling lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King, `My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? Man was it who marred heaven's image in thee thus?' Then, sputtering through the hedge of splintered teeth, Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump Pitch-blackened sawing the air, said the maimed churl, `He took them and he drave them to his towerSome hold he was a table-knight of thineA hundred goodly ones-the Red Knight, heLord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; And when I called upon thy name as one 632 That doest right by gentle and by churl, Maimed me and mauled, and would outright have slain, Save that he sware me to a message, saying, 'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I Have founded my Round Table in the North, And whatsoever his own knights have sworn My knights have sworn the counter to it-and say My tower is full of harlots, like his court, But mine are worthier, seeing they profess To be none other than themselves-and say My knights are all adulterers like his own, But mine are truer, seeing they profess To be none other; and say his hour is come, The heathen are upon him, his long lance Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.'' Then Arthur turned to Kay the seneschal, `Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. The heathen-but that ever-climbing wave, Hurled back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest-and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, Friends, through your manhood and your fealty,-now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchaired tomorrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?' Thereto Sir Lancelot answered, `It is well: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me. Else, for the King has willed it, it is well.' Then Arthur rose and Lancelot followed him, 633 And while they stood without the doors, the King Turned to him saying, `Is it then so well? Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, 'A sound is in his ears'? The foot that loiters, bidden go,-the glance That only seems half-loyal to command,A manner somewhat fallen from reverenceOr have I dreamed the bearing of our knights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? Or whence the fear lest this my realm, upreared, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violences, Reel back into the beast, and be no more?' He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, Down the slope city rode, and sharply turned North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watched her lord pass, and knew not that she sighed. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, `Where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery called The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shrieked, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, filled his double-dragoned chair. He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each through worship of their Queen White-robed in honour of the stainless child, And some with scattered jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He looked but once, and vailed his eyes again. 634 The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet cracked, And showed him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard The voice that billowed round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly-entered, taller than the rest, And armoured all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle-Tristram-late From overseas in Brittany returned, And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White-Sir Tristram of the WoodsWhom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain His own against him, and now yearned to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram even to death: his strong hands gript And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, Until he groaned for wrath-so many of those, That ware their ladies' colours on the casque, Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, And there with gibes and flickering mockeries Stood, while he muttered, `Craven crests! O shame! What faith have these in whom they sware to love? The glory of our Round Table is no more.' So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than `Hast thou won? 635 Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this, is red!' to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood, Made answer, `Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Lest be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand-belike the lance hath dript upon itNo blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.' And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; then bowed his homage, bluntly saying, `Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.' And most of these were mute, some angered, one Murmuring, `All courtesy is dead,' and one, `The glory of our Round Table is no more.' Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness: But under her black brows a swarthy one Laughed shrilly, crying, `Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flowering through the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come-let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.' So dame and damsel glittered at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns 636 With veer of wind, and all are flowers again; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colours, the live grass, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, `Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?' Wheeled round on either heel, Dagonet replied, `Belike for lack of wiser company; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all.' `Ay, fool,' said Tristram, `but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to.' Then he twangled on his harp, And while he twangled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; And being asked, `Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?' Made answer, `I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make.' Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, `Good now, what music have I broken, fool?' And little Dagonet, skipping, `Arthur, the King's; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in BrittanyAnd so thou breakest Arthur's music too.' `Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool,' said Tristram, `I would break thy head. Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shellI am but a fool to reason with a fool- 637 Come, thou art crabbed and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, And harken if my music be not true. `'Free love-free field-we love but while we may: The woods are hushed, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life-the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love-free field-we love but while we may.' `Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold.' But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, `Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?-but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour endAnd them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever cameThe twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize-and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank, Spat-pish-the cup was gold, the draught was mud.' And Tristram, `Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool'Fear God: honour the King-his one true knightSole follower of the vows'-for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught-yet swine I hold thee still, 638 For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.' And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, `Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallowed, I have washed-the world Is flesh and shadow-I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me-an I wallowed, then I washedI have had my day and my philosophiesAnd thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Trooped round a Paynim harper once, who thrummed On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song-but never a king's fool.' And Tristram, `Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell.' Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, `And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?' And Tristram, `Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.' And Dagonet answered, `Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your witAnd whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right-and so went harping down The black king's highway, got so far, and grew So witty that ye played at ducks and drakes With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?' 639 `Nay, fool,' said Tristram, `not in open day.' And Dagonet, `Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip.' `Lo, fool,' he said, `ye talk Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool?' Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrilled, `Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, And men from beasts-Long live the king of fools!' And down the city Dagonet danced away; But through the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walked, or crept, or perched, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, returned; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or even a fallen feather, vanished again. So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Through many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs Furze-crammed, and bracken-rooft, the which himself Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And snatched her thence; yet dreading worse than shame Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. 640 And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; But could not rest for musing how to smoothe And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here? a name? Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King? `Isolt Of the white hands' they called her: the sweet name Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily, But left her all as easily, and returned. The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes Had drawn him home-what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dreamed. He seemed to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And showed them both the ruby-chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, `Look, her hand is red! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand-her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower.' Followed a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoiled her carcanet. He dreamed; but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-winged sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors, whereout was rolled 641 A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. `Lo there,' said one of Arthur's youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonour done the gilded spur, Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode. Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, In blood-red armour sallying, howled to the King, `The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the worldThe woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I! Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, And stings itself to everlasting death, To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King? -Look to thy life!' He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. And Arthur deigned not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretched from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, Heard in dead night along that table-shore, Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, 642 Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, From less and less to nothing; thus he fell Head-heavy; then the knights, who watched him, roared And shouted and leapt down upon the fallen; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Through open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurled The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement streamed with massacre: Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up through Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw Came round by the East, and out beyond them flushed The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge returned, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stayed him. `Why weep ye?' `Lord,' she said, `my man Hath left me or is dead;' whereon he thought`What, if she hate me now? I would not this. What, if she love me still? I would not that. I know not what I would'-but said to her, `Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favour changed and love thee not'Then pressing day by day through Lyonnesse Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gained Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, 643 A crown of towers. Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flushed, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, `Not Mark-not Mark, my soul! The footstep fluttered me at first: not he: Catlike through his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls Who hates thee, as I him-even to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.' To whom Sir Tristram smiling, `I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.' And drawing somewhat backward she replied, `Can he be wronged who is not even his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratched, bitten, blinded, marred me somehow-Mark? What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand-not, though he found me thus! But harken! have ye met him? hence he went Today for three days' hunting-as he saidAnd so returns belike within an hour. Mark's way, my soul!-but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee.' So, plucked one way by hate and one by love, Drained of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, `O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, 644 Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one-his name is out of me-the prize, If prize she were-(what marvel-she could see)Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?' And Tristram, `Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness-ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, Sailing from Ireland.' Softly laughed Isolt; `Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?' and he said, `Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me-soft, gracious, kindSave when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, even to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love.' To whom Isolt, `Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest through the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, And I-misyoked with such a want of manThat I could hardly sin against the lowest.' He answered, `O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crowned warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me-fear And fault and doubt-no word of that fond taleThy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away.' And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, 645 `I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee-yearnings?-ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seemed those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dashed Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, Would that have chilled her bride-kiss? Wedded her? Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? The King was all fulfilled with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that healed Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caressWell-can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories. O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love.' And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, `Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt?-I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark-Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God.' And Isolt answered, `Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flashed a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiendMark's way to steal behind one in the darkFor there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hissed it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swooned away, 646 And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms.' Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, `May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!' a saying that angered her. `'May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. For when had Lancelot uttered aught so gross Even to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight! But thou, through ever harrying thy wild beastsSave that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well-art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King-My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and through their vows The King prevailing made his realm:-I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me even when old, Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair.' Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, `Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itselfMy knighthood taught me this-ay, being snaptWe run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once-even to the height-I honoured him. 647 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hallHis hair, a sun that rayed from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with lightMoreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon; he seemed to me no man, But Micha l trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by- The vows! O ay-the wholesome madness of an hourThey served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vowsFirst mainly through that sullying of our QueenBegan to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? washed up from out the deep? They failed to trace him through the flesh and blood Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord To bind them by inviolable vows, Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: For feel this arm of mine-the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Woos his own end; we are not angels here Nor shall be: vows-I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love.' 648 Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, `Good: an I turned away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyselfFor courtesy wins woman all as well As valour may, but he that closes both Is perfect, he is Lancelot-taller indeed, Rosier and comelier, thou-but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw, 'We love but while we may,' Well then, what answer?' He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, `Press this a little closer, sweet, untilCome, I am hungered and half-angered-meat, Wine, wine-and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come.' So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, and set before him all he willed; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their heartsNow talking of their woodland paradise, The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of MarkThen Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: `Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that bend the brier! A star in heaven, a star within the mere! Ay, ay, O ay-a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that bow the grass! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that move the mere.' Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram showed And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, `The collar of some Order, which our King 649 Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.' `Not so, my Queen,' he said, `but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee.' He spoke, he turned, then, flinging round her neck, Claspt it, and cried, `Thine Order, O my Queen!' But, while he bowed to kiss the jewelled throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touched, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek`Mark's way,' said Mark, and clove him through the brain. That night came Arthur home, and while he climbed, All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, The stairway to the hall, and looked and saw The great Queen's bower was dark,-about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he questioned it, `What art thou?' and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer, sobbing, `I am thy fool, And I shall never make thee smile again.' ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1420:Idylls Of The King: The Last Tournament (Excerpt) Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, And from the crown thereof a carcanet Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead. From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid air Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Received, and after loved it tenderly, And named it Nestling; so forgot herself A moment, and her cares; till that young life Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, "Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize." To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honour after death, Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, 197 And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear." "Would rather you had let them fall," she cried, "Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as given-Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river--that unhappy child Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go With these rich jewels, seeing that they came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, But the sweet body of a maiden babe. Perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights May win them for the purest of my maids." She ended, and the cry of a great jousts With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King, "My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? Man was it who marr'd heaven's image in thee thus?" Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth, Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl, "He took them and he drave them to his tower-Some hold he was a table-knight of thine-A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he-Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; And when I cal'd upon thy name as one 198 That doest right by gentle and by churl, Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright have slain, Save that he aware me to a message, saying, 'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I Have founded my Round Table in the North, And whatsoever his own knights have sworn My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say My tower is full of harlots, like his court, But mine are worthier, seeing they profess To be none other than themselves--and say My knights are all adulterers like his own, But mine are truer, seeing they profess To be none other; and say his hour is come, The heathen are upon him, his long lance Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.' " Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal, "Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave, Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty,--now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?" Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me. Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well." 199 Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him, And while they stood without the doors, the King Turn'd to him saying, "Is it then so well? Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, 'A sound is in his ears'? The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance That only seems half-loyal to command,-A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence-Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violence,s Reel back into the beast, and be no more?" He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes." But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery call'd The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair. He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen 200 White-robed in honour of the stainless child, And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He look'd but once, and vail'd his eyes again. The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, And armour'd all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late From overseas in Brittany return'd, And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods-Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, Until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those, That ware their ladies' colours on the casque, Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, And there with gibes and flickering mockeries 201 Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven crests! O shame! What faith have these in whom they sware to love? The glory of our Round Table is no more." So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won? Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this, is red!" to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood, Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it-No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine." And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying, "Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here." And most of these were mute, some anger'd, one Murmuring, "All courtesy is dead," and one "The glory of our Round Table is no more." Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness: But under her black brows a swarthy one Laugh'd shrilly, crying, "Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come--let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's 202 And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field." So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Liken'd them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns With veer of wind, and all are flowers again; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colours, the live grass, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied, "Belike for lack of wiser company; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all." "Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp, And while he twangled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; And being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?" Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make." Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, 203 "Good now, what music have I broken, fool?" And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the King's; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in Brittany-And so thou breakest Arthur's music, too." "Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head. Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shell-I am but a fool to reason with a fool-Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, And harken if my music be not true. "`Free love--free field--we love but while we may: The woods are hush'd, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love--free field--we love but while we may.' "Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold." But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, "Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?--but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour end-And them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever came-The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 204 'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank, Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud." And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-'Fear God: honour the King--his one true knight-Sole follower of the vows'--for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still, For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine." And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, "Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd-I have had my day and my philosophies-And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song--but never a king's fool." And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell." Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, "And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself 205 Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?" And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven." And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your wit-And whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right--and so went harping down The black king's highway, got so far, and grew So witty that we play'd at ducks and drakes With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?" "Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day." And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool?" Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd, "Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs And men from beasts--Long live the king of fools!" And down the city Dagonet danced away; But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 206 Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walk'd, or crept, or perch'd, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, return'd; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than shame Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; But could not rest for musing how to smoothe And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here? a name? Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily, But left her all as easily, and return'd. 207 The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd. He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand--her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower." Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet. He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors, where out was roll'd A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. "Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonour done the gilded spur, Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode. Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, 208 Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm In blood-red armour sallying, howl'd to the King, "The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat! Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I! Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, And stings itself to everlasting death, To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King?--Look to thy life!" He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. And Arthur deign'd not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, Heard in dead night along that table-shore, Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, From less and less to nothing; thus he fell Head-heavy; then the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Thro' open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement stream'd with massacre: Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, 209 Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush'd The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stay'd him. "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said, "my man Hath left me or is dead"; whereon he thought-"What, if she hate me now? I would not this. What, if she love me still? I would not that. I know not what I would"--but said to her, "Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favour changed and love thee not"-Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonnesse Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gain'd Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, A crown of towers. Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, "Not Mark--not Mark, my soul! The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest thro' his halls Who hates thee, as I him--ev'n to the death. 210 My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine." And drawing somewhat backward she replied, "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--Mark? What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus! But harken! have ye met him? hence he went To-day for three days' hunting--as he said-And so returns belike within an hour. Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee.'' So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one--his name is out of me--the prize, If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see) Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneel'd to last?" And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness--ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, 211 Sailing from Ireland." Softly laugh'd Isolt; "Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said, "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty ev'n to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love." To whom Isolt, "Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinn'd against the highest, And I--misyoked with such a want of man-That I could hardly sin against the lowest." He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away." And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, "I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her? Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? 212 The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-Well--can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories. O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love." And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark--Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God." And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-For there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'-And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms." Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her.' 213 "`May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight! But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts-Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him The man of men, our King--My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows The King prevailing made his realm:--I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in despair." Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, "Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once--ev'n to the height--I honour'd him. 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall-His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- 214 Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end Amazed me; then his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, But Michaël trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by--The vows! O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-They served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vows-First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen-Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep? They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord To bind them by inviolable vows, Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: For feel this arm of mine--the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Woos his own end; we are not angels here Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love." Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyself-For courtesy wins woman all as well As valour may, but he that closes both 215 Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed, Rosier and comelier, thou--but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw, 'We love but while we may,' Well then, what answer?" He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, "Press this a little closer, sweet, until-Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd--meat, Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come." So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, and set before him all he will'd; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-Now talking of their woodland paradise, The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark-Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: "Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier! A star in heaven, a star within the mere! Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere." Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, "The collar of some Order, which our King Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers." 216 "Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee." He spoke, he turn'd, then, flinging round her neck, Claspt it, and cried "Thine Order, O my Queen!" But, while he bow'd to kiss the jewell'd throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-"Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the brain. That night came Arthur home, and while he climb'd, All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, "What art thou?" and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am thy fool, And I shall never make thee smile again." ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1421:The Cremona Violin Part First Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind The distant town was black, and sharp defined Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers, Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers. A pasted city on a purple ground, Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed, Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom. Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room. She bustled round to shake by constant moving The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire, She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving Its careful setting, then her own attire Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting This way or that to suit her. At last sitting, Or rather plumping down upon a chair, She took her work, the stocking she was knitting, And watched the rain upon the window glare In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare Of lightning squirmed about her needles. 'Oh!' She cried. 'What can be keeping Theodore so!' A roll of thunder set the casements clapping. Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran, Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping She stood and gazed along the street. A man Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran 272 Her down as she stood in the door. 'Why, Dear, What in the name of patience brings you here? Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light. This clasp is very much too worn and thin. I'll take the other fiddle out to-night If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry. Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how are you? A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see. Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea. What do you say? That you were feared for me? Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk. I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk.' Her needles still, her hands upon her lap Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat And watched the rain-run window. In his nap Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that, Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat, Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom. But even rainy windows, silver-lit By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give But poor content to loneliness, and it Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive And down her eagerness and learn to live In placid quiet. While her husband slept, Charlotta in her upper chamber wept. Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man Gentle and unambitious, that alone Had kept him back. He played as few men can, Drawing out of his instrument a tone So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air, Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair. 273 Above all things, above Charlotta his wife, Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life Was flowering out of early discipline When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine The belly was. The back of broadly curled Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled. The slanting, youthful sound-holes through The belly of fine, vigorous pine Mellowed each note and blew It out again with a woody flavour Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are When breezes in their needles jar. The varnish was an orange-brown Lustered like glass that's long laid down Under a crumbling villa stone. Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point Straight up the corners. Each curve and joint Clear, and bold, and thin. Such was Herr Theodore's violin. Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone With his best violin, the rain being stopped, Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone Watching the embers which the fire dropped. The china shone upon the dresser, topped By polished copper vessels which her skill Kept brightly burnished. It was very still. An air from `Orfeo' hummed in her head. Herr Altgelt had been practising before The night's performance. Charlotta had plead With him to stay with her. Even at the door She'd begged him not to go. 'I do implore You for this evening, Theodore,' she had said. 'Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead.' 'A silly poppet!' Theodore pinched her ear. 'You'd like to have our good Elector turn 274 Me out I think.' 'But, Theodore, something queer Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn, My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're stern, And cold, and only love your work, I know. But Theodore, for this evening, do not go.' But he had gone, hurriedly at the end, For she had kept him talking. Now she sat Alone again, always alone, the trend Of all her thinking brought her back to that She wished to banish. What would life be? What? For she was young, and loved, while he was moved Only by music. Each day that was proved. Each day he rose and practised. While he played, She stopped her work and listened, and her heart Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed And longing, she would hide from him her smart. 'Well, Lottchen, will that do?' Then what a start She gave, and she would run to him and cry, And he would gently chide her, 'Fie, Dear, fie. I'm glad I played it well. But such a taking! You'll hear the thing enough before I've done.' And she would draw away from him, still shaking. Had he but guessed she was another one, Another violin. Her strings were aching, Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again He played and she almost broke at the strain. Where was the use of thinking of it now, Sitting alone and listening to the clock! She'd best make haste and knit another row. Three hours at least must pass before his knock Would startle her. It always was a shock. She listened - listened - for so long before, That when it came her hearing almost tore. She caught herself just starting in to listen. What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks! She wandered to the window, for the glisten Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks 275 Of her two candles. Still she could not fix To anything. The moon in a broad swath Beckoned her out and down the garden-path. Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high And black, their shadows doubling them. The night Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight Of insects, and the smell of aconite, And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted The even flags. She let herself go dreaming Of Theodore her husband, and the tune From `Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming Changed - shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon Showed her a passer-by, inopportune Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding. Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding. 'The best laid plans of mice and men,' alas! The stranger came indeed, but did not pass. Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate, Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state, Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass, Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed, And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed. He seemed a proper fellow standing there In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced With silver, and he wore his own brown hair Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position Was hardly easy. When would his volition Suggest his walking on? And then that tune! A half-a-dozen bars from `Orfeo' Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune Had brought him there to stare about him so? 'Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!' Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on, 276 And seemed in no great hurry to be gone. Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes, Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig. If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes Streamed over her. He would not care a fig, He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose Amid her bushes. 'Sir,' said she, 'pray whose Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why Do you stand there? I really must insist Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly To stay so long.' The young man gave a twist And turned about, and in the amethyst Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen From the green bushes which had been her prison. He swept his hat off in a hurried bow. 'Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea I was not quite alone, and that is how I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer Impertinence. I thought no one was here, And really gardens cry to be admired. To-night especially it seemed required. And may I beg to introduce myself? Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?' Charlotta told him. And the artful elf Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame. So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came To conversation with him. When she went Into the house, she found the evening spent. Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased, With all excitement in him burned away. It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased, And he had played his very best to-day, But afterwards he had been forced to stay And practise with the stupid ones. His head Ached furiously, and he must get to bed. 277 Part Second Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played, And the four strings of his violin Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring. The notes rose into the wide sun-mote Which slanted through the window, They lay like coloured beads a-row, They knocked together and parted, And started to dance, Skipping, tripping, each one slipping Under and over the others so That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance Or a comet's tail, Behind them. Then a wail arose - crescendo And dropped from off the end of the bow, And the dancing stopped. A scent of lilies filled the room, Long and slow. Each large white bloom Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer, And the hum of an organ tone, And they waved like fans in a hall of stone Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone. Each lily bent slowly as it was blown. Like smoke they rose from the violin Then faded as a swifter bowing Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion Between broad meadows to an ocean Wide as a day and blue as a flower, Where every hour Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed, And over the marshes the Angelus pealed, And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered With spray. And away a couple of frigates were starting To race to Java with all sails set, Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs, And wide moonsails; and the shining rails Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun. All the sails went up with a run: 278 'They call me Hanging Johnny, Away-i-oh; They call me Hanging Johnny, So hang, boys, hang.' And the sun had set and the high moon whitened, And the ship heeled over to the breeze. He drew her into the shade of the sails, And whispered tales Of voyages in the China seas, And his arm around her Held and bound her. She almost swooned, With the breeze and the moon And the slipping sea, And he beside her, Touching her, leaning The ship careening, With the white moon steadily shining over Her and her lover, Theodore, still her lover! Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes, And slowly floated A single note which spread and spread Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold, And noises shivered throughout its length, And tried its strength. They pulled it, and tore it, And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it. Then a wide rent Split the arching tent, And balls of fire spurted through, Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue. One by one they were quenched as they fell, Only the blue burned steadily. Paler and paler it grew, and - faded - away. Herr Altgelt stopped. 'Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say? I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner. What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day. I wonder how it happens I'm the winner 279 Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner; You're like a bag of feathers on my knee. Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me. I'm glad you're going out this afternoon. The days are getting short, and I'm so tied At the Court Theatre my poor little bride Has not much junketing I fear, but soon I'll ask our manager to grant a boon. To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you, And when I go, why Lotta can come too. Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup To whip me up till that rehearsal's over. You know it's odd how some women can stoop! Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover, A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover If it's his money. But she lives alone Practically. Gebnitz is a stone, Pores over books all day, and has no ear For his wife's singing. Artists must have men; They need appreciation. But it's queer What messes people make of their lives, when They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once. I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce.' Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent, Audacious wind it was, now close behind, Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined The strings across her face, then from in front Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt, Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing, Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing Itself upon her, so that she was wound In draperies as clinging as those found Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze 280 Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze The shops and houses had a quality Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea. The city streets were twanging like a harp. Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing Toward what destination she was going. She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop, Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns, And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop And then float up again with lightness. Browns Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns Amid the gaiety of topaz seals, Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels. A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard Delighted her. And rings of every size Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes, Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred Like rockets bursting on a festal day. Charlotta could not tear herself away. With eyes glued tightly on a golden box, Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue, Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks Of shades and lustres always darting through Its level, superimposing sheet of blue, Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching. She started at the words: 'Am I encroaching?' 'Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thought We were to meet at three, is it quite that?' 'No, it is not,' he answered, 'but I've caught The trick of missing you. One thing is flat, I cannot go on this way. Life is what Might best be conjured up by the word: `Hell'. Dearest, when will you come?' Lotta, to quell 281 His effervescence, pointed to the gems Within the window, asked him to admire A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems Uneasily the burning of a fire. Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire. Little by little she wooed him to her mood Until at last he promised to be good. But here he started on another tack; To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose. She vainly urged against him all her lack Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use A ring or brooch her husband might accuse Her of extravagance, and ask to see A strict accounting, or still worse might be. But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why Should he not give her what he liked? And in He went, determined certainly to buy A thing so beautiful that it would win Her wavering fancy. Altgelt's violin He would outscore by such a handsome jewel That Lotta could no longer be so cruel! Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways. If she went in with him, the shopman might Recognize her, give her her name; in days To come he could denounce her. In her fright She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite Capable of pursuing. By and by She pushed the door and entered hurriedly. It took some pains to keep him from bestowing A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses, The setting twined to represent the growing Tendrils and leaves, upon her. 'Who supposes I could obtain such things! It simply closes All comfort for me.' So he changed his mind And bought as slight a gift as he could find. A locket, frosted over with seed pearls, Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck, 282 Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls Should lie in it. And further to bedeck His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck, The merest puff of a thin, linked chain To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain From weeping as they sauntered down the street. She did not want the locket, yet she did. To have him love her she found very sweet, But it is hard to keep love always hid. Then there was something in her heart which chid Her, told her she loved Theodore in him, That all these meetings were a foolish whim. She thought of Theodore and the life they led, So near together, but so little mingled. The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead, And the fresh wind about her body tingled; The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled; Charlotta held her breath for very fear, About her in the street she seemed to hear: 'They call me Hanging Johnny, Away-i-oh; They call me Hanging Johnny, So hang, boys, hang.' And it was Theodore, under the racing skies, Who held her and who whispered in her ear. She knew her heart was telling her no lies, Beating and hammering. He was so dear, The touch of him would send her in a queer Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning Street after street as Heinrich wished it so. He had some aim, she had forgotten what. Their progress was confused and very slow, But at the last they reached a lonely spot, A garden far above the highest shot Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town Spread open like a chequer-board laid down. 283 Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest, Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain About her neck. She treated it in jest, And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain. Then suddenly she felt as though a strain Were put upon her, collared like a slave, Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave. She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands To snap it, but they held with odd persistence. Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance Melted within her, from remotest distance, Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near, And giving way she knew him very dear. For long he held her, and they both gazed down At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river. From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver When, opening the locket, they were placed Under the glass, commingled and enlaced. 'When will you have it so with us?' He sighed. She shook her head. He pressed her further. 'No, No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me,' and she tried To free herself and rise. He held her so, Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go. 'But you love me,' he whispered, with his face Burning against her through her kerchief's lace. Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew That what her husband lit this other man Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few Women were so discreet as she, who ran No danger since she knew what things to ban. She opened her house door at five o'clock, A short half-hour before her husband's knock. Part Third 284 The `Residenz-Theater' sparked and hummed With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing, That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting From muffled tympani made a dark slatting Across the silver shimmering of flutes; A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed; The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes, And mutterings of double basses trailed Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter They lost themselves amid the general clatter. Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone, Felt lifted up into another world. Before her eyes a thousand candles shone In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled. She smelt the smoke of candles guttering, And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering All round her in the boxes. Red and gold, The house, like rubies set in filigree, Filliped the candlelight about, and bold Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly Ogled fair beauties in the balcony. An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling. Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling About a play-bill he had bought and lost. Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected. Frau Altgelt's eyes stared at the vacant post Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected The stir which brought him. But she felt neglected When with no glance about him or her way, He lifted up his violin to play. The curtain went up? Perhaps. If so, Charlotta never saw it go. 285 The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz' singing Only came to her like the ringing Of bells at a festa Which swing in the air And nobody realizes they are there. They jingle and jangle, And clang, and bang, And never a soul could tell whether they rang, For the plopping of guns and rockets And the chinking of silver to spend, in one's pockets, And the shuffling and clapping of feet, And the loud flapping Of flags, with the drums, As the military comes. It's a famous tune to walk to, And I wonder where they're off to. Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums. But the rhythm changes as though a mist Were curling and twisting Over the landscape. For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog Encompasses her. Then her senses jog To the breath of a stately minuet. Herr Altgelt's violin is set In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances, To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances. Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights When stars shine in the quiet river. And against the lights Blundering insects knock, And the `Rathaus' clock Booms twice, through the shrill sounds Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds. Pressed against him in the mazy wavering Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering She leans upon the beating, throbbing Music. Laughing, sobbing, Feet gliding after sliding feet; His - hers The ballroom blurs She feels the air Lifting her hair, And the lapping of water on the stone stair. 286 He is there! He is there! Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins, That the dancers may dance, and never discover The old stone stair leading down to the river With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over Her and her lover. Theodore, still her lover! The evening passed like this, in a half faint, Delirium with waking intervals Which were the entr'acts. Under the restraint Of a large company, the constant calls For oranges or syrops from the stalls Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro, Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito. She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded, The music vaunted as most excellent. The scenery and the costumes were applauded, The latter it was whispered had been sent From Italy. The Herr Direktor spent A fortune on them, so the gossips said. Charlotta felt a lightness in her head. When the next act began, her eyes were swimming, Her prodded ears were aching and confused. The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming Her outward consciousness. Her brain was fused Into the music, Theodore's music! Used To hear him play, she caught his single tone. For all she noticed they two were alone. Part Fourth Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street, Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down Shouting their coachmen's names; forced to retreat A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise. 287 Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm, Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman And ordered off. However, no great harm Came to her. But she looked a trifle wan When Theodore, her belated guardian, Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling, Half out of fear, half out of the assembling Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given. Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know. 'Oh! Theodore, can't you feel that it was Heaven!' 'Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so? Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops, A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops.' He was so simple, so matter-of-fact, Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say To bring him to her dream. His lack of tact Kept him explaining all the homeward way How this thing had gone well, that badly. 'Stay, Theodore!' she cried at last. 'You know to me Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy.' And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed Herself so much, and said so. 'But it's good To be got home again.' He was employed In looking at his violin, the wood Was old, and evening air did it no good. But when he drew up to the table for tea Something about his wife's vivacity Struck him as hectic, worried him in short. He talked of this and that but watched her close. Tea over, he endeavoured to extort The cause of her excitement. She arose And stood beside him, trying to compose Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life, And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife. Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp, Her music-kindled love crashed on him there. 288 Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp Her arms about him, weighing down his chair, Sobbing out all her hours of despair. 'Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved. Unless you tell me, I feel I'm not loved.' Theodore went under in this tearing wave, He yielded to it, and its headlong flow Filled him with all the energy she gave. He was a youth again, and this bright glow, This living, vivid joy he had to show Her what she was to him. Laughing and crying, She asked assurances there's no denying. Over and over again her questions, till He quite convinced her, every now and then She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still. But later when they were composed and when She dared relax her probings, 'Lottachen,' He asked, 'how is it your love has withstood My inadvertence? I was made of wood.' She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly, That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky To her. And even if conscience were unruly She salved it by neat sophistries, but why Suppose her insincere, it was no lie She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot As though he'd never been within earshot. But Theodore's hands in straying and caressing Fumbled against the locket where it lay Upon her neck. 'What is this thing I'm pressing?' He asked. 'Let's bring it to the light of day.' He lifted up the locket. 'It should stay Outside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste. To keep it hidden surely is a waste.' Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused Out of her happiness. The locket brought A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused Under its icy spurting she was caught, 289 And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she sought The clasp, but with such art was this contrived Her fumbling fingers never once arrived Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and round, She pulled the chain quite through the locket's ring And still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound, Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thing To hurl her out of joy! A gilded string Binding her folly to her, and those curls Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls! Again she tried to break the cord. It stood. 'Unclasp it, Theodore,' she begged. But he Refused, and being in a happy mood, Twitted her with her inefficiency, Then looking at her very seriously: 'I think, Charlotta, it is well to have Always about one what a mother gave. As she has taken the great pains to send This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be Ingratitude if you do not intend To carry it about you constantly. With her fine taste you cannot disagree, The locket is most beautifully designed.' He opened it and there the curls were, twined. Charlotta's heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches. She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze. Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches, She heard her husband asking: 'What are those?' Put out her hand quickly to interpose, But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded At the calm way the question was propounded. 'A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare. Indeed I will not let you put it off. A lovely thought: yours and your mother's hair!' Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough. 'Never with my connivance shall you doff This charming gift.' He kissed her on the cheek, 290 And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek. When later in their room she lay awake, Watching the moonlight slip along the floor, She felt the chain and wept for Theodore's sake. She had loved Heinrich also, and the core Of truth, unlovely, startled her. Wherefore She vowed from now to break this double life And see herself only as Theodore's wife. Part Fifth It was no easy matter to convince Heinrich that it was finished. Hard to say That though they could not meet (he saw her wince) She still must keep the locket to allay Suspicion in her husband. She would pay Him from her savings bit by bit - the oath He swore at that was startling to them both. Her resolution taken, Frau Altgelt Adhered to it, and suffered no regret. She found her husband all that she had felt His music to contain. Her days were set In his as though she were an amulet Cased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining; Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining. Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasks Were furbished up to seem like rituals. She baked and brewed as one who only asks The right to serve. Her daily manuals Of prayer were duties, and her festivals When Theodore praised some dish, or frankly said She had a knack in making up a bed. So Autumn went, and all the mountains round The city glittered white with fallen snow, For it was Winter. Over the hard ground Herr Altgelt's footsteps came, each one a blow. On the swept flags behind the currant row Charlotta stood to greet him. But his lip 291 Only flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership Was first again. This evening he had got Important news. The opera ordered from Young Mozart was arrived. That old despot, The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him come Himself to lead it, and the parts, still hot From copying, had been tried over. Never Had any music started such a fever. The orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse, The singers clapped and clapped. The town was made, With such a great attraction through the course Of Carnival time. In what utter shade All other cities would be left! The trade In music would all drift here naturally. In his excitement he forgot his tea. Lotta was forced to take his cup and put It in his hand. But still he rattled on, Sipping at intervals. The new catgut Strings he was using gave out such a tone The 'Maestro' had remarked it, and had gone Out of his way to praise him. Lotta smiled, He was as happy as a little child. From that day on, Herr Altgelt, more and more, Absorbed himself in work. Lotta at first Was patient and well-wishing. But it wore Upon her when two weeks had brought no burst Of loving from him. Then she feared the worst; That his short interest in her was a light Flared up an instant only in the night. `Idomeneo' was the opera's name, A name that poor Charlotta learnt to hate. Herr Altgelt worked so hard he seldom came Home for his tea, and it was very late, Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His state Was like a flabby orange whose crushed skin Is thin with pulling, and all dented in. 292 He practised every morning and her heart Followed his bow. But often she would sit, While he was playing, quite withdrawn apart, Absently fingering and touching it, The locket, which now seemed to her a bit Of some gone youth. His music drew her tears, And through the notes he played, her dreading ears Heard Heinrich's voice, saying he had not changed; Beer merchants had no ecstasies to take Their minds off love. So far her thoughts had ranged Away from her stern vow, she chanced to take Her way, one morning, quite by a mistake, Along the street where Heinrich had his shop. What harm to pass it since she should not stop! It matters nothing how one day she met Him on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by. Nor how the following week he stood to let Her pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly. How once he took her basket, and once he Pulled back a rearing horse who might have struck Her with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck How many times their business took them each Right to the other. Then at last he spoke, But she would only nod, he got no speech From her. Next time he treated it in joke, And that so lightly that her vow she broke And answered. So they drifted into seeing Each other as before. There was no fleeing. Christmas was over and the Carnival Was very near, and tripping from each tongue Was talk of the new opera. Each book-stall Flaunted it out in bills, what airs were sung, What singers hired. Pictures of the young 'Maestro' were for sale. The town was mad. Only Charlotta felt depressed and sad. Each day now brought a struggle 'twixt her will And Heinrich's. 'Twixt her love for Theodore 293 And him. Sometimes she wished to kill Herself to solve her problem. For a score Of reasons Heinrich tempted her. He bore Her moods with patience, and so surely urged Himself upon her, she was slowly merged Into his way of thinking, and to fly With him seemed easy. But next morning would The Stradivarius undo her mood. Then she would realize that she must cleave Always to Theodore. And she would try To convince Heinrich she should never leave, And afterwards she would go home and grieve. All thought in Munich centered on the part Of January when there would be given `Idomeneo' by Wolfgang Mozart. The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, even Those almost at the ceiling, which were driven Behind the highest gallery, were sold. The inches of the theatre went for gold. Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thin With work, he hardly printed black behind The candle. He and his old violin Made up one person. He was not unkind, But dazed outside his playing, and the rind, The pine and maple of his fiddle, guarded A part of him which he had quite discarded. It woke in the silence of frost-bright nights, In little lights, Like will-o'-the-wisps flickering, fluttering, Here - there Spurting, sputtering, Fading and lighting, Together, asunder Till Lotta sat up in bed with wonder, And the faint grey patch of the window shone Upon her sitting there, alone. For Theodore slept. 294 The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day, 'Twas called for noon, so early morning meant Herr Altgelt's only time in which to play His part alone. Drawn like a monk who's spent Himself in prayer and fasting, Theodore went Into the kitchen, with a weary word Of cheer to Lotta, careless if she heard. Lotta heard more than his spoken word. She heard the vibrating of strings and wood. She was washing the dishes, her hands all suds, When the sound began, Long as the span Of a white road snaking about a hill. The orchards are filled With cherry blossoms at butterfly poise. Hawthorn buds are cracking, And in the distance a shepherd is clacking His shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep. The notes are asleep, Lying adrift on the air In level lines Like sunlight hanging in pines and pines, Strung and threaded, All imbedded In the blue-green of the hazy pines. Lines - long, straight lines! And stems, Long, straight stems Pushing up To the cup of blue, blue sky. Stems growing misty With the many of them, Red-green mist Of the trees, And these Wood-flavoured notes. The back is maple and the belly is pine. The rich notes twine As though weaving in and out of leaves, Broad leaves Flapping slowly like elephants' ears, 295 Waving and falling. Another sound peers Through little pine fingers, And lingers, peeping. Ping! Ping! pizzicato, something is cheeping. There is a twittering up in the branches, A chirp and a lilt, And crimson atilt on a swaying twig. Wings! Wings! And a little ruffled-out throat which sings. The forest bends, tumultuous With song. The woodpecker knocks, And the song-sparrow trills, Every fir, and cedar, and yew Has a nest or a bird, It is quite absurd To hear them cutting across each other: Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once, And a loud cuckoo is trying to smother A wood-pigeon perched on a birch, 'Roo - coo - oo - oo -' 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo! That's one for you!' A blackbird whistles, how sharp, how shrill! And the great trees toss And leaves blow down, You can almost hear them splash on the ground. The whistle again: It is double and loud! The leaves are splashing, And water is dashing Over those creepers, for they are shrouds; And men are running up them to furl the sails, For there is a capful of wind to-day, And we are already well under way. The deck is aslant in the bubbling breeze. 'Theodore, please. Oh, Dear, how you tease!' And the boatswain's whistle sounds again, And the men pull on the sheets: 'My name is Hanging Johnny, Away-i-oh; 296 They call me Hanging Johnny, So hang, boys, hang.' The trees of the forest are masts, tall masts; They are swinging over Her and her lover. Almost swooning Under the ballooning canvas, She lies Looking up in his eyes As he bends farther over. Theodore, still her lover! The suds were dried upon Charlotta's hands, She leant against the table for support, Wholly forgotten. Theodore's eyes were brands Burning upon his music. He stopped short. Charlotta almost heard the sound of bands Snapping. She put one hand up to her heart, Her fingers touched the locket with a start. Herr Altgelt put his violin away Listlessly. 'Lotta, I must have some rest. The strain will be a hideous one to-day. Don't speak to me at all. It will be best If I am quiet till I go.' And lest She disobey, he left her. On the stairs She heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers! He could not hear, he was not there, for she Was married to a mummy, a machine. Her hand closed on the locket bitterly. Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreen Case of his violin. She saw the clean Sun flash the open clasp. The locket's edge Cut at her fingers like a pushing wedge. A heavy cart went by, a distant bell Chimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate. She was alone. Her throat began to swell With sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait? The violin she had begun to hate Lay in its case before her. Here she flung 297 The cover open. With the fiddle swung Over her head, the hanging clock's loud ticking Caught on her ear. 'Twas slow, and as she paused The little door in it came open, flicking A wooden cuckoo out: 'Cuckoo!' It caused The forest dream to come again. 'Cuckoo!' Smashed on the grate, the violin broke in two. 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!' the clock kept striking on; But no one listened. Frau Altgelt had gone. ~ Amy Lowell,

1422:Tannhauser The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours, At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight, Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard, Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed With apprehension and rare utterance Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light, And large repose, the peaceful valley lay, In the late splendor of the afternoon, And level sunbeams lit the serious face Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west, Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs, Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms, That in the distance loomed as soft and fair And purple as their shadows on the grass. The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air, Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in, Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light. The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home, In the near meadow, reverently knelt, And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast, Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heard The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight, Unmindful of the sacred hour announced, Disdainful or unconscious, held his course. 'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight, Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!' He murmured bitterly beneath his breath. 'Were I a pagan, riding to contend For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal, What fire of inspiration, would I sing The praises of the gods! How may my lyre Glorify these whose very life I doubt? The world is governed by one cruel God, Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ, Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold, They give us for a heaven of living gods, Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song; 207 A creed of suffering and despair, walled in On every side by brazen boundaries, That limit the soul's vision and her hope To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven. Yea, I am lost already,-even now Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts. O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?' He raised his wan face to the faded skies, Now shadowing into twilight; no response Came from their sunless heights; no miracle, As in the ancient days of answering gods. With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth, Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs. Gray, sullen, gaunt, they towered on either side; Scant shrubs sucked meagre life between the rifts Of their huge crags, and made small darker spots Upon their wrinkled sides; the jaded horse Stumbled upon loose, rattling, fallen stones, Amidst the gathering dusk, and blindly fared Through the weird, perilous pass. As darkness waxed, And an oppressive mystery enwrapped The roadstead and the rocks, Sir Tannhauser Fancied he saw upon the mountain-side The fluttering of white raiment. With a sense Of wild joy and horror, he gave pause, For his sagacious horse that reeked of sweat, Trembling in every limb, confirmed his thought, That nothing human scaled that haunted cliff. The white thing seemed descending,-now a cloud It looked, and now a rag of drifted mist, Torn in the jagged gorge precipitous, And now an apparition clad in white, Shapely and real,-then he lost it quite, Gazing on nothing with blank, foolish face. As with wide eyes he stood, he was aware Of a strange splendor at his very side, A presence and a majesty so great, That ere he saw, he felt it was divine. He turned, and, leaping from his horse, fell prone, In speechless adoration, on the earth, Before the matchless goddess, who appeared With no less freshness of immortal youth 208 Than when first risen from foam of Paphian seas. He heard delicious strains of melody, Such as his highest muse had ne'er attained, Float in the air, while in the distance rang, Harsh and discordant, jarring with those tones, The gallop of his frightened horse's hoofs, Clattering in sudden freedom down the pass. A voice that made all music dissonance Then thrilled through heart and flesh of that prone knight, Triumphantly: 'The gods need but appear, And their usurped thrones are theirs again!' Then tenderly: 'Sweet knight, I pray thee, rise; Worship me not, for I desire thy love. Look on me, follow me, for I am fain Of thy fair, human face.' He rose and looked, Stirred by that heavenly flattery to the soul. Her hair, unbraided and unfilleted, Rained in a glittering shower to the ground, And cast forth lustre. Round her zone was clasped The scintillant cestus, stiff with flaming gold, Thicker with restless gems than heaven with stars. She might have flung the enchanted wonder forth; Her eyes, her slightest gesture would suffice To bind all men in blissful slavery. She sprang upon the mountain's dangerous side, With feet that left their print in flowers divine,Flushed amaryllis and blue hyacinth, Impurpled amaranth and asphodel, Dewy with nectar, and exhaling scents Richer than all the roses of mid-June. The knight sped after her, with wild eyes fixed Upon her brightness, as she lightly leapt From crag to crag, with flying auburn hair, Like a gold cloud, that lured him ever on, Higher and higher up the haunted cliff. At last amidst a grove of pines she paused, Until he reached her, breathing hard with haste, Delight, and wonder. Then upon his hand She placed her own, and all his blood at once Tingled and hotly rushed to brow and cheek, At the supreme caress; but the mere touch Infused fresh life, and when she looked at him 209 With gracious tenderness, he felt himself Strong suddenly to bear the blinding light Of those great eyes. 'Dear knight,' she murmured low, 'For love of me, wilt thou accord this boon,To grace my weary home in banishment?' His hungry eyes gave answer ere he spoke, In tones abrupt that startled his own ears With their strange harshness; but with thanks profuse She guided him, still holding his cold hand In her warm, dainty palm, unto a cave, Whence a rare glory issued, and a smell Of spice and roses, frankincense and balm. They entering stood within a marble hall, With straight, slim pillars, at whose farther end The goddess led him to a spiral flight Of stairs, descending always 'midst black gloom Into the very bowels of the earth. Down these, with fearful swiftness, they made way, The knight's feet touching not the solid stair, But sliding down as in a vexing dream, Blind, feeling but that hand divine that still Empowered him to walk on empty air. Then he was dazzled by a sudden blaze, In vast palace filled with reveling folk. Cunningly pictured on the ivory walls Were rolling hills, cool lakes, and boscage green, And all the summer landscape's various pomp. The precious canopy aloft was carved In semblance of the pleached forest trees, Enameled with the liveliest green, wherethrough A light pierced, more resplendent than the day. O'er the pale, polished jasper of the floor Of burnished metal, fretted and embossed With all the marvelous story of her birth Painted in prodigal splendor of rich tincts, And carved by heavenly artists,-crystal seas, And long-haired Nereids in their pearly shells, And all the wonder of her lucent limbs Sphered in a vermeil mist. Upon the throne She took her seat, the knight beside her still, Singing on couches of fresh asphodel, And the dance ceased, and the flushed revelers came 210 In glittering phalanx to adore their queen. Beautiful girls, with shining delicate heads, Crested with living jewels, fanned the air With flickering wings from naked shoulders soft. Then with preluding low, a thousand harps, And citherns, and strange nameless instruments, Sent through the fragrant air sweet symphonies, And the winged dancers waved in mazy rounds, With changing lustres like a summer sea. Fair boys, with charming yellow hair crisp-curled, And frail, effeminate beauty, the knight saw, But of strong, stalwart men like him were none. He gazed thereon bewitched, until the hand Of Venus, erst withdrawn, now fell again Upon his own, and roused him from his trance. He looked on her, and as he looked, a cloud Auroral, flaming as at sunrising, Arose from nothing, floating over them In luminous folds, like that vermilion mist Penciled upon the throne, and as it waxed In density and brightness, all the throng Of festal dancers, less and less distinct, Grew like pale spirits in a vague, dim dream, And vanished altogether; and these twain, Shut from the world in that ambrosial cloud, Now with a glory inconceivable, Vivid and conflagrant, looked each on each. All hours came laden with their own delights In that enchanted place, wherein Time Knew no divisions harsh of night and day, But light was always, and desire of sleep Was satisfied at once with slumber soft, Desire of food with magical repast, By unseen hands on golden tables spread. But these the knight accepted like a god, All less was lost in that excess of joy, The crowning marvel of her love for him, Assuring him of his divinity. Meanwhile remembrance of the earth appeared Like the vague trouble of a transient dream,The doubt, the scruples, the remorse for thoughts 211 Beyond his own control, the constant thirst For something fairer than his life, more real Than airy revelations of his Muse. Here was his soul's desire satisfied. All nobler passions died; his lyre he flung Recklessly forth, with vows to dedicate His being to herself. She knew and seized The moment of her mastery, and conveyed The lyre beyond his sight and memory. With blandishment divine she changed for him, Each hour, her mood; a very woman now, Fantastic, voluble, affectionate, And jealous of the vague, unbodied air, Exacting, penitent, and pacified, All in a breath. And often she appeared Majestic with celestial wrath, with eyes That shot forth fire, and a heavy brow, Portentous as the lowering front of heaven, When the reverberant, sullen thunder rolls Among the echoing clouds. Thus she denounced Her ancient, fickle worshippers, who left Her altars desecrate, her fires unfed, Her name forgotten. 'But I reign, I reign!' She would shrill forth, triumphant; 'yea, I reign. Men name me not, but worship me unnamed, Beauty and Love within their heart of hearts; Not with bent knees and empty breath of words, But with devoted sacrifice of lives.' Then melting in a moment, she would weep Ambrosial tears, pathetic, full of guile, Accusing her own base ingratitude, In craving worship, when she had his heart, Her priceless knight, her peerless paladin, Her Tannhauser; then, with an artful glance Of lovely helplessness, entreated him Not to desert her, like the faithless world, For these unbeautiful and barbarous gods, Or she would never cease her prayers to Jove, Until he took from her the heavy curse Of immortality. With closer vows, The knight then sealed his worship and forswore All other aims and deeds to serve her cause. 212 Thus passed unnoted seven barren years Of reckless passion and voluptuous sloth, Undignified by any lofty thought In his degraded mind, that sometime was Endowed with noble capability. From revelry to revelry he passed, Craving more pungent pleasure momently, And new intoxications, and each hour The siren goddess answered his desires. Once when she left him with a weary sense Of utter lassitude, he sat alone, And, raising listless eyes, he saw himself In a great burnished mirror, wrought about With cunning imagery of twisted vines. He scarcely knew those sunken, red-rimmed eyes, For his who in the flush of manhood rode Among the cliffs, and followed up the crags The flying temptress; and there fell on him A horror of her beauty, a disgust For his degenerate and corrupted life, With irresistible, intense desire, To feel the breath of heaven on his face. Then as Fate willed, who rules above the gods, He saw, within the glass, behind him glide The form of Venus. Certain of her power, She had laid by, in fond security, The enchanted cestus, and Sir Tannhauser, With surfeited regard, beheld her now, No fairer than the women of the earth, Whom with serenity and health he left, Duped by a lovely witch. Before he moved, She knew her destiny; and when he turned, He seemed to drop a mask, disclosing thus An alien face, and eyes with vision true, That for long time with glamour had been blind. Hiding the hideous rage within her breast, With girlish simpleness of folded hands, Auroral blushes, and sweet, shamefast mien, She spoke: 'Behold, my love, I have cast forth All magic, blandishments and sorcery, For I have dreamed a dream so terrible, That I awoke to find my pillow stained 213 With tears as of real woe. I thought my belt, By Vulcan wrought with matchless skill and power, Was the sole bond between us; this being doffed, I seemed to thee an old, unlovely crone, Wrinkled by every year that I have seen. Thou turnedst from me with a brutal sneer, So that I woke with weeping. Then I rose, And drew the glittering girdle from my zone, Jealous thereof, yet full of fears, and said, 'If it be this he loves, then let him go! I have no solace as a mortal hath, No hope of change or death to comfort me Through all eternity; yet he is free, Though I could hold him fast with heavy chains, Bound in perpetual imprisonment.' Tell me my vision was a baseless dream; See, I am kneeling, and kiss thy hands,In pity, look on me, before thy word Condemns me to immortal misery!' As she looked down, the infernal influence Worked on his soul again; for she was fair Beyond imagination, and her brow Seemed luminous with high self-sacrifice. He bent and kissed her head, warm, shining, soft, With its close-curling gold, and love revived. But ere he spoke, he heard the distant sound Of one sweet, smitten lyre, and a gleam Of violent anger flashed across the face Upraised to his in feigned simplicity And singleness of purpose. Then he sprang, Well-nigh a god himself, with sudden strength to vanquish and resist, beyond her reach, Crying, 'My old Muse calls me, and I hear! Thy fateful vision is no baseless dream; I will be gone from this accursed hall!' Then she, too, rose, dilating over him, And sullen clouds veiled all her rosy limbs, Unto her girdle, and her head appeared Refulgent, and her voice rang wrathfully: 'Have I cajoled and flattered thee till now, To lose thee thus! How wilt thou make escape? 214 ONCE BEING MINE THOU ART FOREVER MINE: Yea, not my love, but my poor slave and fool.' But he, with both hands pressed upon his eyes, Against that blinding lustre, heeded not Her thundered words, and cried in sharp despair, 'Help me, O Virgin Mary! and thereat, The very bases of the hall gave way, The roof was rived, the goddess disappeared, And Tannhauser stood free upon the cliff, Amidst the morning sunshine and fresh air. Around him were the tumbled blocks and crags, Huge ridges and sharp juts of flinty peaks, Black caves, and masses of the grim, bald rock. The ethereal, unfathomable sky, Hung over him, the valley lay beneath, Dotted with yellow hayricks, that exhaled Sweet, healthy odors to the mountain-top. He breathed intoxicate the infinite air, And plucked the heather blossoms where they blew, Reckless with light and dew, in crannies green, And scarcely saw their darling bells for tears. No sounds of labor reached him from the farms And hamlets trim, nor from the furrowed glebe; But a serene and sabbath stillness reigned, Till broken by the faint, melodious chimes Of the small village church that called to prayer. He hurried down the rugged, scarped cliff, And swung himself from shelving granite slopes To narrow foot-holds, near wide-throated chasms, Tearing against the sharp stones his bleeding hands, With long hair flying from his dripping brow, Uncovered head, and white, exalted face. No memory had he of his smooth ascent, No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills; He only heard the bell, inviting him To satisfy the craving of his heart, For worship 'midst his fellow men. He reached The beaten, dusty road, and passed thereon The pious peasants faring towards the church, And scarce refrained from greeting them like friends Dearly beloved, after long absence met. 215 How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked, In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs demure, After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs, And odorous, loose hair! He noted not Suspicious glances on his garb uncouth, His air extravagant and face distraught, With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys, And prudent crossings of the women's breasts. He passed the flowering close about the church, And trod the well worn-path, with throbbing heart, The little heather-bell between his lips, And his eyes fastened on the good green grass. Thus entered he the sanctuary, lit With frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stained Through painted glass. How pure and innocent The waiting congregation seemed to him, Kneeling, or seated with calm brows upraised! With faltering strength, he cowered down alone, And held sincere communion with the Lord, For one brief moment, in a sudden gush Of blessed tears. The minister of God Rose to invoke a blessing on his flock, And then began the service,-not in words To raise the lowly, and to heal the sick, But an alien tongue, with phrases formed, And meaningless observances. The knight, Unmoved, yet thirsting for the simple word That might have moved him, held his bitter thoughts, But when in his own speech a new priest spake, Looked up with hope revived, and heard the text: 'Go, preach the Gospel unto all the world. He that believes and is baptized, is saved. He that believeth not, is damned in hell!' He sat with neck thrust forth and staring eyes; The crowded congregation disappeared; He felt alone in some black sea of hell, While a great light smote one exalted face, Vivid already with prophetic fire, Whose fatal mouth now thundered forth his doom. He longed in that void circle to cry out, With one clear shriek, but sense and voice seemed bound, And his parched tongue clave useless to his mouth. 216 As the last words resounded through the church, And once again the pastor blessed his flock, Who, serious and subdued, passed slowly down The arrow aisle, none noted, near the wall, A fallen man with face upon his knees, A heap of huddled garments and loose hair, Unconscious 'mid the rustling, murmurous stir, 'Midst light and rural smell of grass and flowers, Let in athwart the doorway. One lone priest, Darkening the altar lights, moved noiselessly, Now with the yellow glow upon his face, Now a black shadow gliding farther on, Amidst the smooth, slim pillars of hewn ash. But from the vacant aisles he heard at once A hollow sigh, heaved from a depth profound. Upholding his last light above his head, And peering eagerly amidst the stalls, He cried, 'Be blest who cometh in God's name.' Then the gaunt form of Tannhauser arose. 'Father, I am a sinner, and I seek Forgiveness and help, by whatso means I can regain the joy of peace with God.' 'The Lord hath mercy on the penitent. 'Although thy sins be scarlet,' He hath said, 'Will I not make them white as wool?' Confess, And I will shrive you.' Thus the good priest moved Towards the remorseful knight and pressed his hand. But shrinking down, he drew his fingers back From the kind palm, and kissed the friar's feet. 'Thy pure hand is anointed, and can heal. The cool, calm pressure brings back sanity, And what serene, past joys! yet touch me not, My contact is pollution,-hear, O hear, While I disburden my charged soul.' He lay, Casting about for words and strength to speak. 'O father, is there help for such a one,' In tones of deep abasement he began, 'Who hath rebelled against the laws of God, With pride no less presumptuous than his Who lost thereby his rank in heaven?' 'My son, There is atonement for all sins,-or slight Or difficult, proportioned to the crime. 217 Though this may be the staining of thy hands With blood of kinsmen or of fellow-men.' 'My hands are white,-my crime hath found no name, This side of hell; yet though my heart-strings snap To live it over, let me make the attempt. I was a knight and bard, with such a gift Of revelation that no hour of life Lacked beauty and adornment, in myself The seat and centre of all happiness. What inspiration could my lofty Muse Draw from those common and familiar themes, Painted upon the windows and the walls Of every church,-the mother and her child, The miracle and mystery of the birth, The death, the resurrection? Fool and blind! That saw not symbols of eternal truth In that grand tragedy and victory, Significant and infinite as life. What tortures did my skeptic soul endure, At war against herself and all mankind! The restless nights of feverish sleeplessness, With balancing of reasons nicely weighed; The dawn that brought no hope nor energy, The blasphemous arraignment of the Lord, Taxing His glorious divinity With all the grief and folly of the world. Then came relapses into abject fear, And hollow prayer and praise from craven heart. Before a sculptured Venus I would kneel, Crown her with flowers, worship her, and cry, 'O large and noble type of our ideal, At least my heart and prayer return to thee, Amidst a faithless world of proselytes. Madonna Mary, with her virgin lips, And eyes that look perpetual reproach, Insults and is a blasphemy on youth. Is she to claim the worship of a man Hot with the first rich flush of ripened life?' Realities, like phantoms, glided by, Unnoted 'midst the torment and delights Of my conflicting spirit, and I doffed the modest Christian weeds of charity 218 And fit humility, and steeled myself In pagan panoply of stoicism And self-sufficing pride. Yet constantly I gained men's charmed attention and applause, With the wild strains I smote from out my lyre, To me the native language of my soul, To them attractive and miraculous, As all things whose solution and whose source Remain a mystery. Then came suddenly The summons to attend the gathering Of minstrels at the Landgrave Hermann's court. Resolved to publish there my pagan creed In harmonies so high and beautiful That all the world would share my zeal and faith, I journeyed towards the haunted Horsel cliffs. O God! how may I tell you how SHE came, The temptress of a hundred centuries, Yet fresh as April? She bewitched my sense, Poisoned my judgment with sweet flatteries, And for I may not guess how many years Held me a captive in degrading bonds. There is no sin of lust so lewd and foul, Which I learned not in that alluring hell, Until this morn, I snapped the ignoble tie, By calling on the Mother of our Lord. O for the power to stand again erect, And look men in the eyes! What penitence, What scourging of the flesh, what rigid fasts, What terrible privations may suffice To cleanse me in the sight of God and man?' Ill-omened silence followed his appeal. Patient and motionless he lay awhile, Then sprang unto his feet with sudden force, Confronting in his breathless vehemence, With palpitating heart, the timid priest. 'Answer me, as you hope for a response, One day, at the great judgment seat yourself.' 'I cannot answer,' said the timid priest, 'I have not understood.' 'Just God! is this The curse Thou layest upon me? I outstrip The sympathy and brotherhood of men, So far removed is my experience 219 From their clean innocence. Inspire me, Prompt me to words that bring me near to them! Father,' in gentler accents he resumed, 'Thank Heaven at your every orison That sin like mine you cannot apprehend. More than the truth perchance I have confessed, But I have sinned, and darkly,-this is true; And I have suffered, and am suffering now. Is there no help in your great Christian creed Of liberal charity, for such a one?' 'My son,' the priest replied, 'your speech distraught Hath quite bewildered me. I fain would hope That Christ's large charity can reach your sin, But I know naught. I cannot but believe That the enchantress who first tempted you Must be the Evil one,-your early doubt Was the possession of your soul by him. Travel across the mountain to the town, The first cathedral town upon the road That leads to Rome,-a sage and reverend priest, The Bishop Adrian, bides there. Say you have come From his leal servant, Friar Lodovick; He hath vast lore and great authority, And may absolve you freely of your sin.' Over the rolling hills, through summer fields, By noisy villages and lonely lanes, Through glowing days, when all the landscape stretched Shimmering in the heat, a pilgrim fared Towards the cathedral town. Sir Tannhauser Had donned the mournful sackcloth, girt his loins With a coarse rope that ate into his flesh, Muffled a cowl about his shaven head, Hung a great leaden cross around his neck; And bearing in his hands a knotty staff, With swollen, sandaled feet he held his course. He snatched scant rest at twilight or at dawn, When his forced travel was least difficult. But most he journeyed when the sky, o'ercast, Uprolled its threatening clouds of dusky blue, And angry thunder grumbled through the hills, And earth grew dark at noonday, till the flash 220 Of the thin lightning through the wide sky leapt. And tumbling showers scoured along the plain. Then folk who saw the pilgrim penitent, Drenched, weird, and hastening as as to some strange doom, Swore that the wandering Jew had crossed their land, And the Lord Christ had sent the deadly bolt Harmless upon his cursed, immortal head. At length the hill-side city's spires and roofs, With all its western windows smitten red By a rich sunset, and with massive towers Of its cathedral overtopping all, greeted his sight. Some weary paces more, And as the twilight deepened in the streets, He stood within the minster. How serene, In sculptured calm of centuries, it seemed! How cool and spacious all the dim-lit aisles, Still hazy with fumes of frankincense! The vesper had been said, yet here and there A wrinkled beldam, or mourner veiled, Or burly burgher on the cold floor knelt, And still the organist, with wandering hands, Drew from the keys mysterious melodies, And filled the church with flying waifs of song, That with ethereal beauty moved the soul To a more tender prayer and gentler faith Than choral anthems and the solemn mass. A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness, Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears; Youth's blamelessness and faith forever lost, The love of his neglected lyre, his art, Revived by these aerial harmonies. He was unworthy now to touch the strings, Too base to stir men's soul to ecstasy And high resolves, as in the days agone; And yet, with all his spirit's earnestness, He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands, To utter all the trouble of his life Unto the Muse who understands and helps. Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsiness By dying music and sweet-scented air, His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame. Auroral light the eastern oriels touched, 221 When with delicious sense of rest he woke, Amidst the cast and silent empty aisles. 'God's peace hath fallen upon me in this place; This is my Bethel; here I feel again A holy calm, if not of innocence, Yet purest after that, the calm serene Of expiation and forgiveness.' He spake, and passed with staff and wallet forth Through the tall portal to the open square, And turning, paused to look upon the pile. The northern front against the crystal sky Loomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade, With each projecting buttress, carven cross, Gable and mullion, tipped with laughing light By the slant sunbeams of the risen morn. The noisy swallows wheeled above their nests, Builded in hidden nooks about the porch. No human life was stirring in the square, Save now and then a rumbling market-team, Fresh from the fields and farms without the town. He knelt upon the broad cathedral steps, And kissed the moistened stone, while overhead The circling swallows sang, and all around The mighty city lay asleep and still. To stranger's ears must yet again be made The terrible confession; yet again A deathly chill, with something worse than fear, Seized the knight's heart, who knew his every word Widened the gulf between his kind and him. The Bishop sat with pomp of mitred head, In pride of proven virtue, hearkening to all With cold, official apathy, nor made A sign of pity nor encouragement. The friar understood the pilgrim's grief, The language of his eyes; his speech alone Was alien to these kind, untutored ears. But this was truly to be misconstrued, To tear each palpitating word alive From out the depths of his remorseful soul, And have it weighed with the precision cool And the nice logic of a reasoning mind. 222 This spiritual Father judged his crime As the mad mischief of a reckless boy, That call for strict, immediate punishment. But Tannhauser, who felt himself a man, Though base, yet fallen through passions and rare gifts Of an exuberant nature rankly rich, And knew his weary head was growing gray With a life's terrible experience, Found his old sense of proper worth revive; But modestly he ended: 'Yet I felt, O holy Father, in the church, this morn, A strange security, a peace serene, As though e'en yet the Lord regarded me With merciful compassion; yea, as though Even so vile a worm as I might work Mine own salvation, through repentant prayers.' 'Presumptuous man, it is no easy task To expiate such sin; a space of prayer That deprecates the anger of the Lord, A pilgrimage through pleasant summer lands, May not atone for years of impious lust; Thy heart hath lied to thee in offering hope.' 'Is there no hope on earth?' the pilgrim sighed. 'None through thy penance,' said the saintly man. 'Yet there may be through mediation, help. There is a man who by a blameless life Hath won the right to intercede with God. No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,The Cardinal Filippo,-he abides, Within the Holy City. Seek him out; This is my only counsel,-through thyself Can be no help and no forgiveness.' How different from the buoyant joy of morn Was this discouraged sense of lassitude, The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears, Measured and pitiless, and blent with these, The memory of the goddess' last wild cry,'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE.' Was it the truth, despite his penitence, And the dedication of his thought to God, That still some portion of himself was hers, 223 Some lust survived, some criminal regret, For her corrupted love? He searched his heart: All was remorse, religious and sincere, And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him; For all men shunned him, and denied him help, Knowing at once in looking on his face, Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old, That he had struggled with some deadly fiend, And that he was no longer kin to them. Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped, To strengthen will and courage to proceed. The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets, But now the lessening clouds were flying east, And though the gentle shower still wet his face, The west was cloudless while the sun went down, And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth, Against the opposite dull gray. There was A beauty in the mingled storm and peace, Beyond clear sunshine, as the vast, green fields Basked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain. The roar of all the town was now a buzz Less than the insects' drowsy murmuring That whirred their gauzy wings around his head. The breeze that follows on the sunsetting Was blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping grass Into the heated city. But he stood, Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin, Still wrestling with his soul to win it back From her who claimed it to eternity. Then on the delicate air there came to him The intonation of the minster bells, Chiming the vespers, musical and faint. He knew not what of dear and beautiful There was in those familiar peals, that spake Of his first boyhood and his innocence, Leading him back, with gracious influence, To pleasant thoughts and tender memories, And last, recalling the fair hour of hope He passed that morning in the church. Again, The glad assurance of God's boundless love Filled all his being, and he rose serene, And journeyed forward with a calm content. 224 Southward he wended, and the landscape took A warmer tone, the sky a richer light. The gardens of the graceful, festooned with hops, With their slight tendrils binding pole to pole, Gave place to orchards and the trellised grape, The hedges were enwreathed with trailing vines, With clustering, shapely bunches, 'midst the growth Of tangled greenery. The elm and ash Less frequent grew than cactus, cypresses, And golden-fruited or large-blossomed trees. The far hills took the hue of the dove's breast, Veiled in gray mist of olive groves. No more He passed dark, moated strongholds of grim knights, But terraces with marble-paven steps, With fountains leaping in the sunny air, And hanging gardens full of sumptuous bloom. Then cloisters guarded by their dead gray walls, Where now and then a golden globe of fruit Or full-flushed flower peered out upon the road, Nodding against the stone, and where he heard Sometimes the voices of the chanting monks, Sometimes the laugh of children at their play, Amidst the quaint, old gardens. But these sights Were in the suburbs of the wealthy towns. For many a day through wildernesses rank, Or marshy, feverous meadow-lands he fared, The fierce sun smiting his close-muffled head; Or 'midst the Alpine gorges faced the storm, That drave adown the gullies melted snow And clattering boulders from the mountain-tops. At times, between the mountains and the sea Fair prospects opened, with the boundless stretch Of restless, tideless water by his side, And their long wash upon the yellow sand. Beneath this generous sky the country-folk Could lead a freer life,-the fat, green fields Offered rich pasturage, athwart the air Rang tinkling cow-bells and the shepherds' pipes. The knight met many a strolling troubadour, Bearing his cithern, flute, or dulcimer; And oft beneath some castle's balcony, 225 At night, he heard their mellow voices rise, Blent with stringed instruments or tambourines, Chanting some lay as natural as a bird's. Then Nature stole with healthy influence Into his thoughts; his love of beauty woke, His Muse inspired dreams as in the past. But after this came crueler remorse, And he would tighten round his loins the rope, And lie for hours beside some wayside cross, And feel himself unworthy to enjoy The splendid gift and privilege of life. Then forth he hurried, spurred by his desire To reach the City of the Seven Hills, And gain his absolution. Some leagues more Would bring him to the vast Campagna land, When by a roadside well he paused to rest. 'T was noon, and reapers in the field hard by Lay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched grass. But from their midst one came towards the well, Not trudging like a man forespent with toil, But frisking like a child at holiday, With light steps. The pilgrim watched him come, And found him scarcely older than a child, A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand, And a guitar upon his shoulder slung. A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade, But doffing this, to catch whatever breeze Might stir among the branches, he disclosed A charming head of rippled, auburn hair, A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girls, With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine's. Above his head he slipped the instrument, And laid it with his hat upon the turf, Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool, And drew it dripping upward, ere he saw The watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought) The precious draught. 'Your pardon, holy sir, Drink first,' he cried, 'before I take the jar Unto my father in the reaping-field.' Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad, The pilgrim answered,-'Thanks, my thirst is quenched From mine own palm.' The stranger deftly poised 226 The brimming pitcher on his head, and turned Back to the reaping-folk, while Tannhauser Looked after him across the sunny fields, Clasping each hand about his waist to bear The balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, found The lad's guitar near by, and fell at once To striking its tuned string with wandering hands, And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams. 'Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing, And yet I love it, for I make it speak.' The boy again stood by him and dispelled His train of fantasies half sweet, half sad. 'That was not in my thought,' the knight replied. 'Its worth is more than rubies; whoso hath The art to make this speak is raised thereby Above all loneliness or grief or fear.' More to himself than to the lad he spake, Who, understanding not, stood doubtfully At a loss for answer; but the knight went on: 'How came it in your hands, and who hath tuned your voice to follow it.' 'I am unskilled, Good father, but my mother smote its strings To music rare.' Diverted from one theme, Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy, The knight encouraged him to confidence; Then his own gift of minstrelsy revealed, And told bright tales of his first wanderings, When in lords' castles and kings' palaces Men still made place for him, for in his land The gift was rare and valued at its worth, And brought great victory and sounding fame. Thus, in retracing all his pleasant youth, His suffering passed as though it had not been. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed the boy gave ear, His fair face flushing with the sudden thoughts That went and came,-then, as the pilgrim ceased, Drew breath and spake: 'And where now is your lyre?' The knight with both hands hid his changed, white face, Crying aloud, 'Lost! lost! forever lost!' Then, gathering strength, he bared his face again Unto the frightened, wondering boy, and rose With hasty fear. 'Ah, child, you bring me back 227 Unwitting to remembrance of my grief, For which I donned eternal garb of woe; And yet I owe you thanks for one sweet hour Of healthy human intercourse and peace. 'T is not for me to tarry by the way. Farewell!' The impetuous, remorseful boy, Seeing sharp pain on that kind countenance, Fell at his feet and cried, 'Forgive my words, Witless but innocent, and leave me not Without a blessing.' Moved unutterably, The pilgrim kissed with trembling lips his head, And muttered, 'At this moment would to God That I were worthy!' Then waved wasted hands Over the youth in act of blessing him, But faltered, 'Cleanse me through his innocence, O heavenly Father!' and with quickening steps Hastened away upon the road to Rome. The noon was past, the reapers drew broad swaths With scythes sun-smitten 'midst the ripened crop. Thin shadows of the afternoon slept soft On the green meadows as the knight passed forth. He trudged amidst the sea of poisonous flowers On the Campagna's undulating plain, With Rome, the many-steepled, many-towered, Before him regnant on her throne of hills. A thick blue cloud of haze o'erhung the town, But the fast-sinking sun struck fiery light From shining crosses, roofs, and flashing domes. Across his path an arching bridge of stone Was raised above a shrunken yellow stream, Hurrying with the light on every wave Towards the great town and outward to the sea. Upon the bridge's crest he paused, and leaned Against the barrier, throwing back his cowl, And gazed upon the dull, unlovely flood That was the Tiber. Quaggy banks lay bare, Muddy and miry, glittering in the sun, And myriad insects hovered o'er the reeds, Whose lithe, moist tips by listless airs were stirred. When the low sun had dropped behind the hills, He found himself within the streets of Rome, 228 Walking as in a sleep, where naught seemed real. The chattering hubbub of the market-place Was over now; but voices smote his ear Of garrulous citizens who jostled past. Loud cries, gay laughter, snatches of sweet song, The tinkling fountains set in gardens cool About the pillared palaces, and blent With trickling of the conduits in the squares, The noisy teams within the narrow streets,All these the stranger heard and did not hear, While ringing bells pealed out above the town, And calm gray twilight skies stretched over it. Wide open stood the doors of every church, And through the porches pressed a streaming throng. Vague wonderment perplexed him, at the sight Of broken columns raised to Jupiter Beside the cross, immense cathedrals reared Upon a dead faith's ruins; all the whirl And eager bustle of the living town Filling the storied streets, whose very stones Were solemn monuments, and spake of death. Although he wrestled with himself, the thought Of that poor, past religion smote his heart With a huge pity and deep sympathy, Beyond the fervor which the Church inspired. Where was the noble race who ruled the world, Moulded of purest elements, and stuffed With sternest virtues, every man a king, Wearing the purple native in his heart? These lounging beggars, stealthy monks and priests, And womanish patricians filled their place. Thus Tannhauser, still half an infidel, Pagan through mind and Christian through the heart, Fared thoughtfully with wandering, aimless steps, Till in the dying glimmer of the day He raised his eyes and found himself alone Amid the ruined arches, broken shafts, And huge arena of the Coliseum. He did not see it as it was, dim-lit By something less than day and more than night, With wan reflections of the rising moon Rather divined than seen on ivied walls, 229 And crumbled battlements, and topless columnsBut by the light of all the ancient days, Ringed with keen eager faces, living eyes, Fixed on the circus with a savage joy, Where brandished swords flashed white, and human blood Streamed o'er the thirsty dust, and Death was king. He started, shuddering, and drew breath to see The foul pit choked with weeds and tumbled stones, The cross raised midmost, and the peaceful moon Shining o'er all; and fell upon his knees, Restored to faith in one wise, loving God. Day followed day, and still he bode in Rome, Waiting his audience with the Cardinal, And from the gates, on pretext frivolous, Passed daily forth,-his Eminency slept,Again, his Eminency was fatigued By tedious sessions of the Papal court, And thus the patient pilgrim was referred Unto a later hour. At last the page Bore him a missive with Filippo's seal, That in his name commended Tannhauser Unto the Pope. The worn, discouraged knight Read the brief scroll, then sadly forth again, Along the bosky alleys of the park, Passed to the glare and noise of summer streets. 'Good God!' he muttered, 'Thou hast ears for all, And sendest help and comfort; yet these men, Thy saintly ministers, must deck themselves With arrogance, and from their large delight In all the beauty of the beauteous earth, And peace of indolent, untempted souls, Deny the hungry outcast a bare word.' Yet even as he nourished bitter thoughts, He felt a depth of clear serenity, Unruffled in his heart beneath it all. No outward object now had farther power To wound him there, for the brooding o'er those deeps Of vast contrition was boundless hope. Yet not to leave a human chance untried, He sought the absolution of the Pope. In a great hall with airy galleries, 230 Thronged with high dignitaries of the Church, He took his seat amidst the humblest friars. Through open windows came sweet garden smells, Bright morning light, and twittered song of birds. Around the hall flashed gold and sunlit gems, And splendid wealth of color,-white-stoled priests, And scarlet cardinals, and bishops clad In violet vestments,-while beneath the shade Of the high gallery huddled dusky shapes, With faded, travel-tattered, sombre smocks, And shaven heads, and girdles of coarse hemp; Some, pilgrims penitent like Tannhauser; Some, devotees to kiss the sacred feet. The brassy blare of trumpets smote the air, Shrill pipes and horns with swelling clamor came, And through the doorway's wide-stretched tapestries Passed the Pope's trumpeters and mace-bearers, His vergers bearing slender silver wands, Then mitred bishops, red-clad cardinals, The stalwart Papal Guard with halberds raised, And then, with white head crowned with gold ingemmed, The vicar of the lowly Galilean, Holding his pastoral rod of smooth-hewn wood, With censer swung before and peacock fans Waved constantly by pages, either side. Attended thus, they bore him to his throne, And priests and laymen fell upon their knees. Then, after pause of brief and silent prayer, The pilgrims singly through the hall defiled, To kiss the borders of the papal skirts, Smiting their foreheads on the paven stone; Some silent, abject, some accusing them Of venial sins in accents of remorse, Craving his grace, and passing pardoned forth. Sir Tannhauser came last, no need for him To cry 'Peccavi,' and crook suppliant knees. His gray head rather crushed than bowed, his face Livid and wasted, his deep thoughtful eyes, His tall gaunt form in those unseemly weeds, Spake more than eloquence. His hollow voice Brake silence, saying, 'I am Tannhauser. For seven years I lived apart from men, 231 Within the Venusberg.' A horror seized The assembled folk; some turbulently rose; Some clamored, 'From the presence cast him forth!' But the knight never ceased his steady gaze Upon the Pope. At last,-'I have not spoken To be condemned,' he said, 'by such as these. Thou, spiritual Father, answer me. Look thou upon me with the eyes of Christ. Can I through expiation gain my shrift, And work mine own redemption?' 'Insolent man!' Thundered the outraged Pope, 'is this the tone Wherewith thou dost parade thy loathsome sin? Down on thy knees, and wallow on the earth! Nay, rather go! there is no ray of hope, No gleam, through cycles of eternity, For the redemption of a soul like thine. Yea, sooner shall my pastoral rod branch forth In leaf and blossom, and green shoots of spring, Than Christ will pardon thee.' And as he spoke, He struck the rod upon the floor with force That gave it entrance 'twixt two loosened tiles, So that it stood, fast-rooted and alone. The knight saw naught, he only heard his judge Ring forth his curses, and the court cry out 'Anathema!' and loud, and blent therewith, Derisive laughter in the very hall, And a wild voice that thrilled through flesh and heart: 'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE!' Half-mad he clasped both hands upon his brow, Amidst the storm of voices, till they died, And all was silence, save the reckless song Of a young bird upon a twig without. Then a defiant, ghastly face he raised, And shrieked, ''T is false! I am no longer thine!' And through the windows open to the park, Rushed forth, beyond the sight and sound of men. By church nor palace paused he, till he passed All squares and streets, and crossed the bridge of stone, And stood alone amidst the broad expanse Of the Campagna, twinkling in the heat. He knelt upon a knoll of turf, and snapped 232 The cord that held the cross about his neck, And far from him the leaden burden flung. 'O God! I thank Thee, that my faith in Thee Subsists at last, through all discouragements. Between us must no type nor symbol stand, No mediator, were he more divine Than the incarnate Christ. All forms, all priests, I part aside, and hold communion free Beneath the empty sky of noon, with naught Between my nothingness and thy high heavensSpirit with spirit. O, have mercy, God! Cleanse me from lust and bitterness and pride, Have mercy in accordance with my faith.' Long time he lay upon the scorching grass, With his face buried in the tangled weeds. Ah! who can tell the struggles of his soul Against its demons in that sacred hour, The solitude, the anguish, the remorse? When shadows long and thin lay on the ground, Shivering with fever, helpless he arose, But with a face divine, ineffable, Such as we dream the face of Israel, When the Lord's wrestling angel, at gray dawn, Blessed him, and disappeared. Upon the marsh, All night, he wandered, striving to emerge From the wild, pathless plain,-now limitless And colorless beneath the risen moon; Outstretching like a sea, with landmarks none, Save broken aqueducts and parapets, And ruined columns glinting 'neath the moon. His dress was dank and clinging with the dew; A thousand insects fluttered o'er his head, With buzz and drone; unseen cicadas chirped Among the long, rank grass, and far and near The fire-flies flickered through the summer air. Vague thoughts and gleams prophetic filled his brain. 'Ah, fool!' he mused, 'to look for help from men. Had they the will to aid, they lack the power. In mine own flesh and soul the sin had birth, Through mine own anguish it must be atoned. Our saviours are not saints and ministers, 233 But tear-strung women, children soft of heart, Or fellow-sufferers, who, by some chance word, Some glance of comfort, save us from despair. These I have found, thank heaven! to strengthen trust In mine own kind, when all the world grew dark. Make me not proud in spirit, O my God! Yea, in thy sight I am one mass of sin, One black and foul corruption, yet I know My frailty is exceeded by thy love. Neither is this the slender straw of hope, Whereto I, drowning, cling, but firm belief, That fills my inmost soul with vast content. As surely as the hollow faiths of old Shriveled to dust before one ray of Truth, So will these modern temples pass away, Piled upon rotten doctrines, baseless forms, And man will look in his own breast for help, Yea, search for comfort his own inward reins, Revere himself, and find the God within. Patience and patience!' Through the sleepless night He held such thoughts; at times before his eyes Flashed glimpses of the Church that was to be, Sublimely simple in the light serene Of future ages; then the vision changed To the Pope's hall, thronged with high priests, who hurled Their curses on him. Staggering, he awoke Unto the truth, and found himself alone, Beneath the awful stars. When dawn's first chill Crept though the shivering grass and heavy leaves, Giddy and overcome, he fell and slept Upon the dripping weeds, nor dreamed nor stirred, Until the wide plain basked in noon's broad light. He dragged his weary frame some paces more, Unto a solitary herdsman's hut, Which, in the vagueness of the moonlit night, Was touched with lines of beauty, till it grew Fair as the ruined works of ancient art, Now squat and hideous with its wattled roof, Decaying timbers, and loose door wide oped, Half-fallen from the hinge. A drowsy man, Bearded and burnt, in shepherd habit lay, Stretched on the floor, slow-munching, half asleep, 234 His frugal fare; for thus, at blaze of noon, The shepherds sought a shelter from the sun, Leaving their vigilant dogs beside their flock. The knight craved drink and bread, and with respect For pilgrim weeds, the Roman herdsman stirred His lazy length, and shared with him his meal. Refreshed and calm, Sir Tannhauser passed forth, Yearning with morbid fancy once again To see the kind face of the minstrel boy He met beside the well. At set of sun He reached the place; the reaping-folk were gone, The day's toil over, yet he took his seat. A milking-girl with laden buckets full, Came slowly from the pasture, paused and drank. From a near cottage ran a ragged boy, And filled his wooden pail, and to his home Returned across the fields. A herdsman came, And drank and gave his dog to drink, and passed, Greeting the holy man who sat there still, Awaiting. But his feeble pulse beat high When he descried at last a youthful form, Crossing the field, a pitcher on his head, Advancing towards the well. Yea, this was he, The same grave eyes, and open, girlish face. But he saw not, amidst the landscape brown, The knight's brown figure, who, to win his ear, Asked the lad's name. 'My name is Salvator, To serve you, sir,' he carelessly replied, With eyes and hands intent upon his jar, Brimming and bubbling. Then he cast one glance Upon his questioner, and left the well, Crying with keen and sudden sympathy, 'Good Father, pardon me, I knew you not. Ah! you have travelled overmuch: your feet Are grimed with mud and wet, your face is changed, Your hands are dry with fever.' But the knight: 'Nay, as I look on thee, I think the Lord Wills not that I should suffer any more.' 'Then you have suffered much,' sighed Salvator, With wondering pity. 'You must come with me; My father knows of you, I told him all. A knight and minstrel who cast by his lyre, 235 His health and fame, to give himself to God,Yours is a life indeed to be desired! If you will lie with us this night, our home Will verily be blessed.' By kindness crushed, Wandering in sense and words, the broken knight Resisted naught, and let himself be led To the boy's home. The outcast and accursed Was welcomed now by kindly human hands; Once more his blighted spirit was revived By contact with refreshing innocence. There, when the morning broke upon the world, The humble hosts no longer knew their guest. His fleshly weeds of sin forever doffed, Tannhauser lay and smiled, for in the night The angel came who brings eternal peace. __________ Far into Wartburg, through all Italy, In every town the Pope sent messengers, Riding in furious haste; among them, one Who bore a branch of dry wood burst in bloom; The pastoral rod had borne green shoots of spring, And leaf and blossom. God is merciful. ~ Emma Lazarus,

1423:1. Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. 2. When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes. All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony - and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea. I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence. I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach. Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord. 3. I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement. The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on. My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master! 4. Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living touch is upon all my limbs. I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind. I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart. And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act. 5. I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure. 6. Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust. I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by. Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time. 7. My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers. My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music. 8. The child who is decked with prince's robes and who has jewelled chains round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at every step. In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from the world, and is afraid even to move. Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keeps one shut off from the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great fair of common human life. 9. O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come beg at thy own door! Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look behind in regret. Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath. It is unholy - take not thy gifts through its unclean hands. Accept only what is offered by sacred love. 10. Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost. 11. Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee! He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust. Put of thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil! Deliverance? Where is this deliverance to be found? Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all for ever. Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense! What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow. 12. The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long. I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet. It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune. The traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said 'Here art thou!' The question and the cry 'Oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance 'I am!' 13. The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day. I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument. The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart. The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by. I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house. The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house. I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet. 14. My desires are many and my cry is pitiful, but ever didst thou save me by hard refusals; and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through. Day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple, great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked - this sky and the light, this body and the life and the mind - saving me from perils of overmuch desire. There are times when I languidly linger and times when I awaken and hurry in search of my goal; but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me. Day by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by refusing me ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire. 15. I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of thine I have a corner seat. In thy world I have no work to do; my useless life can only break out in tunes without a purpose. When the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of midnight, command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing. When in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me, commanding my presence. 16. I have had my invitation to this world's festival, and thus my life has been blessed. My eyes have seen and my ears have heard. It was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument, and I have done all I could. Now, I ask, has the time come at last when I may go in and see thy face and offer thee my silent salutation? 17. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. That is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions. They come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but I evade them ever, for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. People blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in their blame. The market day is over and work is all done for the busy. Those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. 18. Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone? In the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope. If thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I am to pass these long, rainy hours. I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind. 19. If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience. The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky. Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves. 20. On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded. Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind. That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion. I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart. 21. I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore - Alas for me! The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger. The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall. What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore? 22. In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps, thou walkest, silent as night, eluding all watchers. Today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn over the ever-wakeful blue sky. The woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors are all shut at every house. Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house - do not pass by like a dream. 23. Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair. I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend! I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path! By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend? 24. If the day is done, if birds sing no more, if the wind has flagged tired, then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me, even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk. From the traveller, whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended, whose garment is torn and dustladen, whose strength is exhausted, remove shame and poverty, and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night. 25. In the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without struggle, resting my trust upon thee. Let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship. It is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening. 26. He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me! He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies. Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep? 27. Light, oh where is the light? Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame - is such thy fate, my heart? Ah, death were better by far for thee! Misery knocks at thy door, and her message is that thy lord is wakeful, and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night. The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless. I know not what this is that stirs in me - I know not its meaning. A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight, and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me. Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The night is black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life. 28. Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them. Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed. I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room. The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love. My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted. 29. He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being. 30. I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark? I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not. He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter. He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company. 31. 'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?' 'It was my master,' said the prisoner. 'I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bad that was for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.' 'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?' 'It was I,' said the prisoner, 'who forged this chain very carefully. I thought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a freedom undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked at the chain with huge fires and cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and the links were complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its grip.' 32. By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love. 33. When it was day they came into my house and said, 'We shall only take the smallest room here.' They said, 'We shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly accept only our own share in his grace'; and then they took their seat in a corner and they sat quiet and meek. But in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shrine, strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from God's altar. 34. Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all. Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every moment. Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee. Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will, and thy purpose is carried out in my life - and that is the fetter of thy love. 35. Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action- Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. 36. This is my prayer to thee, my lord - strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart. Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows. Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service. Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might. Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles. And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love. 37. I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my power, - that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders. 38. That I want thee, only thee - let my heart repeat without end. All desires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core. As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry - 'I want thee, only thee'. As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry is - 'I want thee, only thee'. 39. When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder. 40. The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The horizon is fiercely naked - not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower. Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end. But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair. Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the mother on the day of the father's wrath. 41. Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly empty. The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not. Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart. I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour of thy coming - all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze. But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing? 42. Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to no country and to no end. In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words. Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests. Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night? 43. The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment of my life. And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten. Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and the steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing from star to star. 44. This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer. Messengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along the road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze is sweet. From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that of a sudden the happy moment will arrive when I shall see. In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air is filling with the perfume of promise. 45. Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes. Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes. Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always proclaimed, 'He comes, comes, ever comes.' In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes, ever comes. In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he comes, comes, ever comes. In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine. - 46. I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye. In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret. I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart. It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence. 47. The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him - forbid him not. If the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door. Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish. Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of sleep. Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. And let my return to myself be immediate return to him. 48. The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened our pave more and more as the time sped by. The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation - in the shadow of a dim delight. The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs. At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard! 49. You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door. I was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. You came down and stood at my cottage door. Masters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours. But the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. One plaintive little strain mingled with the great music of the world, and with a flower for a prize you came down and stopped at my cottage door. 50. I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I wondered who was this King of all kings! My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in the dust. The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last. Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say 'What hast thou to give to me?' Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee. But how great my surprise when at the day's end I emptied my bag on the floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I bitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all. 51. The night darkened. Our day's works had been done. We thought that the last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut. Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said 'No, it cannot be!' It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said, 'It is the messenger!' We laughed and said 'No, it must be the wind!' There came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was the distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled us in our sleep. Only some said it was the sound of wheels. We said in a drowsy murmur, 'No, it must be the rumbling of clouds!' The night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came 'Wake up! delay not!' We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with fear. Some said, 'Lo, there is the king's flag!' We stood up on our feet and cried 'There is no time for delay!' The king has come - but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is the throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the decorations? Someone has said, 'Vain is this cry! Greet him with empty hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!' Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our king of the fearful night. 52. I thought I should ask of thee - but I dared not - the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two. Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spread itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, 'Woman, what hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water - it is thy dreadful sword. I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine. From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world. From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me! 53. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset. It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earty sense with one fierce flash. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or think of. 54. I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou took'st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. They called me and shouted, 'Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.' But I languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings. I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when they fell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low - 'Ah, I am a thirsty traveller.' I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came from the bend of the road. I stood speecess with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, what had I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that I could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think. 55. Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes. Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain! At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken! What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun - what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst - Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours, will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain? 56. Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast come down to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if I were not? Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is the endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking shape. And for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in beauty to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two. 57. Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light! Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth. The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion. Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad. 58. Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song - the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word. 59. Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart - this golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing across the sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead. The morning light has flooded my eyes - this is thy message to my heart. Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart has touched thy feet. 60. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the patess sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children. 61. The sleep that flits on baby's eyes - does anybody know from where it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby's eyes. The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps - does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning - the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps. The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs - does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love - the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs. 62. When I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints - when I give coloured toys to you, my child. When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth - when I sing to make you dance. When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice - when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands. When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body - when I kiss you to make you smile. 63. Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of many. 64. On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her, 'Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light!' she raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. 'I have come to the river,' she said, 'to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.' I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide. In the silence of gathering night I asked her, 'Maiden, your lights are all lit - then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light.' She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful. 'I have come,' she said at last, 'to dedicate my lamp to the sky.' I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void. In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, 'Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and lonesome- - lend me your light.' She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark. 'I have brought my light,' she said, 'to join the carnival of lamps.' I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights. 65. What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life? My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony? Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me. 66. She who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song. Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart. many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair. There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition. 67. Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word. 68. Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and stands at my door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs and songs. With fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring it with hues everchanging. It is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it, O thou spotless and serene. And that is why it may cover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows. 69. The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment. 70. Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy? All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back, they rush on. Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away - colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment. 71. That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus casting coloured shadows on thy radiance - such is thy maya. Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me. The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again, dreams break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self. This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures with the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of straightness. The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me. 72. He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. He it is who weaves the web of this maya in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his feet, at whose touch I forget myself. Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow. 73. Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple. No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love. 74. The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher. The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river. I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute. 75. Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished. The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet. The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is to offer itself to thee. Thy worship does not impoverish the world. From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last meaning points to thee. 76. Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee face to face. Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face. In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face. And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone and speecess shall I stand before thee face to face. 77. I know thee as my God and stand apart - I do not know thee as my own and come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet- I do not grasp thy hand as my friend's. I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade. Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee. In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life. 78. When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang 'Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!' But one cried of a sudden - 'It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.' The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they cried in dismay - 'Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of all heavens!' From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy! Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among themselves - 'Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!' 79. If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me - let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. 80. I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee. If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders. And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent. 81. On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands. Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness. I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers. 82. Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chances. We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find that yet there is time. 83. Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow. The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast. Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace. 84. It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky. It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July. It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart. 85. When the warriors came out first from their master's hall, where had they hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms? They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them on the day they came out from their master's hall. When the warriors marched back again to their master's hall where did they hide their power? They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them on the day they marched back again to their master's hall. 86. Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and brought thy call to my home. The night is dark and my heart is fearful - yet I will take up the lamp, open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands at my door. I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart. He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee. 87. In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find her not. My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained. But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to thy door. I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face. I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish - no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe. 88. Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of Vina sing no more your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air is still and silent about you. In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the tidings of flowers - the flowers that for your worship are offered no more. Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. In the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart. Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit. Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the holy stream of oblivion when their time is come. Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deatess neglect. 89. No more noisy, loud words from me - such is my master's will. Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. Men hasten to the King's market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work. Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time; and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence! 90. On the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to him? Oh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life - I will never let him go with empty hands. All the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the earnings and gleanings of my busy life will I place before him at the close of my days when death will knock at my door. 91. O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper to me! Day after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life. All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine eyes and my life will be ever thine own. The flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the bridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night. 92. I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes. Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains. When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures. Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives. Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got - let them pass. Let me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked. 93. I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door - and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am ready for my journey. 94. At this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is flushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful. Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with empty hands and expectant heart. I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of the traveller, and though there are dangers on the way I have no fear in mind. The evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the King's gateway. 95. I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight! When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation. 96. When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am I blessed - let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I caught sight of him that is formless. My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come - let this be my parting word. 97. When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous. In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own comrade and lead me running from glade to glade. On those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest to me. Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their cadence. Now, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come upon me? The world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its silent stars. 98. I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in my power to escape unconquered. I surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow reed, and the stone will melt in tears. I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for ever and the secret recess of its honey will be bared. From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence. Nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I receive at thy feet. 99. When I give up the helm I know that the time has come for thee to take it. What there is to do will be instantly done. Vain is this struggle. Then take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my heart, and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you are placed. These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to light them I forget all else again and again. But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on the floor; and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and take thy seat here. 100. I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. No more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten boat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves. And now I am eager to die into the deatess. Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life. I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent. 101. Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and touching my world. It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they showed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of my heart. They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have the brought me in the evening at the end of my journey? 102. I boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all works of mine. They come and ask me, 'Who is he?' I know not how to answer them. I say, 'Indeed, I cannot tell.' They blame me and they go away in scorn. And you sit there smiling. I put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my heart. They come and ask me, 'Tell me all your meanings.' I know not how to answer them. I say, 'Ah, who knows what they mean!' They smile and go away in utter scorn. And you sit there smiling. 103. In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet. Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee. Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee. Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee. In the introduction to Gitanjali, W.B Yeats says of Tagores poetry. At every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. An innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali ,

1424:Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric Dramatis Personae HUGO, a Norman Baron and a Scholar. ERIC, a friend of Hugo's. THURSTON, | EUSTACE, | RALPH, | Followers of Hugo. HENRY, a Page. LUKE, | HUBERT, | Monks living in a Norman Chapel. BASIL, Abbot of a Convent on the Rhine. CYRIL, a Monk of the same Convent. OSRIC, a Norwegian Adventurer, and formerly a Corsair. RUDOLPH, an Outlawed Count, and the Captain of a Band of Robbers. DAGOBERT, the Captain of some predatory Soldiers called "Free Lances". HAROLD, a Danish Knight. ORION. THORA, AGATHA, ELSPETH, a Nurse of Thora's, URSULA, Abbess of the Convent on the Rhine, | NUNS, etc. | Women. Men-at-arms, Soldiers, and Robbers; Monks, Friars, and Churchmen, Spirits, etc. SCENE — A Castle in Normandy. A Study in a Tower; HUGO seated at a table covered with maps and charts of the heavens, astronomical instruments, books, manuscripts, Enter HENRY, a Page. Hugo: Well, boy, what is it? 27 Henry: The feast is spread. Hugo: Why tarry the guests for me? Let Eric sit at the table's head; Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] What share have I at their festive board? Their mirth I can only mar; To me no pleasure their cups afford, Their songs on my silence jar. With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, And yet with a hopeful heart, I must toil and strain with the planets again When the rays of the sun depart; He who must needs with the topers tope, And the feasters feast in the hall, How can he hope with a matter to cope That is immaterial? Orion: He who his appetite stints and curbs, Shut up in the northern wing, With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, And his draught from the tasteless spring, Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. There are some good things upon earth — Pleasure and power and fair renown, And wisdom of worldly worth! There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, In follies that light the eyes, But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence Is alone by the fool termed wise. Hugo: Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; Perchance, having jeer'd and scoff'd To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; I wot thou hast served me oft. This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; What errors canst thou detect? 28 Orion: Nay, the constellations are misplaced, And the satellites incorrect; Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek An hour of needful rest, The night is young and the planets are weak; See, the sun still reddens the west. Hugo: I fear I shall sleep too long. Orion: If you do It matters not much; the sky Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; Now, list to my lullaby. [Hugo reclines on a couch.] (Sings.) Still the darkling skies are red, Though the day-god's course is run; Heavenly night-lamps overhead Flash and twinkle one by one. Idle dreamer — earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? From the tree of knowledge first, Since his parents pluck'd the fruit, Man, with partial knowledge curs'd, Of the tree still seeks the root; Musty volumes crowd thy shelf — Which of these true knowledge brings? Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Will the stars from heaven descend? Can the earth-worm soar and rise? Can the mortal comprehend Heaven's own hallow'd mysteries? Greed and glory, power and pelf — These are won by clowns and kings; Wherefore weariest thou thyself 29 With thy vain imaginings? Sow and reap, and toil and spin; Eat and drink, and dream and die; Man may strive, yet never win, And I laugh the while and cry — Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, Whatever dreams it has brought him — [Looks at the plans.] If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, He's wiser than one who taught him. Why does he number the Pole-star thus? Or the Pleiades why combine? And what is he doing with Sirius, In the devil's name or in mine? Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, That the sins of his youth are slain, When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back To his old pet sins again. SCENE — The Same. HUGO waking, ORION seated near him. Daybreak. Hugo: Oh, weary spirit! oh, cloudy eyes! Oh, heavy and misty brain! Yon riddle that lies 'twixt earth and skies, Ye seek to explore in vain! See, the east is grey; put those scrolls away, And hide them far from my sight; I will toil and study no more by day, I will watch no longer by night; I have labour'd and long'd, and now I seem No nearer the mystic goal; 30 Orion, I fain would devise some scheme To quiet this restless soul; To distant climes I would fain depart — I would travel by sea or land. Orion: Nay, I warn'd you of this, "Short life, long art", The proverb, though stale, will stand; Full many a sage from youth to age Has toil'd to obtain what you Would master at once. In a pilgrimage, Forsooth, there is nothing new; Though virtue, I ween, in change of scene, And vigour in change of air, Will always be, and has always been, And travel is a tonic rare. Still, the restless, discontented mood For the time alone is eased; It will soon return with hunger renew'd, And appetite unappeased. Nathless I could teach a shorter plan To win that wisdom you crave, That lore that is seldom attain'd by man From the cradle down to the grave. Hugo: Such lore I had rather do without, It hath nothing mystic nor awful In my eye. Nay, I despise and doubt The arts that are term'd unlawful; 'Twixt science and magic the line lies plain, I shall never wittingly pass it; There is now no compact between us twain. Orion: But an understanding tacit. You have prospered much since the day we met; You were then a landless knight; You now have honour and wealth, and yet I never can serve you right. Hugo: Enough; we will start this very day, 31 Thurston, Eric, and I, And the baffled visions will pass away, And the restless fires will die. Orion: Till the fuel expires that feeds those fires They smoulder and live unspent; Give a mortal all that his heart desires, He is less than ever content. SCENE — A Cliff on the Breton Coast, Overhanging the Sea. HUGO. Hugo: Down drops the red sun; through the gloaming They burst — raging waves of the sea, Foaming out their own shame — ever foaming Their leprosy up with fierce glee; Flung back from the stone, snowy fountains Of feathery flakes, scarcely flag Where, shock after shock, the green mountains Explode on the iron-grey crag. The salt spray with ceaseless commotion Leaps round me. I sit on the verge Of the cliff — 'twixt the earth and the ocean — With feet overhanging the surge. In thy grandeur, oh, sea! we acknowledge, In thy fairness, oh, earth! we confess, Hidden truths that are taught in no college, Hidden songs that no parchments express. Were they wise in their own generations, Those sages and sagas of old? They have pass'd; o'er their names and their nations Time's billows have silently roll'd; They have pass'd, leaving little to their children, Save histories of a truth far from strict; Or theories more vague and bewildering, 32 Since three out of four contradict. Lost labour! vain bookworms have sat in The halls of dull pedants who teach Strange tongues, the dead lore of the Latin, The scroll that is god-like and Greek: Have wasted life's springtide in learning Things long ago learnt all in vain; They are slow, very slow, in discerning That book lore and wisdom are twain. Pale shades of a creed that was mythic, By time or by truth overcome, Your Delphian temples and Pythic Are ruins deserted and dumb; Your Muses are hush'd, and your Graces Are bruised and defaced; and your gods, Enshrin'd and enthron'd in high places No longer, are powerless as clods; By forest and streamlet, where glisten'd Fair feet of the Naiads that skimm'd The shallows; where the Oreads listen'd, Rose-lipp'd, amber-hair'd, marble-limb'd, No lithe forms disport in the river, No sweet faces peer through the boughs, Elms and beeches wave silent for ever, Ever silent the bright water flows. (Were they duller or wiser than we are, Those heathens of old? Who shall say? Worse or better? Thy wisdom, O "Thea Glaucopis", was wise in thy day; And the false gods alluring to evil, That sway'd reckless votaries then, Were slain to no purpose; they revel Re-crowned in the hearts of us men.) Dead priests of Osiris and Isis, And Apis! that mystical lore, Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisis Of fever, is studied no more; 33 Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spangles The arch of yon firmament vast Looks calm, like a host of white angels, On dry dust of votaries past. On seas unexplored can the ship shun Sunk rocks? Can man fathom life's links, Past or future, unsolved by Egyptian Or Theban, unspoken by Sphinx? The riddle remains still unravell'd By students consuming night oil. Oh, earth! we have toil'd, we have travail'd, How long shall we travail and toil? How long? The short life that fools reckon So sweet, by how much is it higher Than brute life? — the false gods still beckon, And man, through the dust and the mire, Toils onward, as toils the dull bullock, Unreasoning, brutish, and blind, With Ashtaroth, Mammon, and Moloch In front, and Alecto behind. The wise one of earth, the Chaldean, Serves folly in wisdom's disguise; And the sensual Epicurean, Though grosser, is hardly less wise; 'Twixt the former, half pedant, half pagan, And the latter, half sow and half sloth, We halt, choose Astarte or Dagon, Or sacrifice freely to both. With our reason that seeks to disparage, Brute instinct it fails to subdue; With our false illegitimate courage, Our sophistry, vain and untrue; Our hopes that ascend so and fall so, Our passions, fierce hates and hot loves, We are wise (aye, the snake is wise also) — Wise as serpents, NOT harmless as doves. Some flashes, like faint sparks from heaven, 34 Come rarely with rushing of wings; We are conscious at times we have striven, Though seldom, to grasp better things; These pass, leaving hearts that have falter'd, Good angels with faces estranged, And the skin of the Ethiop unalter'd, And the spots of the leopard unchanged. Oh, earth! pleasant earth! have we hanker'd To gather thy flowers and thy fruits? The roses are wither'd, and canker'd The lilies, and barren the roots Of the fig-tree, the vine, the wild olive, Sharp thorns and sad thistles that yield Fierce harvest — so WE live, and SO live The perishing beasts of the field. And withal we are conscious of evil And good — of the spirit and the clod, Of the power in our hearts of a devil, Of the power in our souls of a God, Whose commandments are graven in no cypher, But clear as His sun — from our youth One at least we have cherished — "An eye for An eye, and a tooth for a tooth." Oh, man! of thy Maker the image; To passion, to pride, or to wealth, Sworn bondsman, from dull youth to dim age, Thy portion the fire or the filth, Dross seeking, dead pleasure's death rattle Thy memories' happiest song, And thy highest hope — scarce a drawn battle With dark desperation. How long? Roar louder! leap higher! ye surf-beds, And sprinkle your foam on the furze; Bring the dreams that brought sleep to our turf-beds, To camps of our long ago years, With the flashing and sparkling of broadswords, 35 With the tossing of banners and spears, With the trampling of hard hoofs on hard swards, With the mingling of trumpets and cheers. The gale has gone down; yet outlasting The gale, raging waves of the sea, Casting up their own foam, ever casting Their leprosy up with wild glee, Still storm; so in rashness and rudeness Man storms through the days of his grace; Yet man cannot fathom God's goodness, Exceeding God's infinite space. And coldly and calmly and purely Grey rock and green hillock lie white In star-shine dream-laden — so surely Night cometh — so cometh the night When we, too, at peace with our neighbour, May sleep where God's hillocks are piled, Thanking HIM for a rest from day's labour, And a sleep like the sleep of a child! SCENE — The Castle in Normandy. THORA working at embroidery, ELSPETH spinning. Thora (sings): We severed in autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder'd one misty morning, Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain, Through the flowers those hills adorning — Thou comest not back again. My heart is heavy and weary With the weight of a weary soul; 36 The mid-day glare grows dreary, And dreary the midnight scroll. The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 'Neath the load of the golden grain; I sigh for a mate more fickle — Thou comest not back again. The warm sun riseth and setteth, The night bringeth moistening dew, But the soul that longeth forgetteth The warmth and the moisture too; In the hot sun rising and setting There is naught save feverish pain; There are tears in the night-dews wetting — Thou comest not back again. Thy voice in mine ear still mingles With the voices of whisp'ring trees; Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles At each kiss of the summer breeze; While dreams of the past are thronging For substance of shades in vain, I am waiting, watching, and longing — Thou comest not back again. Waiting and watching ever, Longing and lingering yet, Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, Winds murmur and waters fret; No answer they bring, no greeting, No speech save that sad refrain, Nor voice, save an echo repeating — He cometh not back again. Elspeth: Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max; With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot. If the husbands vanish'd, and left no tracks, Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot? Thora: How well I remember that dreary ride; 37 How I sigh'd for the lands of ice and snow, In the trackless wastes of the desert wide, With the sun o'erhead and the sand below; 'Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms, How I sigh'd for the forest of sheltering firs, Whose shadows environ'd the Danish farms, Where I sang and sported in childish years. On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimage We stayed at the foot of a sandhill high; Our fever'd thirst we could scarce assuage At the brackish well that was nearly dry, And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set, And we rode all the day through a desert land, And we camp'd where the lake and the river met, On sedge and shingle and shining sand: Enfolded in Hugo's cloak I slept, Or watch'd the stars while I lay awake; And close to our feet the staghound crept, And the horses were grazing beside the lake; Now we own castles and serving men, Lands and revenues. What of that? Hugo the Norman was kinder then, And happier was Thora of Armorat. Elspeth: Nay, I warn'd thee, with Norman sails unfurl'd Above our heads, when we wished thee joy, That men are the same all over the world, They will worship only the newest toy; Yet Hugo is kind and constant too, Though somewhat given to studies of late; Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue, And worse than thine is thy sisters' fate. But a shadow darkens the chamber door. Enter THURSTON. Thurston: 'Tis I, Lady Thora; our lord is near. My horse being fresher, I rode before; Both he and Eric will soon be here. 38 Thora: Good Thurston, give me your hand. You are Most welcome. What has delayed you thus? Thurston: Both by sea and land we have travell'd far, Yet little of note has happened to us — We were wreck'd on the shores of Brittany, Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound; The rocks were steep and the surf ran high, Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown'd. By a swarm of knaves we were next beset, Who took us for corsairs; then released By a Breton count, whose name I forget. Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast. [He goes out.] Elspeth: That man is rude and froward of speech: My ears are good, though my sight grows dim. Thora: Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teach Courtly nor servile manners to him. SCENE — The Castle Hall. THURSTON, RALPH, EUSTACE, and other followers of HUGO, seated at a long table. HAROLD seated apart. Thurston: Who is that stranger, dark and tall, On the wooden settle next to the wall — Mountebank, pilgrim, or wandering bard? Eustace: To define his calling is somewhat hard; Lady Thora has taken him by the hand Because he has come from the Holy Land. 39 Pilgrims and palmers are all the rage With her, since she shared in that pilgrimage With Hugo. The stranger came yesterday, And would have gone on, but she bade him stay. Besides, he sings in the Danish tongue The songs she has heard in her childhood sung. That's all I know of him, good or bad; In my own opinion he's somewhat mad. You must raise your voice if you speak with him, And he answers as though his senses were dim. Thurston (to Harold): Good-morrow, sir stranger. Harold: Good-morrow, friend. Thurston: Where do you come from? and whither wend? Harold: I have travelled of late with the setting sun At my back; and as soon as my task is done I purpose to turn my face to the north — Yet we know not what a day may bring forth. Thurston: Indeed we don't. (To Eustace, aside): Nay, I know him now By that ugly scar that crosses his brow; And the less we say to him the better. Your judgment is right to the very letter — The man is mad. Eustace: But harmless, I think; He eats but little, eschews strong drink, And only speaks when spoken to first. Thurston: Harmless or not, he was once the worst And bitterest foe Lord Hugo had; And yet his story is somewhat sad. 40 Eustace: May I hear it? Thurston: Nay, I never reveal What concerns me not. Our lord may conceal Or divulge at pleasure his own affairs, — Not even his comrade Eric shares His secrets; though Eric thinks him wise, Which is more than I do, for I despise That foolish science he learnt in Rome. He dreams and mopes when he sits at home, And now he's not much better abroad; 'Tis hard to follow so tame a lord. 'Twixt us two, he won't be worth a rush If he will persist in his studies —— Eustace: Hush! Ralph has persuaded our guest to sing. Thurston: I have known the day when his voice would ring Till the rafters echoed. Eustace: 'Tis pleasant still, Though far too feeble this hall to fill. Harold (sings): On the current, where the wide Windings of the river Eddy to the North Sea tide, Shall I in my shallop glide, As I have done at her side? Never! never! never! In the forest, where the firs, Pines, and larches quiver To the northern breeze that stirs, Shall my lips be press'd to hers, As they were in by-gone years? Never! never! never! 41 In the battle on the plain, Where the lance-shafts shiver, And the sword-strokes fall like rain, Shall I bear her scarf again As I have done — not in vain? Never! never! never! In a fairer, brighter land, Where the saints rest ever, Shall I once more see her stand, White, amidst a white-robed band, Harp and palm-branch in her hand? Never! never! never! SCENE — The Same. EUSTACE, THURSTON, and followers of HUGO. HAROLD. Enter, by the hall door, HUGO, ERIC, and THORA. Eustace (and others standing up): Welcome, Lord Hugo! Hugo: Welcome or not, Thanks for your greeting all. Ha, Eustace! what complaints hast thou got? What grievances to recall? Eustace: Count William came with a numerous band, Ere the snows began to fall, And slew a buck on your lordship's land, Within a league of the wall. Hugo: Count William has done to us no more Than we to him. In his vineyard Last summer, or later, maybe, a boar Was slaughter'd by Thurston's whinyard. 42 Thurston: Aye, Hugo! But William kept the buck, I will wager marks a score, Though the tale is new to me; and, worse luck, You made me give back the boar. Harold (advancing): Lord Hugo! Hugo: What! Art thou living yet? I scarcely knew thee, Sir Dane! And 'tis not so very long since we met. Harold: 'Twill be long ere we meet again. (gives a letter) This letter was traced by one now dead In the Holy Land; and I Must wait till his dying request is read, And in his name ask the reply. Thora (aside): Who is that stranger, Hugo? Hugo: By birth He is a countryman of thine, Thora. What writing is this on earth? I can scarce decipher a line. Harold: The pen in the clutch of death works ill. Hugo: Nay, I read now; the letters run More clearly. Harold: Wilt grant the request? Hugo: I will. Harold: Enough! Then my task is done. (He holds out his hand.) Hugo, I go to a far-off land, 43 Wilt thou say, "God speed thee!" now? Hugo: Sir Harold, I cannot take thy hand, Because of my ancient vow. Harold: Farewell, then. Thora: Friend, till the morning wait. On so wild a night as this Thou shalt not go from my husband's gate; The path thou wilt surely miss. Harold: I go. Kind lady, some future day Thy care will requited be. Thora: Speak, Hugo, speak. Hugo: He may go or stay, It matters little to me. [Harold goes out.] Thora: Husband, that man is ill and weak; On foot he goes and alone Through a barren moor in a night-storm bleak. Eric: Now I wonder where he has gone! Hugo: Indeed, I have not the least idea; The man is certainly mad. He wedded my sister, Dorothea, And used her cruelly bad. He was once my firmest and surest friend, And once my deadliest foe; But hate and friendship both find their end — Now I heed not where he may go. 44 SCENE — A Chamber in the Castle. HUGO, THORA, and ERIC. Hugo: That letter that came from Palestine, By the hands of yon wandering Dane, Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine. Thora: Wilt thou travel so soon again? Hugo: I can scarce refuse the dying request Of my comrade, Baldwin, now; His bones are dust. May his soul find rest He once made a foolish vow, That at Englemehr, 'neath the watchful care Of the Abbess, his child should stay, For a season at least. To escort her there I must start at the break of day. Thora: Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare? Hugo: Nay, Clare is dwelling in Spain With her spouse. Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair, I am told; but giddy and vain. Eric: Some musty tales on my memory grow Concerning Count Baldwin's vow; Thou knew'st his daughter? Hugo: Aye, years ago. I should scarcely know her now. 45 It seems, when her father's vow was made, She was taken sorely ill; Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd; He could never his oath fulfil. Eric: If rightly I've heard, 'twas Agatha That fled with some Danish knight — I forget the name. Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; She returned again that night. Thora: For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed. Hugo: That is no affair of mine. My task is over, my word fulfilled, Should I bring her safe to the Rhine. Come, Thora, sing. Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, Nor would I now if I could. Sing thou. Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring No sound save a discord rude. (Sings.) Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, The pine lies low in the dust; And the corn is withered and blighted, Where the fields are red with the rust; Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, Where its petals the violet rears, And the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. The strong in their strength are shaken, The wise in their wisdom fall; And the bloom of beauty is taken — Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, 46 They vanish, their lot fulfilling, Their doom approaches and nears, But the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 'Tis the will of a Great Creator, He is wise, His will must be done, And it cometh sooner or later; And one shall be taken, and one Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, In this vale of sorrows and tears, Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Tell me, mine own one, tell me, The shadows of life and the fears Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, While I can avert thy tears: Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling To realise lonely years? Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Enter HENRY. Henry: My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight, He has come on foot from the chapel; Some stranger perished beside his gate When the dawn began to dapple. SCENE — A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo's Castle. HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD. Luke: When the dawn was breaking, Came a faint sound, waking Hubert and myself; we hurried to the door, Found the stranger lying 47 At the threshold, dying. Somewhere have I seen a face like his before. Hugo: Harold he is hight. Only yester-night From our gates he wander'd, in the driving hail; Well his face I know, Both as friend and foe; Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale. Luke: Few the words he said, Faint the signs he made, Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn'd. This is retribution, Seek for absolution; Answer me — then cast thy sorrows to the wind. Do their voices reach thee, Friends who failed to teach thee, In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong? Charges 'gainst thee cited, Cares all unrequited, Counsels spurned and slighted — do they press and throng?" But he shook his head. "'Tis not so," he said; "They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore. If their counsels good, Rashly I withstood; Having suffered longer, I have suffered more." "Do their curses stun thee? Foes who failed to shun thee, Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career, As the barbed arrow Cleaveth bone and marrow, From those chambers narrow — do they pierce thine ear?" And he made reply, Laughing bitterly, "Did I fear them living — shall I fear them dead? Blood that I have spilt Leaveth little guilt; 48 On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head." "Is there one whom thou May'st have wronged ere now, Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart? By some saint in heaven, Sanctified and shriven, Would'st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?" Not a word he said, But he bowed his head Till his temples rested on the chilly sods And we heard him groan — "Ah! mine own, mine own! If I had thy pardon I might ask for God's." Hubert raised him slowly, Sunrise, faint and holy, Lit the dead face, placid as a child's might be. May the troubled spirit, Through Christ's saving merit, Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee. Hugo: God o'erruleth fate. I had cause for hate; In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong, Joined by priestly vows, He became the spouse Of my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong. And he wrought her woe, Making me his foe; Not alone unfaithful — brutal, too, was he. She had scarce been dead Three months, ere he fled With Count Baldwin's daughter, then betrothed to me. Fortune straight forsook him, Vengeance overtook him; Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment. All his strength was shatter'd, Even his wits were scatter'd, Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went. We are unforgiving 49 While our foes are living; Yet his retribution weigh'd so heavily That I feel remorse, Gazing on his corpse, For my rudeness when he left our gates to die. And his grave shall be 'Neath the chestnut tree, Where he met my sister many years ago; Leave that tress of hair On his bosom there — Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go. SCENE — A Room in the Castle. HUGO and ERIC. Early morning. Hugo: The morn is fair, the weary miles Will shorten 'neath the summer's wiles; Pomona in the orchard smiles, And in the meadow, Flora! And I have roused a chosen band For escort through the troubled land; And shaken Elspeth by the hand, And said farewell to Thora. Comrade and kinsman — for thou art Comrade and kin to me — we part Ere nightfall, if at once we start, We gain the dead Count's castle. The roads are fair, the days are fine, Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine. Forsooth, no friend to me or mine Is that same Abbot Basil; I thought he wronged us by his greed. My father sign'd a foolish deed For lack of gold in time of need, And thus our lands went by us; Yet wrong on our side may have been: As far as my will goes, I ween, 'Tis past, the grudge that lay between 50 Us twain. Men call him pious — And I have prosper'd much since then, And gain'd for one lost acre ten; And even the ancient house and glen Rebought with purchase-money. He, too, is wealthy; he has got By churchly rights a fertile spot, A land of corn and wine, I wot, A land of milk and honey. Now, Eric, change thy plans and ride With us; thou hast no ties, no bride. Eric: Nay, ties I have, and time and tide, Thou knowest, wait for no man; And I go north; God's blessing shuns The dwellings of forgetful sons, That proverb he may read who runs, In Christian lore or Roman. My good old mother she hath heard, For twelve long months, from me no word; At thought of her my heart is stirr'd, And even mine eyes grow moister. Greet Ursula from me; her fame Is known to all. A nobler dame, Since days of Clovis, ne'er became The inmate of a cloister. Our paths diverge, yet we may go Together for a league or so; I, too, will join thy band below When thou thy bugle windest. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: From weaknesses we stand afar, On us unpleasantly they jar; And yet the stoutest-hearted are The gentlest and the kindest. My mother loved me tenderly; Alas! her only son was I. I shudder'd, but my lids were dry, By death made orphan newly. 51 A braver man than me, I swear, Who never comprehended fear, Scarce names his mother, and the tear, Unbidden, springs unruly. SCENE — A Road on the Norman Frontiers. HUGO, AGATHA, ORION, THURSTON, and armed attendants, riding slowly. Agatha: Sir Knight, what makes you so grave and glum? At times I fear you are deaf or dumb, Or both. Hugo: And yet, should I speak the truth, There is little in common 'twixt us, forsooth; You would think me duller, and still more vain, If I uttered the thoughts that fill my brain; Since the matters with which my mind is laden Would scarcely serve to amuse a maiden. Agatha: I am so foolish and you are so wise, 'Tis the meaning your words so ill disguise. Alas! my prospects are sad enough: I had rather listen to speeches rough Than muse and meditate silently On the coming loss of my liberty. Sad hope to me can my future bring, Yet, while I may, I would prattle and sing, Though it only were to try and assuage The dreariness of my pilgrimage. Hugo: Prattle and sing to your heart's content, And none will offer impediment. Agatha (sings): We were playmates in childhood, my sister and I, Whose playtime with childhood is done; 52 Through thickets where briar and bramble grew high, Barefooted I've oft seen her run. I've known her, when mists on the moorland hung white, Bareheaded past nightfall remain; She has followed a landless and penniless knight Through battles and sieges in Spain. But I pulled the flower, and shrank from the thorn, Sought the sunshine, and fled from the mist; My sister was born to face hardship with scorn — I was born to be fondled and kiss'd. Hugo (aside): She has a sweet voice. Orion: And a sweet face, too — Be candid for once, and give her her due. Agatha: Your face grows longer, and still more long, Sir Scholar! how did you like my song? Hugo: I thought it rather a silly one. Agatha: You are far from a pleasant companion. SCENE — An Apartment in a Wayside Inn. HUGO and AGATHA. Evening. Hugo: I will leave you now — we have talked enough, And for one so tenderly reared and nursed This journey is wearisome, perhaps, and rough. Agatha: Will you not finish your story first? 53 Hugo: I repent me that I began it now, 'Tis a dismal tale for a maiden's ears; Your cheek is pale already, your brow Is sad, and your eyes are moist with tears. Agatha: It may be thus, I am lightly vexed, But the tears will lightly come and go; I can cry one moment and laugh the next, Yet I have seen terrors, as well you know. I remember that flight through moss and fern, The moonlit shadows, the hoofs that rolled In fierce pursuit, and the ending stern, And the hawk that left his prey on the wold. Hugo: I have sorrowed since that I left you there: Your friends were close behind on the heath, Though not so close as I thought they were. (Aside.) Now I will not tell her of Harold's death. Agatha: 'Tis true, I was justly punished, and men, As a rule, of pity have little share; Had I died you had cared but little then. Hugo: But little then, yet now I should care More than you think for. Now, good-night. Tears still? Ere I leave you, child, alone, Must I dry your cheeks? Agatha: Nay, I am not quite Such a child but what I can dry my own. [Hugo goes out. Agatha retires.] Orion (singing outside the window of Agatha's chamber): 'Neath the stems with blossoms laden, 'Neath the tendrils curling, I, thy servant, sing, oh, maiden! I, thy slave, oh, darling! 54 Lo! the shaft that slew the red deer, At the elk may fly too. Spare them not! The dead are dead, dear, Let the living die too. Where the wiles of serpent mingle, And the looks of dove lie, Where small hands in strong hands tingle, Loving eyes meet lovely: Where the harder natures soften, And the softer harden — Certes! such things have been often Since we left Eve's garden. Sweeter follies herald sadder Sins — look not too closely; Tongue of asp and tooth of adder Under leaf of rose lie. Warned, advised in vain, abandon Warning and advice too, Let the child lay wilful hand on Den of cockatrice too. I, thy servant, or thy master, One or both — no matter; If the former — firmer, faster, Surer still the latter — Lull thee, soothe thee with my singing, Bid thee sleep, and ponder On my lullabies still ringing Through thy dreamland yonder. SCENE — A Wooded Rising Ground, Near the Rhine. HUGO and AGATHA resting under the trees. THURSTON, EUSTACE, and followers a little apart. ORION. (Noonday.) The Towers of the Convent in the distance. Agatha: I sit on the greensward, and hear the bird sing, 55 'Mid the thickets where scarlet and white blossoms cling; And beyond the sweet uplands all golden with flower, It looms in the distance, the grey convent tower. And the emerald earth and the sapphire-hued sky Keep telling me ever my spring has gone by; Ah! spring premature, they are tolling thy knell, In the wind's soft adieu, in the bird's sweet farewell. Oh! why is the greensward with garlands so gay, That I quail at the sight of my prison-house grey? Oh! why is the bird's note so joyous and clear? The caged bird must pine in a cage doubly drear. Hugo: May the lances of Dagobert harry their house, If they coax or intimidate thee to take vows; May the freebooters pillage their shrines, should they dare Touch with their scissors thy glittering hair. Our short and sweet journey now draws to an end, And homeward my sorrowful way I must wend; Oh, fair one! oh, loved one! I would I were free, To squander my life in the greenwood with thee. Orion (aside): Ho! seeker of knowledge, so grave and so wise, Touch her soft curl again — look again in her eyes; Forget for the nonce musty parchments, and learn How the slow pulse may quicken — the cold blood may burn. Ho! fair, fickle maiden, so blooming and shy! The old love is dead, let the old promise die! Thou dost well, thou dost wise, take the word of Orion, "A living dog always before a dead lion!" Thurston: Ye varlets, I would I knew which of ye burst Our wine-skin — what, ho! must I perish with thirst! Go, Henry, thou hast a glib tongue, go and ask Thy lord to send Ralph to yon inn for a flask. Henry: Nay, Thurston, not so; I decline to disturb 56 Our lord for the present; go thou, or else curb Thy thirst, or drink water, as I do. Thurston: Thou knave Of a page, dost thou wish me the colic to have? Orion (aside): That clown is a thoroughbred Saxon. He thinks With pleasure on naught save hard blows and strong drinks; In hell he will scarce go athirst if once given An inkling of any good liquors in heaven. Hugo: Our Pontiff to manhood at Englemehr grew, The priests there are many, the nuns are but few. I love not the Abbot — 'tis needless to tell My reason; but all of the Abbess speak well. Agatha: Through vineyards and cornfields beneath us, the Rhine Spreads and winds, silver-white, in the merry sunshine; And the air, overcharged with a subtle perfume, Grows faint from the essence of manifold bloom. Hugo: And the tinkling of bells, and the bleating of sheep, And the chaunt from the fields, where the labourers reap The earlier harvest, comes faint on the breeze, That whispers so faintly in hedgerows and trees. Orion: And a waggon wends slow to those turrets and spires, To feed the fat monks and the corpulent friars; It carries the corn, and the oil, and the wine, The honey and milk from the shores of the Rhine. The oxen are weary and spent with their load, They pause, but the driver doth recklessly goad; Up yon steep, flinty rise they have staggered and reeled, Even devils may pity dumb beasts of the field. 57 Agatha (sings): Oh! days and years departed, Vain hopes, vain fears that smarted, I turn to you sad-hearted — I turn to you in tears! Your daily sun shone brightly, Your happy dreams came nightly, Flowers bloomed and birds sang lightly, Through all your hopes and fears! You halted not, nor tarried, Your hopes have all miscarried, And even your fears are buried, Since fear with hope must die. You halted not, but hasted, And flew past, childhood wasted, And girlhood scarcely tasted, Now womanhood is nigh. Yet I forgive your wronging, Dead seasons round me thronging, With yearning and with longing, I call your bitters sweet. Vain longing, and vain yearning, There now is no returning; Oh! beating heart and burning, Forget to burn and beat! Oh! childish suns and showers, Oh! girlish thorns and flowers, Oh! fruitless days and hours, Oh! groundless hopes and fears: The birds still chirp and twitter, And still the sunbeams glitter: Oh! barren years and bitter, Oh! bitter, barren years! SCENE — The Summit of a Burning Mountain. Night. A terrific storm. ORION (undisguised). 58 Orion (sings): From fathomless depths of abysses, Where fires unquenchable burst, From the blackness of darkness, where hisses The brood of the serpent accurs'd; From shrines where the hymns are the weeping And wailing and gnashing of teeth, Where the palm is the pang never sleeping, Where the worm never dying is the wreath; Where all fruits save wickedness wither, Whence naught save despair can be gleaned — Come hither! come hither! come hither! Fall'n angel, fell sprite, and foul fiend. Come hither! the bands are all broken, And loosed in hell's innermost womb, When the spell unpronounceable spoken Divides the unspeakable gloom. Evil Spirits approach. The storm increases. Evil Spirits (singing): We hear thee, we seek thee, on pinions That darken the shades of the shade; Oh! Prince of the Air, with dominions Encompass'd, with powers array'd, With majesty cloth'd as a garment, Begirt with a shadowy shine, Whose feet scorch the hill-tops that are meant As footstools for thee and for thine. Orion (sings): How it swells through each pause of the thunder, And mounts through each lull of the gust, Through the crashing of crags torn asunder, And the hurtling of trees in the dust; With a chorus of loud lamentations, With its dreary and hopeless refrain! 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations, That suffer and shudder in vain. 59 Evil Spirits (singing): 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations; Our song shall chime in with their strain; Lost spirits blend their wild exultations With the sighing of mortals in pain. Orion (sings): With just light enough to see sorrows In this world, and terrors beyond, 'Twixt the day's bitter pangs and the morrow's Dread doubts, to despair and despond, Man lingers through toils unavailing For blessings that baffle his grasp; To his cradle he comes with a wailing, He goes to his grave with a gasp. Evil Spirits (singing): His birth is a weeping and wailing, His death is a groan and a gasp; O'er the seed of the woman prevailing, Thus triumphs the seed of the asp. SCENE — Chamber of a Wayside Inn. HUGO sitting alone. Evening. Hugo: And now the parting is over, The parting should end the pain; And the restless heart may recover, And so may the troubled brain. I am sitting within the chamber Whose windows look on the porch, Where the roses cluster and clamber; We halted here on our march With her to the convent going, And now I go back alone: Ye roses, budding and blowing, Ye heed not though she is flown. 60 I remember the girlish gesture, The sportive and childlike grace, With which she crumpled and pressed your Rose leaves to her rose-hued face. Shall I think on her ways hereafter — On those flashes of mirth and grief, On that April of tears and laughter, On our parting, bitterly brief? I remember the bell at sunrise, That sounded so solemnly, Bidding monk, and prelate, and nun rise; I rose ere the sun was high. Down the long, dark, dismal passage, To the door of her resting-place I went, on a farewell message, I trod with a stealthy pace. There was no one there to see us When she opened her chamber door. "Miserere, mei Deus", Rang faint from the convent choir. I remember the dark and narrow And scantily-furnished room; And the gleam, like a golden arrow — The gleam that lighted the gloom. One couch, one seat, and one table, One window, and only one — It stands in the eastern gable, It faces the rising sun; One ray shot through it, and one light On doorway and threshold played. She stood within in the sunlight, I stood without in the shade. I remember that bright form under The sheen of that slanting ray. I spoke — "For life we must sunder, Let us sunder without delay. Let us sever without preamble, As brother and sister part, For the sake of one pleasant ramble, 61 That will live in at least one heart." Still the choir in my ears rang faintly, In the distance dying away, Sweetly and sadly and saintly, Through arch and corridor grey! And thus we parted for ever, Between the shade and the shine; Not as brother and sister sever — I fondled her hands in mine. Still the choir in my ears rang deaden'd And dull'd, though audible yet; And she redden'd, and paled, and redden'd — Her lashes and lids grew wet. Not as brother severs from sister, My lips clung fast to her lips; She shivered and shrank when I kissed her. On the sunbeam drooped the eclipse. I remember little of the parting With the Abbot, down by the gate, My men were eager for starting; I think he pressed me to wait. From the lands where convent and glebe lie, From manors, and Church's right, Where I fought temptation so feebly, I, too, felt eager for flight. Alas! the parting is over — The parting, but not the pain — Oh! sweet was the purple clover, And sweet was the yellow grain; And sweet were the woody hollows On the summery Rhineward track; But a winter untimely swallows All sweets as I travel back. Yet I feel assured, in some fashion, Ere the hedges are crisp with rime, I shall conquer this senseless passion, 'Twill yield to toil and to time. I will fetter these fancies roaming; Already the sun has dipped; 62 I will trim the lamps in the gloaming, I will finish my manuscript. Through the nightwatch unflagging study Shall banish regrets perforce; As soon as the east is ruddy Our bugle shall sound "To Horse!" SCENE — Another Wayside House, Near the Norman Frontier. HUGO and ORION in a chamber. Evening. Orion: Your eyes are hollow, your step is slow, And your cheek is pallid as though from toil, Watching or fasting, by which I know That you have been burning the midnight oil. Hugo: Aye, three nights running. Orion: 'Twill never do To travel all day, and study all night; Will you join in a gallop through mist and dew, In a flight that may vie with the eagle's flight? Hugo: With all my heart. Shall we saddle "Rollo"? Orion: Nay, leave him undisturb'd in his stall; I have steeds he would hardly care to follow. Hugo: Follow, forsooth! he can lead them all. Orion: Touching his merits we will not quarrel; But let me mount you for once; enough Of work may await your favourite sorrel, And the paths we must traverse to-night are rough. 63 But first let me mix you a beverage, To invigorate your enfeebled frame. [He mixes a draught and hands it to Hugo.] All human ills this draught can assuage. Hugo: It hisses and glows like liquid flame; Say, what quack nostrum is this thou'st brewed? Speak out; I am learned in the chemist's lore. Orion: There is nothing but what will do you good; And the drugs are simples; 'tis hellebore, Nepenthe, upas, and dragon's blood, Absinthe, and mandrake, and mandragore. Hugo: I will drink it, although, by mass and rood, I am just as wise as I was before. SCENE — A Rough, Hilly Country. HUGO and ORION riding at speed on black horses. Mountains in the distance. Night. Hugo: See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes make A fiery track that gleams in our wake; Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots, Our horses fly. Orion: They are useful brutes, Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit'ning The crest and rein of my courser "Lightning"; He pulls to-night, being short of work, And takes his head with a sudden jerk; Still heel and steady hand on the bit, For that is "Tempest" on which you sit. Hugo: 64 'Tis the bravest steed that ever I back'd; Did'st mark how he crossed yon cataract? From hoof to hoof I should like to measure The space he clear'd. Orion: He can clear at leisure A greater distance. Observe the chasm We are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasm As we flew over it? Hugo: Not at all. Orion: Nathless 'twas an ugly place for a fall. Hugo: Let us try a race to yon mountain high, That rears its dusky peak 'gainst the sky. Orion: I won't disparage your horsemanship, But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip, And is hasty and hard to steer at times. We must travel far ere the midnight chimes; We must travel back ere the east is grey. Ho! "Lightning"! "Tempest"! Away! Away! [They ride on faster.] SCENE — A Peak in a Mountainous Country Overhanging a Rocky Pass. HUGO and ORION on black horses. Midnight. Hugo: These steeds are sprung from no common race, Their vigour seems to annihilate space; What hast thou brought me here to see? Orion: No boisterous scene of unhallow'd glee, No sabbat of witches coarse and rude, 65 But a mystic and musical interlude; You have long'd to explore the scrolls of Fate, Dismount, as I do, and listen and wait. [They dismount.] Orion (chanting): Spirits of earth, and air, and sea, Spirits unclean, and spirits untrue, By the symbols three that shall nameless be, One of your masters calls on you. Spirits (chanting in the distance): From the bowels of earth, where gleams the gold; From the air where the powers of darkness hold Their court; from the white sea-foam, Whence the white rose-tinted goddess sprung, Whom poets of every age have sung, Ever we come! we come! Hugo: How close to our ears the thunder peals! How the earth beneath us shudders and reels! A Voice (chanting): Woe to the earth! Where men give death! And women give birth! To the sons of Adam, by Cain or Seth! Plenty and dearth! To the daughters of Eve, who toil and spin, Barren of worth! Let them sigh, and sicken, and suffer sin! Woe to the earth! Hugo: What is yon phantom large and dim That over the mountain seems to swim? Orion: 'Tis the scarlet woman of Babylon! Hugo: Whence does she come? Where has she gone? 66 And who is she? Orion: You would know too much; These are subjects on which I dare not touch; And if I were to try and enlighten you, I should probably fail, and possibly frighten you. You had better ask some learned divine, Whose opinion is p'rhaps worth as much as mine, In his own conceit; and who, besides, Could tell you the brand of the beast she rides. What can you see in the valley yonder? Speak out; I can hear you, for all the thunder. Hugo: I see four shadowy altars rise, They seem to swell and dilate in size; Larger and clearer now they loom, Now fires are lighting them through the gloom. A Voice (chanting): The first a golden-hued fire shows, A blood-red flame on the second glows, The blaze on the third is tinged like the rose, From the fourth a column of black smoke goes. Orion: Can you see all this? Hugo: I see and hear; The lights and hues are vivid and clear. Spirits (sing at the first altar): Hail, Mammon! while man buys and barters, Thy kingdom in this world is sure; Thy prophets thou hast and thy martyrs, Great things in thy name they endure; Thy fetters of gold crush the miser, The usurer bends at thy shrine, And the wealthier nations and the wiser Bow with us at this altar of thine. Spirits (sing at the second altar): 67 Hail, Moloch! whose banner floats blood-red, From pole to equator unfurl'd, Whose laws redly written have stood red, And shall stand while standeth this world; Clad in purple, with thy diadem gory, Thy sceptre the blood-dripping steel, Thy subjects with us give thee glory, With us at thine altar they kneel. Spirits (sing at the third altar): Hail, Sovereign! whose fires are kindled By sparks from the bottomless pit, Has thy worship diminish'd or dwindled? Do the yokes of thy slaves lightly sit? Nay, the men of all climes and all races Are stirr'd by the flames that now stir us; Then (as we do) they fall on their faces, Crying, "Hear us! Oh! Ashtaroth, hear us!" Spirits (all in chorus): The vulture her carrion swallows, Returns to his vomit the dog. In the slough of uncleanliness wallows The he-goat, and revels the hog. Men are wise with their schools and their teachers, Men are just with their creeds and their priests; Yet, in spite of their pedants and preachers, They backslide in footprints of beasts! Hugo: From the smoky altar there seems to come A stifled murmur, a droning hum. Orion: With that we have nothing at all to do, Or, at least, not now, neither I nor you; Though some day or other, possibly We may see it closer, both you and I; Let us visit the nearest altar first, Whence the yellow fires flicker and burst, Like the flames from molten ore that spring; We may stand in the pale of the outer ring, 68 But forbear to trespass within the inner, Lest the sins of the past should find out the sinner. [They approach the first altar, and stand within the outer circle which surrounds it, and near the inner.] Spirits (sing): Beneath us it flashes, The glittering gold, Though it turneth to ashes And dross in the hold; Yet man will endeavour, By fraud or by strife, To grasp it and never To yield it with life. Orion: What can you see? Hugo: Some decrepit shapes, That are neither dwarfs, nor demons, nor apes; In the hollow earth they appear to store And rake together great heaps of ore. Orion: These are the gnomes, coarse sprites and rough; Come on, of these we have seen enough. [They approach second altar and stand as before.] Spirits (singing): Above us it flashes, The glittering steel, Though the red blood splashes Where its victims reel; Yet man will endeavour To grapple the hilt, And to wield the blade ever Till his life be spilt. Orion: What see you now? Hugo: A rocky glen, 69 A horrid jumble of fighting men, And a face that somewhere I've seen before. Orion: Come on; there is naught worth seeing more, Except the altar of Ashtaroth. Hugo: To visit that altar I am loth. Orion: Why so? Hugo: Nay, I cannot fathom why, But I feel no curiosity. Orion: Come on. Stand close to the inner ring, And hear how sweetly these spirits sing. [They approach third altar.] Spirits (sing): Around us it flashes, The cestus of one Born of white foam, that dashes Beneath the white sun; Let the mortal take heart, he Has nothing to dare; She is fair, Queen Astarte, Her subjects are fair! Orion: What see you now, friend? Hugo: Wood and wold, And forms that look like the nymphs of old. There is nothing here worth looking at twice. I have seen enough. Orion: You are far too nice; Nevertheless, you must look again. Those forms will fade. 70 Hugo: They are growing less plain. They vanish. I see a door that seems To open; a ray of sunlight gleams From a window behind; a vision as fair As the flush of dawn is standing there. [He gazes earnestly.] Orion (sings): Higher and hotter the white flames glow, And the adamant may be thaw'd like snow, And the life for a single chance may go, And the soul for a certainty. Oh! vain and shallow philosopher, Dost feel them quicken, dost feel them stir, The thoughts that have stray'd again to HER From whom thou hast sought to fly? Lo! the furnace is heated till sevenfold; Is thy brain still calm? Is thy blood still cold To the curls that wander in ripples of gold, On the shoulders of ivory? Do the large, dark eyes, and the small, red mouth, Consume thine heart with a fiery drouth, Like the fierce sirocco that sweeps from the south, When the deserts are parch'd and dry? Aye, start and shiver and catch thy breath, The sting is certain, the venom is death, And the scales are flashing the fruit beneath, And the fang striketh suddenly. At the core the ashes are bitter and dead, But the rind is fair and the rind is red, It has ever been pluck'd since the serpent said, Thou shalt NOT SURELY die. [Hugo tries to enter the inner ring; Orion holds him back; they struggle.] Hugo: Unhand me, slave! or quail to the rod! Agatha! Speak! in the name of God! 71 [The vision disappears; the altars vanish. Hugo falls insensible.] SCENE — The Wayside House. HUGO waking in his chamber. ORION unseen at first. Morning. Hugo: Vanish, fair and fatal vision! Fleeting shade of fever'd sleep, Chiding one whose indecision Waking substance failed to keep; Picture into life half starting, As in life once seen before, Parting somewhat sadly, parting Slowly at the chamber door. Were my waking senses duller? Have I seen with mental eye Light and shade, and warmth and colour, Plainer than reality? Sunlight that on tangled tresses Every ripple gilds and tips; Balm and bloom, and breath of kisses, Warm on dewy, scarlet lips. Dark eyes veiling half their splendour 'Neath their lashes' darker fringe, Dusky, dreamy, deep and tender, Passing smile and passing tinge; Dimpling fast and flushing faster, Ivory chin and coral cheek, Pearly strings, by alabaster Neck and arms made faint and weak; Drooping, downcast lids enduring Gaze of man unwillingly; Sudden, sidelong gleams alluring, Partly arch and partly shy. 72 Do I bless or curse that beauty? Am I longing, am I loth? Is it passion, is it duty That I strive with, one or both? Round about one fiery centre Wayward thoughts like moths revolve. [He sees Orion.] Ha! Orion, thou didst enter Unperceived. I pray thee solve These two questions: Firstly, tell me, Must I strive for wrong or right? Secondly, what things befell me — Facts, or phantasies — last night? Orion: First, your strife is all a sham, you Know as well as I which wins; Second, waking sins will damn you, Never mind your sleeping sins; Both your questions thus I answer; Listen, ere you seek or shun: I at least am no romancer, What you long for may be won. Turn again and travel Rhineward, Tread once more the flowery path. Hugo: Aye, the flowery path that, sinward Pointing, ends in sin and wrath. Orion: Songs by love-birds lightly caroll'd, Even the just man may allure. Hugo: To his shame; in this wise Harold Sinn'd, his punishment was sure. Orion: Nay, the Dane was worse than you are, Base and pitiless to boot; 73 Doubtless all are bad, yet few are Cruel, false, and dissolute. Hugo: Some sins foreign to our nature Seem; we take no credit when We escape them. Orion: Yet the creature, Sin-created, lives to sin. Hugo: Be it so; come good, come evil, Ride we to the Rhine again! Orion (aside): 'Gainst the logic of the devil Human logic strives in vain. SCENE — A Camp Near the Black Forest. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, DAGOBERT, and followers. ORION disguised as one of the Free-lances. Mid-day. Osric: Now, by axe of Odin, and hammer of Thor, And by all the gods of the Viking's war, I swear we have quitted our homes in vain: We have nothing to look to, glory nor gain. Will our galley return to Norway's shore With heavier gold, or with costlier store? Will our exploits furnish the scald with a song? We have travell'd too far, we have tarried too long. Say, captains all, is there ever a village For miles around that is worth the pillage? Will it pay the costs of my men or yours To harry the homesteads of German boors? Have we cause for pride in our feats of arms When we plunder the peasants or sack the farms? I tell thee, Rudolph of Rothenstein, 74 That were thy soldiers willing as mine, And I sole leader of this array, I would give Prince Otto battle this day. Dost thou call thy followers men of war? Oh, Dagobert! thou whose ancestor On the neck of the Caesar's offspring trod, Who was justly surnamed "The Scourge of God". Yet in flight lies safety. Skirmish and run To forest and fastness, Teuton and Hun, From the banks of the Rhine to the Danube's shore, And back to the banks of the Rhine once more; Retreat from the face of an armed foe, Robbing garden and hen-roost where'er you go. Let the short alliance betwixt us cease, I and my Norsemen will go in peace! I wot it never will suit with us, Such existence, tame and inglorious; I could live no worse, living single-handed, And better with half my men disbanded. Rudolph: Jarl Osric, what would'st thou have me do? 'Gainst Otto's army our men count few; With one chance of victory, fight, say I! But not when defeat is a certainty. If Rudiger joins us with his free-lances, Our chance will be equal to many chances; For Rudiger is both prompt and wary; And his men are gallant though mercenary; But the knave refuses to send a lance Till half the money is paid in advance. Dagobert: May his avarice wither him like a curse! I guess he has heard of our late reverse; But, Rudolph, whether he goes or stays, There is reason in what Jarl Osric says; Of provisions we need a fresh supply, And our butts and flasks are shallow or dry; My men are beginning to grumble sadly, 'Tis no wonder, since they must fare so badly. 75 Rudolph: We have plenty of foragers out, and still We have plenty of hungry mouths to fill; And, moreover, by some means, foul or fair, We must raise money; 'tis little I care, So long as we raise it, whence it comes. Osric: Shall we sit till nightfall biting our thumbs? The shortest plan is ever the best; Has anyone here got aught to suggest? Orion: The cornfields are golden that skirt the Rhine, Fat are the oxen, strong is the wine, In those pleasant pastures, those cellars deep, That o'erflow with the tears that those vineyards weep; Is it silver you stand in need of, or gold? Ingot or coin? There is wealth untold In the ancient convent of Englemehr; That is not so very far from here. The Abbot, esteem'd a holy man, Will hold what he has and grasp what he can; The cream of the soil he loves to skim, Why not levy a contribution on him? Dagobert: The stranger speaks well; not far away That convent lies; and one summer's day Will suffice for a horseman to reach the gate; The garrison soon would capitulate, Since the armed retainers are next to none, And the walls, I wot, may be quickly won. Rudolph: I kept those walls for two months or more, When they feared the riders of Melchior! That was little over three years ago. Their Abbot is thrifty, as well I know; He haggled sorely about the price Of our service. 76 Dagobert: Rudolph, he paid thee twice. Rudolph: Well, what of that? Since then I've tried To borrow from him; now I know he lied When he told me he could not spare the sum I asked. If we to his gates should come, He could spare it though it were doubled; and still, This war with the Church I like it ill. Osric: The creed of our fathers is well-nigh dead, And the creed of the Christian reigns in its stead But the creed of the Christian, too, may die, For your creeds or your churches what care I! If there be plunder at Englemehr, Let us strike our tents and thitherward steer. SCENE — A Farm-house on the Rhine (About a mile from the Convent). HUGO in chamber alone. Enter ERIC. Eric: What, Hugo, still at the Rhine! I thought You were home. You have travell'd by stages short. Hugo (with hesitation): Our homeward march was labour in vain, We had to retrace our steps again; It was here or hereabouts that I lost Some papers of value; at any cost I must find them; and which way lies your course? Eric: I go to recruit Prince Otto's force. I cannot study as you do; I Am wearied with inactivity; So I carry a blade engrim'd with rust (That a hand sloth-slacken'd has, I trust, Not quite forgotten the way to wield), 77 To strike once more on the tented field. Hugo: Fighting is all a mistake, friend Eric, And has been so since the age Homeric, When Greece was shaken and Troy undone, Ten thousand lives for a worthless one. Yet I blame you not; you might well do worse; Better fight and perish than live to curse The day you were born; and such has been The lot of many, and shall, I ween, Be the lot of more. If Thurston chooses He may go with you. The blockhead abuses Me and the life I lead. Enter ORION. Orion: Great news! The Englemehr monks will shake in their shoes; In the soles of their callous feet will shake The barefooted friars. The nuns will quake. Hugo: Wherefore? Orion: The outlaw of Rothenstein Has come with his soldiers to the Rhine, Back'd by those hardy adventurers From the northern forests of pines and firs, And Dagobert's horse. They march as straight As the eagle swoops to the convent gate. Hugo: We must do something to save the place. Orion: They are sure to take it in any case, Unless the sum that they ask is paid. Eric: Some effort on our part must be made. Hugo: 78 'Tis not so much for the monks I care. Eric: Nor I; but the Abbess and nuns are there. Orion: 'Tis not our business; what can we do? They are too many, and we are too few; And yet, I suppose, you will save, if you can, That lady, your ward, or your kinswoman. Hugo: She is no kinswoman of mine; How far is Otto's camp from the Rhine? Orion: Too far for help in such time of need To be brought, though you used your utmost speed. Eric: Nay, that I doubt. Hugo: And how many men Have they? Orion: To your one they could muster ten. Eric: I know Count Rudolph, and terms may be made With him, I fancy; for though his trade Is a rough one now, gainsay it who can, He was once a knight and a gentleman. And Dagobert, the chief of the Huns, Bad as he is, will spare the nuns; Though neither he nor the Count could check Those lawless men, should they storm and sack The convent. Jarl Osric, too, I know; He is rather a formidable foe, And will likely enough be troublesome; But the others, I trust, to terms will come. Hugo: 79 Eric, how many men have you? I can count a score. Eric: I have only two. Hugo: At every hazard we must try to save The nuns. Eric: Count Rudolph shall think we have A force that almost equals his own, If I can confer with him alone. Orion: He is close at hand; by this time he waits The Abbot's reply at the convent gates. Hugo: We had better send him a herald. Eric: Nay, I will go myself. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: Orion, stay! So this is the reed on which I've leaned, These are the hopes thou hast fostered, these The flames thou hast fanned. Oh, lying fiend! Is it thus thou dost keep thy promises? Orion: Strong language, Hugo, and most unjust; You will cry out before you are hurt — You will live to recall your words, I trust. Fear nothing from Osric or Dagobert, These are your friends, if you only knew it, And would take the advice of a friend sincere; Neglect his counsels and you must rue it, For I know by a sign the crisis is near. Accept the terms of these outlaws all, And be thankful that things have fallen out Exactly as you would have had them fall — You may save the one that you care about; 80 Otherwise, how did you hope to gain Access to her — on what pretence? What were the schemes that worried your brain To tempt her there or to lure her thence? You must have bungled, and raised a scandal About your ears, that might well have shamed The rudest Hun, the veriest Vandal, Long or ever the bird was tamed. Hugo: The convent is scarce surrounded yet, We might reach and hold it against their force Till another sun has risen and set; And should I despatch my fleetest horse To Otto —— Orion: For Abbot, or Monk, or Friar, Between ourselves, 'tis little you care If their halls are harried by steel and fire: Their avarice left your heritage bare. Forsake them! Mitres, and cowls, and hoods Will cover vices while earth endures; Through the green and gold of the summer woods Ride out with that pretty bird of yours. If again you fail to improve your chance, Why, then, my friend, I can only say You are duller far than the dullest lance That rides in Dagobert's troop this day. "Faemina semper", frown not thus, The girl was always giddy and wild, Vain, and foolish, and frivolous, Since she fled from her father's halls, a child. I sought to initiate you once In the mystic lore of the old Chaldean; But I found you far too stubborn a dunce, And your tastes are coarser and more plebeian. Yet mark my words, for I read the stars, And trace the future in yonder sky; To the right are wars and rumours of wars, To the left are peace and prosperity. Fear naught. The world shall never detect The cloven hoof, so carefully hid 81 By the scholar so staid and circumspect, So wise for once to do as he's bid. Remember what pangs come year by year For opportunity that has fled; And Thora in ignorance. Hugo: Name not her! I am sorely tempted to strike thee dead! Orion: Nay, I hardly think you will take my life, The angel Michael was once my foe; He had a little the best of our strife, Yet he never could deal so stark a blow. SCENE — A Chamber in the Nuns' Apartments of the Convent. AGATHA and URSULA. Agatha: My sire in my childhood pledged my hand To Hugo — I know not why — They were comrades then, 'neath the Duke's command, In the wars of Lombardy. I thought, ere my summers had turned sixteen, That mine was a grievous case; Save once, for an hour, I had never seen My intended bridegroom's face; And maidens vows of their own will plight. Unknown to my kinsfolk all My love was vowed to a Danish knight, A guest in my father's hall. His foot fell lightest in merry dance, His shaft never missed the deer; He could fly a hawk, he could wield a lance, Our wildest colt he could steer. His deep voice ringing through hall or glen Had never its match in song; And little was known of his past life then, Or of Dorothea's wrong. 82 I loved him — Lady Abbess, I know That my love was foolish now; I was but a child five years ago, And thoughtless as bird on bough. One evening Hugo the Norman came, And, to shorten a weary tale, I fled that night (let me bear the blame) With Harold by down and dale. He had mounted me on a dappled steed, And another of coal-black hue He rode himself; and away at speed We fled through mist and dew. Of miles we had ridden some half a score, We had halted beside a spring, When the breeze to our ears through the still night bore A distant trample and ring; We listen'd one breathing space, and caught The clatter of mounted men, With vigour renewed by their respite short Our horses dash'd through the glen. Another league, and we listen'd in vain; The breeze to our ears came mute; But we heard them again on the spacious plain, Faint tidings of hot pursuit. In the misty light of a moon half hid By the dark or fleecy rack, Our shadows over the moorland slid, Still listening and looking back. So we fled (with a cheering word to say At times as we hurried on), From sounds that at intervals died away, And at intervals came anon. Another league, and my lips grew dumb, And I felt my spirit quailing, For closer those sounds began to come, And the speed of my horse was failing. "The grey is weary and lame to boot," Quoth Harold; "the black is strong, And their steeds are blown with their fierce pursuit, What wonder! our start was long. Now, lady, behind me mount the black, 83 The double load he can bear; We are safe when we reach the forest track, Fresh horses and friends wait there." Then I sat behind him and held his waist, And faster we seemed to go By moss and moor; but for all our haste Came the tramp of the nearing foe. A dyke through the mist before us hover'd, And, quicken'd by voice and heel, The black overleap'd it, stagger'd, recover'd; Still nearer that muffled peal. And louder on sward the hoof-strokes grew, And duller, though not less nigh, On deader sand; and a dark speck drew On my vision suddenly, And a single horseman in fleet career, Like a shadow appear'd to glide To within six lances' lengths of our rear, And there for a space to bide. Quoth Harold, "Speak, has the moon reveal'd His face?" I replied, "Not so! Yet 'tis none of my kinsfolk." Then he wheel'd In the saddle and scanned the foe, And mutter'd, still gazing in our wake, "'Tis he; now I will not fight The brother again, for the sister's sake, While I can escape by flight." "Who, Harold?" I asked; but he never spoke. By the cry of the bittern harsh, And the bull-frog's dull, discordant croak, I guess'd that we near'd the marsh; And the moonbeam flash'd on watery sedge As it broke from a strip of cloud, Ragged and jagged about the edge, And shaped like a dead man's shroud. And flagg'd and falter'd our gallant steed, 'Neath the weight of his double burden, As we splash'd through water and crash'd through reed; Then the soil began to harden, And again we gain'd, or we seem'd to gain, With our foe in the deep morass; But those fleet hoofs thunder'd, and gain'd again, 84 When they trampled the firmer grass, And I cried, and Harold again look'd back, And bade me fasten mine eyes on The forest, that loom'd like a patch of black Standing out from the faint horizon. "Courage, sweetheart! we are saved," he said; "With the moorland our danger ends, And close to the borders of yonder glade They tarry, our trusty friends." Where the mossy uplands rise and dip On the edge of the leafy dell, With a lurch, like the lurch of a sinking ship, The black horse toppled and fell. Unharm'd we lit on the velvet sward, And even as I lit I lay, But Harold uprose, unsheath'd his sword, And toss'd the scabbard away. And spake through his teeth, "Good brother-in-law, Forbearance, at last, is spent; The strife that thy soul hath lusted for Thou shalt have to thy soul's content!" While he spoke, our pursuer past us swept, Ere he rein'd his war-horse proud, To his haunches flung, then to the earth he leapt, And my lover's voice rang loud: "Thrice welcome! Hugo of Normandy, Thou hast come at our time of need, This lady will thank thee, and so will I, For the loan of thy sorrel steed!" And never a word Lord Hugo said, They clos'd 'twixt the wood and the wold, And the white steel flickered over my head In the moonlight calm and cold; 'Mid the feathery grasses crouching low, With face bow'd down to the dust, I heard the clash of each warded blow, The click of each parried thrust, And the shuffling feet that bruis'd the lawn, As they traversed here and there, And the breath through the clench'd teeth heavily drawn When breath there was none to spare; 85 Sharp ringing sword play, dull, trampling heel, Short pause, spent force to regain, Quick muffled footfall, harsh grating steel, Sharp ringing rally again; They seem'd long hours, those moments fleet, As I counted them one by one, Till a dead weight toppled across my feet, And I knew that the strife was done. When I looked up, after a little space, As though from a fearful dream, The moon was flinging on Harold's face A white and a weird-like gleam; And I felt mine ankles moist and warm With the blood that trickled slow From a spot on the doublet beneath his arm, From a ghastly gash on his brow; I heard the tread of the sorrel's hoof As he bore his lord away; They passed me slowly, keeping aloof, Like spectres, misty and grey. I thought Lord Hugo had left me there To die, but it was not so; Yet then for death I had little care, My soul seem'd numb'd by the blow; A faintness follow'd, a sickly swoon, A long and a dreamless sleep, And I woke to the light of a sultry noon In my father's castled keep. And thus, Lady Abbess, it came to pass That my father vow'd his vow; Must his daughter espouse the Church? Alas! Is she better or wiser now? For some are feeble and others strong, And feeble am I and frail. Mother! 'tis not that I love the wrong, 'Tis not that I loathe the veil, But with heart still ready to go astray, If assail'd by a fresh temptation, I could sin again as I sinned that day, For a girl's infatuation. 86 See! Harold, the Dane, thou say'st is dead, Yet I weep NOT BITTERLY; As I fled with the Dane, so I might have fled With Hugo of Normandy. Ursula: My child, I advise no hasty vows, Yet I pray that in life's brief span Thou may'st learn that our Church is a fairer spouse Than fickle and erring man; Though fenced for a time by the Church's pale, When that time expires thou'rt free; And we cannot force thee to take the veil, Nay, we scarce can counsel thee. Enter the ABBOT hastily. Basil (the Abbot): I am sorely stricken with shame and grief, It has come by the self-same sign, A summons brief from the outlaw'd chief, Count Rudolph of Rothenstein. Lady Abbess, ere worse things come to pass, I would speak with thee alone; Alack and alas! for by the rood and mass I fear we are all undone. SCENE — A Farm-house Near the Convent. A Chamber furnished with writing materials. HUGO, ERIC, and THURSTON on one side; on the other OSRIC, RUDOLPH, and DAGOBERT. Osric: We have granted too much, ye ask for more; I am not skill'd in your clerkly lore, I scorn your logic; I had rather die Than live like Hugo of Normandy: I am a Norseman, frank and plain; Ye must read the parchment over again. 87 Eric: Jarl Osric, twice we have read this scroll. Osric: Thou hast read a part. Eric: I have read the whole. Osric: Aye, since I attached my signature! Eric: Before and since! Rudolph: Nay, of this be sure, Thou hast signed; in fairness now let it rest. Osric: I had rather have sign'd upon Hugo's crest; He has argued the question mouth to mouth With the wordy lore of the subtle south; Let him or any one of his band Come and argue the question hand to hand. With the aid of my battle-axe I will show That a score of words are not worth one blow. Thurston: To the devil with thee and thy battle-axe; I would send the pair of ye back in your tracks, With an answer that even to thy boorish brain Would scarce need repetition again. Osric: Thou Saxon slave to a milksop knight, I will give thy body to raven and kite. Thurston: Thou liest; I am a freeborn man, And thy huge carcase — in cubit and span Like the giant's of Gath — 'neath Saxon steel, Shall furnish the kites with a fatter meal. 88 Osric: Now, by Odin! Rudolph: Jarl Osric, curb thy wrath; Our names are sign'd, our words have gone forth. Hugo: I blame thee, Thurston. Thurston: And I, too, blame Myself, since I follow a knight so tame! [Thurston goes out.] Osric: The Saxon hound, he said I lied! Rudolph: I pray thee, good Viking, be pacified. Osric: Why do we grant the terms they ask? To crush them all were an easy task. Dagobert: That know'st thou not; if it come to war, They are stronger, perhaps, than we bargain for. Eric: Jarl Osric, thou may'st recall thy words — Should we meet again. Osric: Should we meet with swords, Thou, too, may'st recall them to thy sorrow. Hugo: Eric! we dally. Sir Count, good-morrow. SCENE — The Guest Chamber of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. 89 Eric: Hugo, their siege we might have tried; This place would be easier fortified Than I thought at first; it is now too late, They have cut off our access to the gate. Hugo: I have weigh'd the chances and counted the cost, And I know by the stars that all is lost If we take up this quarrel. Eric: So let it be! I yield to one who is wiser than me. (Aside.) Nevertheless, I have seen the day When the stars would scarcely have bade us stay. Enter the ABBOT, CYRIL, and other Monks. Hugo: Lord Abbot, we greet thee. Good fathers all, We bring you greeting. Orion (aside): And comfort small. Abbot: God's benediction on you, my sons. Hugo: May He save you, too, from Norsemen and Huns! Since the gates are beleaguer'd and walls begirt By the forces of Osric and Dagobert; 'Tis a heavy price that the knaves demand. Abbot: Were we to mortgage the Church's land We never could raise what they would extort. Orion (aside): The price is too long and the notice too short. Eric: 90 And you know the stern alternative. Abbot: If we die we die, if we live we live; God's will be done; and our trust is sure In Him, though His chast'nings we endure. Two messengers rode from here last night, To Otto they carry news of our plight; On my swiftest horses I saw them go. Orion (aside): Then his swiftest horses are wondrous slow. Eric: One of these is captive and badly hurt; By the reckless riders of Dagobert He was overtaken and well-nigh slain, Not a league from here on the open plain. Abbot: But the other escap'd. Eric: It may be so; We had no word of him, but we know That unless you can keep these walls for a day At least, the Prince is too far away To afford relief. Abbot: Then a hopeless case Is ours, and with death we are face to face. Eric: You have arm'd retainers. Cyril (a Monk): Aye, some half score; And some few of the brethren, less or more, Have in youth the brunt of the battle bided, Yet our armoury is but ill provided. Hugo: We have terms of truce from the robbers in chief, Though the terms are partial, the truce but brief; 91 To Abbess, to nuns, and novices all, And to every woman within your wall, We can offer escort, and they shall ride From hence in safety whate'er betide. Abbot: What escort, Hugo, canst thou afford? Hugo: Some score of riders who call me lord Bide at the farm not a mile from here, Till we rejoin them they will not stir; My page and armourer wait below, And all our movements are watch'd by the foe. Strict stipulation was made, of course, That, except ourselves, neither man nor horse Should enter your gates — they were keen to shun The chance of increasing your garrison. Eric: I hold safe conduct here in my hand, Signed by the chiefs of that lawless band; See Rudolph's name, no disgrace to a clerk, And Dagobert's scrawl, and Osric's mark; Jarl signed sorely against his will, With a scratch like the print of a raven's bill; But the foe have muster'd in sight of the gate. For another hour they will scarcely wait; Bid Abbess and dame prepare with haste. Hugo: Lord Abbot, I tell thee candidly There is no great love between thou and I, As well thou know'st; but, nevertheless, I would we were more, or thy foes were less. Abbot: I will summon the Lady Abbess straight. [The Abbot and Monks go out.] Eric: 'Tis hard to leave these men to their fate, 92 Norsemen and Hun will never relent; Their day of grace upon earth is spent. [Hugo goes out, followed by Orion.] SCENE — The Corridor Outside the Guest Chamber. HUGO pacing up and down. ORION leaning against the wall. Hugo: My day of grace with theirs is past. I might have saved them; 'tis too late — Too late for both. The die is cast, And I resign me to my fate. God's vengeance I await. Orion: The boundary 'twixt right and wrong Is not so easy to discern; And man is weak, and fate is strong, And destiny man's hopes will spurn, Man's schemes will overturn. Hugo: Thou liest, thou fiend! Not unawares The sinner swallows Satan's bait, Nor pits conceal'd nor hidden snares Seeks blindly; wherefore dost thou prate Of destiny and fate? Orion: Who first named fate? But never mind, Let that pass by — to Adam's fall And Adam's curse look back, and find Iniquity the lot of all, And sin original. Hugo: But I have sinn'd, repented, sinn'd, Till seven times that sin may be By seventy multiplied; the wind 93 Is constant when compared with me, And stable is the sea! My hopes are sacrificed, for what? For days of folly, less or more, For years to see those dead hopes rot, Like dead weeds scatter'd on the shore, Beyond the surfs that roar! Orion: The wiles of Eve are swift to smite; Aye, swift to smite and not to spare — Red lips and round limbs sweet and white, Dark eyes and sunny, silken hair, Thy betters may ensnare. Hugo: Not so; the strife 'twixt hell and heaven I felt last night, and well I knew The crisis; but my aid was given To hell. Thou'st known the crisis too, For once thou'st spoken true. Having foretold it, there remains For grace no time, for hope no room; Even now I seem to feel the pains Of hell, that wait beyond the gloom Of my dishonour'd tomb. Thou who hast lived and died to save, Us sinners, Christ of Galilee! Thy great love pardon'd and forgave The dying thief upon the tree, Thou canst not pardon me! Dear Lord! hear Thou my latest prayer, For prayer must die since hope is dead; Thy Father's vengeance let me bear, Nor let my guilt be visited Upon a guiltless head! Ah! God is just! Full sure I am 94 He never did predestinate Our souls to hell. Ourselves we damn — [To Orion, with sudden passion] Serpent! I know thee now, too late; Curse thee! Work out thy hate! Orion: I hate thee not; thy grievous plight Would move my pity, but I bear A curse to which thy curse seems light! Thy wrong is better than my right, My day is darker than thy night; Beside the whitest hope I share How white is thy despair! SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. URSULA, AGATHA, Nuns and Novices. (Hymn of the Nuns): Jehovah! we bless Thee, All works of Thine hand Extol Thee, confess Thee; By sea and by land, By mountain and river, By forest and glen, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! The heathen are raging Against Thee, O Lord! The ungodly are waging Rash war against God! Arise, and deliver Us, sheep of Thy pen, Who praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thou Shepherd of Zion! 95 Thy firstlings didst tear From jaws of the lion, From teeth of the bear; Thy strength to deliver Is strong now as then. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thine arm hath delivered Thy servants of old, Hath scatter'd and shiver'd The spears of the bold, Hath emptied the quiver Of bloodthirsty men. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Nathless shall Thy right hand Those counsels fulfil Most wise in Thy sight, and We bow to Thy will; Thy children quail never For dungeon or den, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Though fierce tribulation Endure for a space, Yet God! our salvation! We gain by Thy grace, At end of life's fever, Bliss passing man's ken; There to praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! SCENE — The Guest Room of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. Enter URSULA, AGATHA, and Nuns. Ursula: 96 Hugo, we reject thine offers, Not that we can buy Safety from the Church's coffers, Neither can we fly. Far too great the price they seek is, Let their lawless throng Come, we wait their coming; weak is Man, but God is strong. Eric: Think again on our proposals: It will be too late When the robbers hold carousals On this side the gate. Ursula: For myself I speak and others Weak and frail as I; We will not desert our brothers In adversity. Hugo (to the Nuns): Does the Abbess thus advance her Will before ye all? A Nun: We will stay. Hugo: Is this thine answer, Agatha? The wall Is a poor protection truly, And the gates are weak, And the Norsemen most unruly. Come, then. A Nun (to Agatha): Sister, speak! Orion (aside to Hugo): Press her! She her fears dissembling, Stands irresolute; She will yield — her limbs are trembling, Though her lips are mute. 97 [A trumpet is heard without.] Eric: Hark! their savage war-horn blowing Chafes at our delay. Hugo: Agatha, we must be going. Come, girl! Agatha (clinging to Ursula): Must I stay? Ursula: Nay, my child, thou shalt not make me Judge; I cannot give Orders to a novice. Agatha: Take me, Hugo! Let me live! Eric (to Nuns): Foolish women! will ye tarry, Spite of all we say? Hugo: Must we use our strength and carry You by force away? Ursula: Bad enough thou art, Sir Norman, Yet thou wilt not do This thing. Shame! — on men make war, man, Not on women few. Eric: Heed her not — her life she barters, Of her free accord, For her faith; and, doubtless, martyrs Have their own reward. Ursula: In the Church's cause thy father 98 Never grudged his blade — Hugo, did he rue it? Orion: Rather! He was poorly paid. Hugo: Abbess, this is not my doing; I have said my say; How can I avert the ruin, Even for a day, Since they count two hundred fairly, While we count a score; And thine own retainers barely Count a dozen more? Agatha (kneeling to Ursula): Ah! forgive me, Lady Abbess, Bless me ere I go; She who under sod and slab is Lying, cold and low, Scarce would turn away in anger From a child so frail; Not dear life, but deadly danger, Makes her daughter quail. Hugo: Eric, will those faces tearful To God's judgment seat Haunt us? Eric: Death is not so fearful. Hugo: No, but life is sweet — Sweet for once, to me, though sinful. Orion (to Hugo): Earth is scant of bliss; Wisest he who takes his skinful When the chance is his. (To Ursula): Lady Abbess! stay and welcome 99 Osric's savage crew; Yet when pains of death and hell come, Thou thy choice may'st rue. Ursula (to Orion): What dost thou 'neath roof-trees sacred? Man or fiend, depart! Orion: Dame, thy tongue is sharp and acrid, Yet I bear the smart. Ursula (advancing and raising up a crucifix): I conjure thee by this symbol Leave us! [Orion goes out hastily.] Hugo: Ha! the knave, He has made an exit nimble; Abbess! thou art brave. Yet once gone, we're past recalling, Let no blame be mine. See, thy sisters' tears are falling Fast, and so are thine. Ursula: Fare you well! The teardrop splashes Vainly on the ice. Ye will sorrow o'er our ashes And your cowardice. Eric: Sorry am I, yet my sorrow Cannot alter fate; Should Prince Otto come to-morrow, He will come too late. Hugo: Nay, old comrade, she hath spoken Words we must not hear; Shall we pause for sign or token — Taunted twice with fear? 100 Yonder, hilt to hilt adjusted, Stand the swords in which we trusted Years ago. Their blades have rusted, So, perchance, have we. Ursula! thy words may shame us, Yet we once were counted famous, Morituri, salutamus, Aut victuri, te! [They go out.] SCENE — The Outskirts of Rudolph's Camp. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, and DAGOBERT. HUGO. Rudolph: Lord Hugo! thy speech is madness; Thou hast tax'd our patience too far; We offer'd thee peace — with gladness, We gladly accept thy war. Dagobert: And the clemency we extended To thee and thine we recall; And the treaty 'twixt us is ended — We are ready to storm the wall. Osric: Now tear yon parchment to tatters; Thou shalt make no further use Of our safeguard; the wind that scatters The scroll shall scatter the truce. Hugo: Jarl Osric, to save the spilling Of blood, and the waste of life, I am willing, if thou art willing, With thee to decide this strife; Let thy comrades draw their force back; I defy thee to single fight, I will meet thee on foot or horseback, And God shall defend the right. 101 Rudolph: No single combat shall settle This strife; thou art overbold — Thou hast put us all on our mettle, Now the game in our hands we hold. Dagobert: Our lances round thee have hover'd, Have seen where thy fellows bide; Thy weakness we have discover'd, Thy nakedness we have spied. Osric: And hearken, knight, to my story — When sack'd are the convent shrines, When the convent thresholds are gory, And quaff'd are the convent wines: When our beasts with pillage are laden, And the clouds of our black smoke rise From yon tower, one fair-haired maiden Is singled as Osric's prize. I will fit her with chain and collar Of red gold, studded with pearls; With bracelet of gold, Sir Scholar, The queen of my captive girls. Hugo (savagely): May the Most High God of battles The Lord and Ruler of fights, Who breaketh the shield that rattles, Who snappeth the sword that smites, In whose hands are footmen and horsemen, At whose breath they conquer or flee, Never show me His mercy, Norseman! If I show mercy to thee. Osric: What, ho! art thou drunk, Sir Norman? Has the wine made thy pale cheek red? Now, I swear by Odin and Thor, man, Already I count thee dead. 102 Rudolph: I crave thy pardon for baulking The flood of thine eloquence, But thou canst not scare us with talking, I therefore pray thee go hence. Osric: Though I may not take up thy gauntlet, Should we meet where the steel strikes fire, 'Twixt thy casque and thy charger's frontlet The choice will perplex thy squire. Hugo: When the Norman rowels are goading, When glitters the Norman glaive, Thou shalt call upon Thor and Odin: They shall not hear thee nor save. "Should we meet!" Aye, the chance may fall so, In the furious battle drive, So may God deal with me — more, also! If we separate, both alive! SCENE — The Court-yard of the Old Farm. EUSTACE and other followers of HUGO and ERIC lounging about. Enter THURSTON hastily, with swords under his arm. Thurston: Now saddle your horses and girth them tight, And see that your weapons are sharp and bright. Come, lads, get ready as fast as you can. Eustace: Why, what's this bustle about, old man? Thurston: Well, it seems Lord Hugo has changed his mind, As the weathercock veers with the shifting wind; He has gone in person to Osric's camp, 103 To tell him to pack up his tents and tramp! But I guess he won't. Eustace: Then I hope he will, They are plenty to eat us, as well as to kill. Ralph: And I hope he won't — I begin to feel A longing to moisten my thirsty steel. [They begin to saddle and make preparations for a skirmish.] Thurston: I've a couple of blades to look to here. In their scabbards I scarcely could make them stir At first, but I'll sharpen them both ere long. A Man-at-arms: Hurrah for a skirmish! Who'll give us a song? Thurston (sings, cleaning and sharpening): Hurrah! for the sword! I hold one here, And I scour at the rust and say, 'Tis the umpire this, and the arbiter, That settles in the fairest way; For it stays false tongues and it cools hot blood, And it lowers the proud one's crest; And the law of the land is sometimes good, But the law of the sword is best. In all disputes 'tis the shortest plan, The surest and best appeal; — What else can decide between man and man? (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of Hugo, our lord! 'Tis a trusty friend and a true; It has held its own on a grassy sward, When its blade shone bright and blue, Though it never has stricken in anger hard, 104 And has scarcely been cleansed from rust, Since the day when it broke through Harold's guard With our favourite cut and thrust; Yet Osric's crown will look somewhat red, And his brain will be apt to reel, Should the trenchant blade come down on his head — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of our ally bold, It has done good service to him; It has held its own on an open wold, When its edge was in keener trim. It may baffle the plots of the wisest skull, It may slacken the strongest limb, Make the brains full of forethought void and null, And the eyes full of far-sight dim; And the hasty hands are content to wait, And the knees are compelled to kneel, Where it falls with the weight of a downstroke straight — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword — I've one of my own; And I think I may safely say, Give my enemy his, let us stand alone, And our quarrel shall end one way; One way or the other — it matters not much, So the question be fairly tried. Oh! peacemaker good, bringing peace with a touch, Thy clients will be satisfied. As a judge, thou dost judge — as a witness, attest, And thou settest thy hand and seal, And the winner is blest, and the loser at rest — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! [Hugo and Eric enter during the last verse 105 of the song.] Hugo: Boot and saddle, old friend, Their defiance they send; Time is short — make an end Of thy song. Let the sword in this fight Strike as hard for the right As it once struck for might Leagued with wrong. Ha! Rollo, thou champest Thy bridle and stampest, For the rush of the tempest Dost long? Ho! the kites will grow fatter On the corpses we scatter, In the paths where we shatter Their throng. Where Osric, the craven, Hath reared the black raven 'Gainst monks that are shaven And cowl'd: Where the Teuton and Hun sit, In the track of our onset, Will the wolves, ere the sunset, Have howl'd. Retribution is good, They have revell'd in blood, Like the wolves of the wood They have prowl'd. Birds of prey they have been, And of carrion unclean, And their own nests (I ween) They have foul'd. Eric: Two messengers since Yestermorn have gone hence, 106 And ere long will the Prince Bring relief. Shall we pause? — they are ten To our one, but their men Are ill-arm'd, and scarce ken Their own chief; And for this we give thanks: Their disorderly ranks, If assail'd in the flanks, Will as lief Run as fight — loons and lords. Hugo: Mount your steeds! draw your swords! Take your places! My words Shall be brief: Ride round by the valley, Through pass and gorge sally — The linden trees rally Beneath. Then, Eric and Thurston, Their ranks while we burst on, Try which will be first on The heath. (Aside) Look again, mother mine, Through the happy starshine, For my sins dost thou pine? With my breath, See! thy pangs are all done, For the life of thy son: Thou shalt never feel one For his death. [They all go out but Hugo, who lingers to tighten his girths. Orion appears suddenly in the gateway.] Orion: Stay, friend! I keep guard on Thy soul's gates; hold hard on Thy horse. Hope of pardon 107 Hath fled! Bethink once, I crave thee, Can recklessness save thee? Hell sooner will have thee Instead. Hugo: Back! My soul, tempest-toss'd, Hath her Rubicon cross'd, She shall fly — saved or lost! Void of dread! Sharper pang than the steel, Thou, oh, serpent! shalt feel, Should I set the bruised heel On thy head. [He rides out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent Tower Overlooking the Gate. URSULA at the window. AGATHA and Nuns crouching or kneeling in a corner. Ursula: See, Ellinor! Agatha! Anna! While yet for the ladders they wait, Jarl Osric hath rear'd the black banner Within a few yards of the gate; It faces our window, the raven, The badge of the cruel sea-kings, That has carried to harbour and haven Destruction and death on its wings. Beneath us they throng, the fierce Norsemen, The pikemen of Rudolph behind Are mustered, and Dagobert's horsemen With faces to rearward inclined; Come last, on their coursers broad-chested, Rough-coated, short-pastern'd and strong, Their casques with white plumes thickly crested, Their lances barb-headed and long: They come through the shades of the linden, Fleet riders and war-horses hot: 108 The Normans, our friends — we have sinn'd in Our selfishness, sisters, I wot — They come to add slaughter to slaughter, Their handful can ne'er stem the tide Of our foes, and our fate were but shorter Without them. How fiercely they ride! And "Hugo of Normandy!" "Hugo!" "A rescue! a rescue!" rings loud, And right on the many the few go! A sway and a swerve of the crowd! A springing and sparkling of sword-blades! A crashing and 'countering of steeds! And the white feathers fly 'neath their broad blades Like foam-flakes! the spear-shafts like reeds! A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Alas! I have striven To pray, but the lips move in vain When the heart with such terror is riven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: As leaves fall by wintry gusts scatter'd, As fall by the sickle ripe ears, As the pines by the whirlwind fall shatter'd, As shatter'd by bolt fall the firs — To the right hand they fall, to the left hand They yield! They go down! they give back! And their ranks are divided and cleft, and Dispers'd and destroy'd in the track! Where, stirrup to stirrup, and bridle To bridle, down-trampling the slain! Our friends, wielding swords never idle, Hew bloody and desperate lane Through pikemen, so crowded together They scarce for their pikes can find room, Led by Hugo's gilt crest, the tall feather Of Thurston, and Eric's black plume! A Nun (to Agatha): 109 Pray, sister! Agatha: First pray thou that heaven Will lift this dull weight from my brain, That crushes like crime unforgiven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: Close under the gates men are fighting On foot where the raven is rear'd! 'Neath that sword-stroke, through helm and skull smiting, Jarl Osric falls, cloven to the beard! And Hugo, the hilt firmly grasping, His heel on the throat of his foe, Wrenches back. I can hear the dull rasping, The steel through the bone grating low! And the raven rocks! Thurston has landed Two strokes, well directed and hard, On the standard pole, wielding, two-handed, A blade crimson'd up to the guard. Like the mast cut in two by the lightning, The black banner topples and falls! Bewildering! back-scattering! affright'ning! It clears a wide space next the walls. A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Does the sinner unshriven, With naught beyond this life to gain, Pray for mercy on earth or in heaven? Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: The gates are flung open, and straightway, By Ambrose and Cyril led on, Our own men rush out through the gateway; One charge, and the entrance is won! No! our foes block the gate and endeavour To force their way in! Oath and yell, Shout and war-cry wax wilder than ever! Those children of Odin fight well; 110 And my ears are confused by the crashing, The jarring, the discord, the din; And mine eyes are perplex'd by the flashing Of fierce lights that ceaselessly spin; So when thunder to thunder is calling, Quick flash follows flash in the shade, So leaping and flashing and falling, Blade flashes and follows on blade! While the sward, newly plough'd, freshly painted, Grows purple with blood of the slain, And slippery! Has Agatha fainted? Agatha: Not so, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: No more from the window; in the old years I have look'd upon strife. Now I go To the court-yard to rally our soldiers As I may — face to face with the foe. [She goes out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent. THURSTON seated near a small fire. Enter EUSTACE. Eustace: We have come through this skirmish with hardly a scratch. Thurston: And without us, I fancy, they have a full batch Of sick men to look to. Those robbers accurs'd Will soon put our soundest on terms with our worst. Nathless I'd have bartered, with never a frown, Ten years for those seconds when Osric went down. Where's Ethelwolf? Eustace: Dying. 111 Thurston: And Reginald? Eustace: Dead. And Ralph is disabled, and Rudolph is sped. He may last till midnight — not longer. Nor Tyrrel, Nor Brian will ever see sunrise. Thurston: That Cyril, The monk, is a very respectable fighter. Eustace: Not bad for a monk. Yet our loss had been lighter Had he and his fellows thrown open the gate A little more quickly. And now, spite of fate, With thirty picked soldiers their siege we might weather, But the Abbess is worth all the rest put together. [Enter Ursula.] Thurston: Here she comes. Ursula: Can I speak with your lord? Eustace: 'Tis too late, He was dead when we carried him in at the gate. Thurston: Nay, he spoke after that, for I heard him myself; But he won't speak again, he must lie on his shelf. Ursula: Alas! is he dead, then? Thurston: As dead as St. Paul. And what then? to-morrow we, too, one and all, Die, to fatten these ravenous carrion birds. I knelt down by Hugo and heard his last words: "How heavy the night hangs — how wild the waves dash; Say a mass for my soul — and give Rollo a mash." Ursula: 112 Nay, Thurston, thou jestest. Thurston: Ask Eric. I swear We listened and caught every syllable clear. Eustace: Why, his horse was slain, too. Thurston: 'Neath the linden trees grey, Ere the onset, young Henry rode Rollo away; He will hasten the Prince, and they may reach your gate To-morrow — though to-morrow for us is too late. Hugo rode the boy's mare, and she's dead — if you like — Disembowel'd by the thrust of a freebooter's pike. Eustace: Neither Henry nor Rollo we ever shall see. Ursula: But we may hold the walls till to-morrow. Thurston: Not we. In an hour or less, having rallied their force, They'll storm your old building — and take it, of course, Since of us, who alone in war's science are skill'd, One-third are disabled, and two-thirds are kill'd. Ursula: Art thou hurt? Thurston: At present I feel well enough, But your water is brackish, unwholesome and rough; Bring a flask of your wine, dame, for Eustace and I, Let us gaily give battle and merrily die. [Enter Eric, with arm in sling.] Eric: Thou art safe, Lady Abbess! The convent is safe! To be robbed of their prey how the ravens will chafe! The vanguard of Otto is looming in sight! At the sheen of their spears, see! thy foemen take flight, Their foremost are scarce half a mile from the wall. 113 Thurston: Bring the wine, lest those Germans should swallow it all. SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. Dirge of the Monks: Earth to earth, and dust to dust, Ashes unto ashes go. Judge not. He who judgeth just, Judgeth merciful also. Earthly penitence hath fled, Earthly sin hath ceased to be; Pile the sods on heart and head, Miserere Domine! Hominum et angelorum, Domine! precamur te Ut immemor sis malorum — Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Will the fruits of life brought forth, Pride and greed, and wrath and lust, Profit in the day of wrath, When the dust returns to dust? Evil flower and thorny fruit Load the wild and worthless tree. Lo! the axe is at the root, Miserere Domine! Spes, fidesque, caritasque, Frustra fatigant per se, Frustra virtus, forsque, fasque, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Fair without and foul within, When the honey'd husks are reft From the bitter sweets of sin, 114 Bitterness alone is left; Yet the wayward soul hath striven Mostly hell's ally to be, In the strife 'twixt hell and heaven, Miserere Domine! Heu! heu! herba latet anguis — Caro herba — carni vae — Solum purgat, Christi sanguis, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Pray that in the doubtful fight Man may win through sore distress, By His goodness infinite, And His mercy fathomless. Pray for one more of the weary, Head bow'd down and bended knee, Swell the requiem, Miserere! Miserere Domine! Bonum, malum, qui fecisti Mali imploramus te, Salve fratrem, causa Christi, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) [End of Ashtaroth.] ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,