Saturday, March 11, 2017

William Shakespeare - The Tempest, Act IV, Scene 1


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William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
Prospero speaks to Ferdinand and Miranda
You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d;
Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:
Be not disturb’d with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk,
To still my beating mind.

Saturday, February 25, 2017

Saturday Poetry - Percy Bysshe Shelley



Amid the desolation of a city,
Which was the cradle, and is now the grave
Of an extinguished people,—so that Pity

Weeps o’er the shipwrecks of Oblivion’s wave,
There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built
Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave

For bread, and gold, and blood: Pain, linked to Guilt,
Agitates the light flame of their hours,
Until its vital oil is spent or spilt.

There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers 
And sacred domes; each marble-ribbed roof,
The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers

Of solitary wealth,--the tempest-proof
Pavilions of the dark Italian air,--
Are by its presence dimmed--they stand aloof, 

And are withdrawn—so that the world is bare;
As if a spectre wrapped in shapeless terror
Amid a company of ladies fair

Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror
Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue,
The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error,
Should be absorbed, till they to marble grew. 

Saturday, February 04, 2017

Saturday Poetry - The Sweet Hussy, Thomas Hardy

In his early days he was quite surprised
 When she told him she was compromised
 By meetings and lingerings at his whim,
 And thinking not of herself but him;
 While she lifted orbs aggrieved and round
 That scandal should so soon abound,
 (As she had raised them to nine or ten
 Of antecedent nice young men):
 And in remorse he thought with a sigh,
 How good she is, and how bad am I! -
 It was years before he understood
 That she was the wicked one - he the good.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Saturday Poetry - The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost



Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
 To where it bent in the undergrowth;
 Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
 Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
 And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
 Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

 I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
 I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.