Just Literary
A woman I knew once confessed that at times, whenever she becomes horny for no apparent reason, she gets a glimpse of how men feel most of the time, and sympathies with them. This is a novel confession, as many women would simply blame men for being what they are, rather than what women...
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A PSALM OF LIFE
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end...
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MUTABILITY
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon
How restlessly the speed, and gleam, and quiver
Streaking the darkness radiantly yet soon
Night closes round, and they lost forever
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various responses to each veering blast
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last
We rest-a dream...
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THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US
The world is too much with us; late and soon, (a)
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: (b)
Little we see in Nature that is ours; (b)
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! (a)
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; (a)
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THE SOLITARY REAPER
Behold her, single in the field (a)
Yon solitary highland lass! (b)
Reaping and singing by herself; (c)
Stop here, or gently pass! (b)
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, (d)
and sings a melancholy strain; (d)
O listen! for the vale profound (e)
Is overflowing with the sound. (e)
No Nightingale did ever chaunt (a)
More welcome notes...
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ode to the west wind
I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse...
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
A PSALM OF LIFE
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN
SAID TO THE PSALMIST
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream ! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real ! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou...
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