And Not To Yield

I reblog this every so often because it always cheers me up. For today’s assignment, read it in Lemmy Kilmister’s voice:

Ulysses
by Alfred Tennyson
(written in 1833 and it was published with his Poems in 1842)

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees; all times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy,
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

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The Oz Man Cometh

Most statues are of forgotten men who fought forgotten battles in wars I read about in a book.  They aren’t things I give a lot of thought to.

If it’s an especially nice statue, I might think to myself, “Hey- nice statue!” but I find it hard to invest much emotion into them–  in no small part because of this:

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Always There

I feel in every girl there is a spirit,
a wild pixie,
that if let go,
would run and dance in grassy fields
until the end of the world.

And then that girl grows up,
that pixie hides,
but it’s always there,
peeking out behind old eyes
and reading glasses,
laughing, waiting,
to one day dance again.

~Atticus

(There are a lot of poets named “Atticus.”  I think it’s this one:  LINK)

Stuff Changes

Stuff Changes
by Brian Andreas (via)

A lot of stuff changes once you figure out
the voices you hear in your head have
no idea what they’re talking about.
If they knew anything at all about
the world, they’d stop in amazement
because why waste all that time
talking when you could be spinning
around & around laughing &
soaking it all in?

 

And pray to all in earnest

 

I LOVE TO SIT IN SILENCE
      1
I love to sit in silence
Beneath the shady trees
And listen to the song of birds
And to the buzz of bees.
        II
I love to sit in silence
And watch the Clouds roll by
Then read a book or sing a song
And hear the wild bird cry.
       III
I love to sit in silence
When the day is almost done
And see behind the distant hill
The paint glow of the sun.
       IV
I love to sit in silence
In the evening twilight
And listen to the whippor-will
Singing with all its might
        V
I love to sit in silence
Beneath the Starry sky
And pray to all in earnest
To live in silence all the while.

I’ve searched unsuccessfully to find the author of this poem.  If anyone knows, please tell me- I’d love for him or her to receive credit.

(Hotlinked images have a way of disappearing, so I went ahead and transcribed it.  I kept the capitalization and punctuation the same way it was in the image, because it’s not always clear what’s a mistake and what’s poetic license.)

Do Not Apply

I found this haiku on a xeroxed sheet tucked inside a book I bought from a charity sale, so I have no idea who the author is.  Pity, because I really like it:

I think for myself.
The warning signs do not apply
to an immortal.