User talk:Aristotelles

I had to talk about aristotelles. His name could be aristoteles. What would be a l difference.

Island. Wh-island... A l difference would be what. A l difference what would be. What a l difference would be. What would be a l difference.

More~

So, Aristotelles travelled to an island.

He caught fish and swam. He was a philosopher at an island, so there wasn't S.O.S. Without S.O.S., but maybe to himself only, he travelled along. At the far edge of the ocean he swam back and forth and again. He felt exausted. That was the story.

Can you tell some other way? In a way people never can believe? Already faced, pathetically maybe?

Alright, nobody wants to go to the island.

He went there for nothing; there weren't anybody. He should come back and what is this on his face that really blushes and cannot join with people; was actually his disconnected fluency of sociality; all socialist has one of sociality-it means social-ability.

He swam and swam to think about what to say, then, picked coral leaf.

CORAL LEAF.

Coral Leaf One

Have you heard her saying "I'm forgetting it. I really did not know it. Only missing is increasing."

This is not my saying. I'm saying: I never forget it. It is there to be worked out. Long or short it waits. It may wait for me or you. Whenever fate throws miracle on me. I can retrieve you back. That is how the world goes. People say. Even money and marriage cannot decide like I decide. I know it well. I am there to tell you. But it is there. I will go there to tell you. I will get there to tell you. Only missing is decreasing. I know who is waiting for me. --Aristotelles 11:26, 28 May 2005 (UTC)See you there again.

So it was 'The Catcher in the Rye' J.D. Salinger

Aristo wanted to tell us about. He actually acted out. For us. All of us. Had to watch.

Coral Leaf Two. Rye: one of the grains. Good about rye: good for health Bad about rye: peasants

Catcher: quick learner Good about quick learner: They learn fast and play as much as they want. Bad about quick learner: Slow learner may think they learnt very light. (University Seven Years can make you a Phy.ed otherwise shorter ones are bachelor and master)

So everything can be changed all at once.

Power can do that.

Power, power, power!

Coral Leaf Three

This is really funny because I wanted to go to random, then, I have to tell you something to look more natural reading random pages. I care more when I'm by myself. So, this happens.

Coral Leaf Four

There was fourth day in Aristo's life, too. He considered it as: A day to practice his learned theory. A day to observe star in the sky. A day to cook with ready recipes. A day to eat preserved food. A day to say what you've been thinking. A day to act-out what you've been planned to do. A day to give someone a present that you've been wrapping.

Understood?

Coral Leaf Five

I want to tell you about fifth.

They have perfection in number fifth.

This fifth is nothing.

Sixth is next and so on.

Have that feeling everybody.

Coral Leaf Six

Three times two is six.

It may represent two days' meal.

Okay, I like to talk about Aristo and telling people. Have you got journalism and humanism? Humanism is all the things humen do. Journalism is all the things journalists do. Okay, repremantation of all the things will come.

Coral leaf seven

Everyone believes seven is their lucky number. Number of days in a week is seven. Whenever they are number seven in order of doing something, they are happy and ambitious about it.

Now, about this ambition we are going to talk about it. People or humen like something to happen graciously and goddess-likely. Then, they can be ambitious about it. What is great about humen in doing the benefits to the environment is usually not acceptable by people. They don't like it and just saying it.

Their were many goddesses in Greek. They believe. But what great happened the mostly was in England while they didn't know well about goddesses that humen will never know that well as actually existing goddesses.

I do all the cute things to become a goddesses' favorite personality, character, human, and being.

Coral Leaf Eight

Fun isn't it. Surprisingly, Aristo told us all of his fun. He wasn't stressed at all.

Somewhere it was released or prevented not to be emitted. Gone with the stress was [what].

Syntactically, Chomsky will tell us Aristo knows it all.

Aristo tells us [what] was ... and all... then something something...

He went on and said... MOney, time, effort and sweat.

Coral Leaf Nine

Boring Life

Bordom came at anytime to see what's better to do Oh, bordom came and didn't do anything but existed Ran to the bordom and it was so boring. In this world, bordom was so boring. Never again, to the bordom run will go. "Gone to the fun, Bordom!"

Life was there In this world, life came. Fall comes in life. Everlastingly too!

William Butler Yeats and relationship with Berkley university.

There is none. Butler Yeats is an irish poet and Berkley university is at U.S.

Sometimes, they think the way alphabets go.

Not always are the alphabets correct. That's the problem. Solving is a great work. But it is still, why did they have to solve that much. No problem is not even solving too.

Get out of here!

Coral lunch leaf

I ate the coral lunch leaf. Really, it was so delicious.

Okay, they were running fresh water lobster restaurant. They learned from their school that fresh water fishes are not good to eat. They sell ocean lobster now.

I thought even plants are the same. I should eat ocean plants. So, I decided to eat coral lunch leaf. It was delicious.

Refer to: Alice from Alice's Wonderland's dream

God's endowment.

I like to be talented, so I asked for it.(for example)

Would he listen? He do something but can I do like him too? So I took his creation as his work.

Let's be interested in health first. If want calcium, it's a bit busy right now.

cuticle chitin pellicle wax

In the U.S., a Sport Pilot Certificate allows the pilot to operate a light-sport aircraft (a small, low-powered aircraft), under a limited set of flight conditions. It is the only U.S. pilot certificate that does not require a medical examination; a driver's license can be used as proof of medical competence.

On July 20, 2004 the FAA approved the Sport Pilot rule, to meet demand from recreational pilots flying small and experimental airplanes. The FAA worked in cooperation with the Experimental Aircraft Association to create the rule. This certification is easier to obtain than the Private Pilot Certificate, and has more restrictions than the Private certificate.

No FAA medical certificate is required. A valid and current driver's license certifies that the pilot is medically fit to fly. However, those who have had a FAA medical certificate revoked or denied may not use a drivers license, but rather must obtain a valid medical certificate. A minimum of 20 hours of flight time including 15 hours of flight with an instructor and 5 hours of solo flight. A passing score on an FAA knowledge test. Pass a practical flight exam with an FAA-designated examiner. Sport Pilots are only eligible to fly aircraft that are either certified as light-Sport aircraft or other certified aircraft that meet the criteria for light-sport aircraft. These criteria include:

Maximum Gross Takeoff Weight < 1320 lb (exceptions for seaplanes) Maximum airspeed in level flight of 120 knots Maximum of two seats Piston engine, fixed-pitch propeller only Certain certified aircraft such as the original Piper Cub meet the definition of light-sport sircraft. Several designers and manufacturers of Experimental Aircraft kits are working to develop models that are compliant with the light-sport aircraft rules. Unlike traditional experimental aircraft, completed light-sport aircraft may be offered for sale.

Other notable restrictions placed on a holder of a Sport Pilot certificate are:

At most one passenger Daytime flight only (civil twilight is used to define day/night) No flight above 10,000 feet MSL No flight in any of the airspace classes that require radio communication (classes A, B, C, or D) without first obtaining additional instruction and instructor endorsement No additional ratings (such as an Instrument rating), although time in sport-light aircraft can be used towards the experience requirement of other ratings.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. In biology, chitin is one of the main components in the cell walls of fungi, the exoskeletons of insects and other arthropods, and in some other animals. It is a polysaccharide, made out of units of acetylglucosamine (more completely, N-acetyl-D-glucos-2-amine). These are linked together in β-1,4 fashion, the same as the glucose units that make up cellulose. So chitin may be thought of as cellulose, with one hydroxyl group on each monomer replaced by an acetylamino group. This allows for increased hydrogen bonding between adjacent polymers, giving the material increased strength. The strength and flexibility of chitin is the reason it is the material of choice for surgical thread.

"Chitin" and "chiton" (a marine animal) both derive from the same Greek word meaning "tunic", referring to the hardness of the shell.

In the honeybee the color of chitin may be yellow, golden, brown or black.

From chitin chitosan can be produced.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. In biology, chitin is one of the main components in the cell walls of fungi, the exoskeletons of insects and other arthropods, and in some other animals. It is a polysaccharide, made out of units of acetylglucosamine (more completely, N-acetyl-D-glucos-2-amine). These are linked together in β-1,4 fashion, the same as the glucose units that make up cellulose. So chitin may be thought of as cellulose, with one hydroxyl group on each monomer replaced by an acetylamino group. This allows for increased hydrogen bonding between adjacent polymers, giving the material increased strength. The strength and flexibility of chitin is the reason it is the material of choice for surgical thread.

"Chitin" and "chiton" (a marine animal) both derive from the same Greek word meaning "tunic", referring to the hardness of the shell.

In the honeybee the color of chitin may be yellow, golden, brown or black.

From chitin chitosan can be produced.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. In biology, chitin is one of the main components in the cell walls of fungi, the exoskeletons of insects and other arthropods, and in some other animals. It is a polysaccharide, made out of units of acetylglucosamine (more completely, N-acetyl-D-glucos-2-amine). These are linked together in β-1,4 fashion, the same as the glucose units that make up cellulose. So chitin may be thought of as cellulose, with one hydroxyl group on each monomer replaced by an acetylamino group. This allows for increased hydrogen bonding between adjacent polymers, giving the material increased strength. The strength and flexibility of chitin is the reason it is the material of choice for surgical thread.

"Chitin" and "chiton" (a marine animal) both derive from the same Greek word meaning "tunic", referring to the hardness of the shell.

In the honeybee the color of chitin may be yellow, golden, brown or black.

From chitin chitosan can be produced.

[http://www.skinsite.com/info_nail_care.htm http://medir.ohsu.edu/cliniweb/D9/D9.203.698.html]

Okay, when calcium is busy what do we do?

We let fishes to work. Anchovy.

Let's assume that there really was a coral leaf.

Then it would be a coral leaf ten, now.

At the coral leaf ten, conflict arosed. All the small fish can live under the caves of the coral leaves. Sharks can't.

Assumption one: Exhausted and lackless sharks' behavior can come from their homelessness due to their preference of darkness and stinginess.

For more information about the sharks, refer to animation 'Nemo' or 'Namo.'

Now, it's world of philosophy

That ever talked talked and talked. They said be quiet in school They end up getting philosophy degree when they graduate Isn't it ironic.

What more ironies do I have to face? Fun irony rather than tragical irony.

What kind of wife did Aristotelles have?

I can conceit her as a beautiful warm-hearted intelligent wife. She knows how to cook in her kitchen. She can organize her house. She can deal with her children.

ETC. But can that be true? What about Aristotelles? HE had to work on his philosophy no matter what comes to his world. (mother in these days are saying) And they create the worst situation for their children too! For their experiment only! Discrete them all if you can.

Millenium five June Seventeenth Friday

How about we dance with Lee Coco's "Dancing Queen."

Yes, we should. Noon thirty four in Seoul, Korea. Eight in the evening of June Sixteen Thursday in US.

Who's going to start dancing? Seoul, Korea. Who would dance faster than them? Nobody.

I read Aesop's fable. Number one is to give the Grasshopper a chance. Number two is to ignore the poor Grasshopper.

It is like how God would face us, very small creatures on earth. I don't even know whether ants took food or dirt. If I drop chocolate they sure like the crumps, but it's still so ambiguous.

Coral Leaf Ten

The tenth coral leaf started to fall by itself because it has been a long time. Fallen coral leaves went to the picnic. There was Alice. They met and played. Alice fell asleep again. But does it matter. It doesn't. How wonderful the picnic was!

This is world of salt.

Coral leaf realized.

There wasn't an inch of something other than salt.

This is my favorite place.

Who wouldn't like this much sunny side?

What do you do when you need a help?

Self-diagnose first?

I learned to self-diagnose from some learning place. They divided their students according to their learning ability. It was a test. How many questions did you answer correctly and how many incorrectly? They counted and divided the students accordingly. Of course, they ask you something more before and give the appropriate test.

There wasn't Aeschylus questions. They don't even know who Aeschylus is. I imported Aeschylus as a great speaker, and then, they wanted me to work more on my mechanics. Wasn't the mechanics miracle after all for everyone?

Sometimes, you should think carefully whether you are devoting something for somebody. I devoting myself in Aeschylus. He sounds heroic person because he doesn't have his last name. But when you read his story, surprisingly he was a lawyer. You can guess an ugly woman who speaks very well logically.

Are you having a charming day?

Italic text Refer to: Alfred Lord Tennyson's corner

$++++++++$

In Memoriam by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  XXI. I sing, grasses wave. Grasses blow. Traveller harshly makes to waxen.

I sing to him that rests below,

And, since the grasses round me wave,

I take the grasses of the grave,

And make them pipes whereon to blow.

The traveller hears me now and then,

And sometimes harshly will he speak:

This fellow would make weakness weak,

And melt the waxen hearts of men.

Another answers, met him be,

He loves to make parade of pain,

That with his piping he may gain

The praise that comes to constancy.

A third is wroth: is this an hour

For private sorrow's barren song,

When more and more the people throng

The chairs and thrones of civil power

It's time to sicken and to swoon,

When Science reaches forth her arms

To feel from world to world, and charms

Her secret from the latest moon

Behold, ye speak an idle thing:

Ye never knew the sacred dust:

I do but sing because I must,

And pipe but as the linnets sing:

And one is glad; her note is gay,

For now her little ones have ranged;

And one is sad; her note is changed,

Because her brood is stolen away.

  XXII. Path was beautiful with flowers then the autumn came with shadows driven over.

The path by which we twain did go,

Which led by tracts that pleased us well,

Through four sweet years arose and fell,

From flower to flower, from snow to snow:

And we with singing cheered the way,

And, crowned with all the season lent,

From April on to April went,

And glad at heart from May to May:

But where the path we walked began

To slant the fifth autumnal slope,

As we descended following Hope,

There sat the Shadow fearful of man;

Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold,

And wrapt thee formless in the fold,

And dull the murmur on thy lip,

And bore thee where I could not see

Nor follow, though I walk in haste,

And think, that somewhere in the waste

The Shadow sits and waits for me.

  XXIII. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut,

Or breaking into song by fits,

Alone, alone, to where he sits,

The Shadow cloaked from head to foot,

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,

I wander, often falling lame,

And looking back to whence I came,

Or on to where the pathway leads;

And crying, How changed from where it ran

Thro?lands where not a leaf was dumb;

But all the lavish hills would hum

The murmur of a happy Pan:

When each by turns was guide to each,

And Fancy light from Fancy caught,

And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech;

And all we met was fair and good,

And all was good that Time could bring,

And all the secret of the Spring

Moved in the chambers of the blood;

And many an old philosophy

On Argive heights divinely sang,

And round us all the thicket rang

To many a flute of Arcady.

  XXIV. 

And was the day of my delight

As pure and perfect as I say?

The very source and fount of Day

Is dashing with wandering isles of night.

If all was good and fair we met,

This earth had been the Paradise

It never looked to human eyes

Since our first Sun arose and set.

And is it that the haze of grief

Makes former gladness loom so great?

The lowness of the present state,

That sets the past in this relief?

Or that the past will always win

A glory from its being far;

And orb into the perfect star

We saw not, when we moved therein?

  XXV. 

I know that this was Life, the track

Whereon with equal feet we fared;

And then, as now, the day prepared

The daily burden for the back.

But this it was that made me move

As light as carrier-birds in air;

I loved the weight I had to bear,

Because it needed help of Love:

Nor could I weary, heart or limb,

When mighty Love would cleave in twain

The lading of a single pain,

And part it, giving half to him.

  XXVI. 

Still onward winds the dreary way;

I with it; for I long to prove

No lapse of moons can canker Love,

Whatever fickle tongues may say.

And if that eye which watches guilt

And goodness, and hath power to see

Within the green the mouldered tree,

And towers fallen as soon as built?

Oh, if indeed that eye foresee

Or see (in Him is no before)

In more of life true life no more

And Love the indifference to be,

Then might I find, ere yet the morn

Breaks hither over Indian seas,

That Shadow waiting with the keys,

To shroud me from my proper scorn.

  XXVII. 

I envy not in any moods

The captive void of noble rage,

The linnet born within the cage,

That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes

His license in the field of time,

Unfettered by the sense of crime,

To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,

The heart that never plighted troth

But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;

Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whatever befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

This better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

  XXVIII. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ:

The moon is hid; the night is still;

The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor,

Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,

That now dilate, and now decrease,

Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain,

I almost wished no more to wake,

And that my hold on life would break

Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule,

For they controlled me when a boy;

They bring me sorrow touched with joy,

The merry merry bells of Yule.

  XXIX. 

With such compelling cause to grieve

As daily vexes household peace,

And chains regret to his decease,

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve;

Which brings no more a welcome guest

To enrich the threshold of the night

With shower largess of delight

In dance and song and game and jest?

Yet go, and while the holly boughs

Entwine the cold baptismal font,

Make one wreath more for Use and Wont,

That guard the portals of the house;

Old sisters of a day gone by,

Gray nurses, loving nothing new;

Why should they miss their yearly due

Before their time? They too will die.

  XXX. 

With trembling fingers did we weave

The holly round the Christmas hearth;

A rainy cloud possessed the earth,

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall

We gamboled, making vain pretence

Of gladness, with an awful sense

Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:

We heard them sweep the winter land;

And in a circle hand-in-hand

Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang;

We sung, though every eye was dim,

A merry song we sang with him

Last year: impetuously we sang:

We ceased: a gentler feeling crept

Upon us: surely rest is meet:

They rest,we said, their sleep is sweet,

And silence followed, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;

Once more we sang: they do not die

Nor lose their mortal sympathy,

Nor change to us, although they change;

Adapt from the fickle and the frail

With gathered power, yet the same,

Pierces the keen seraphic flame

From orb to orb, from veil to veil.

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,

Draw forth the cheerful day from night:

O Father, touch the east, and light

The light that shone when Hope was born.

  XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave,

And home to Mary's house returned,

Was this demanded if he yearned

To hear her weeping by his grave?

Where wert thou, brother, those four days

There lives no record of reply,

Which telling what it is to die

Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbours met,

The streets were filled with joyful sound,

A solemn gladness even crown's

The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ!

The rest remaineth unrevealed;

He told it not; or something sealed

The lips of that Evangelist.

  XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,

Nor other thought her mind admits

But, he was dead, and there he sits,

And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede

All other, when her ardent gaze

Roves from the living brother's face,

And rests upon the Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears,

Borne down by gladness so complete,

She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet

With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,

Whose loves in higher love endure;

What souls possess themselves so pure,

Or is there blessedness like theirs?

  XXXIII. 

O thou that after toil and storm

Mayst seem to have reached a purer air,

Whose faith has centre everywhere,

Nor cares to fix itself to form,

Leave thou thy sister when she prays,

Her early Heaven, her happy views;

Nor thou with shadow's hint confuse

A life that leads melodious days.

Her faith through form is pure as thine,

Her hands are quicker unto good:

Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood

To which she links a truth divine!

See thou, that countest reason ripe

In holding by the law within,

Thou fail not in a world of sin,

And ev뭤 for want of such a type.

  XXXIV. 

My own dim life should teach me this,

That life shall live for evermore,

Else earth is darkness at the core,

And dust and ashes all that is;

This round of green, this orb of flame,

Fantastic beauty; such as lurks

In some wild Poet, when he works

Without a conscience or an aim.

What then were God to such as I?

It were hardly worth my while to choose

Of things all mortal, or to use

A little patience ere I die;

It were best at once to sink to peace,

Like birds the charming serpent draws,

To drop head-foremost in the jaws

Of vacant darkness and to cease.

  XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust

Should murmur from the narrow house,

The cheeks drop in; the body bows;

Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:

Might I not say? Met even here,

But for one hour, O Love, I strive

To keep so sweet a thing alive:

But I should turn mine ears and hear

The moanings of the homeless sea,

The sound of streams that swift or slow

Draw down Bosnian hills, and sow

The dust of continents to be;

And Love would answer with a sigh,

The sound of that forgetful shore

Will change my sweetness more and more,

Half-dead to know that I shall die.

O me, what profits it to put

And idle case? If Death were seen

At first as Death, Love had not been,

Or been in narrowest working shut,

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods,

Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape

Had bruised the herb and crushed the grape,

And basked and battened in the woods.

  XXXVI. 

Though truths in manhood darkly join,

Deep-seated in our mystic frame,

We yield all blessing to the name

Of Him that made them current coin;

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers,

Where truth in closest words shall fail,

When truth embodied in a tale

Shall enter in at lowly doors.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought

With human hands the creed of creeds

In loveliness of perfect deeds,

More strong than all poetic thought;

Which he may read that binds the sheaf,

Or builds the house, or digs the grave,

And those wild eyes that watch the wave

In roarings round the coral reef.

  XXXVII. 

Urania speaks with darkened brow:

Thou pratest here where thou art least;

This faith has many a purer priest,

And many an abler voice than thou.

To down beside thy native rill,

On thy Parnassus set thy feet,

And hear thy laurel whisper sweet

About the ledges of the hill.?

And my Melpomene replies,

A touch of shame upon her cheek:

I am not worthy even to speak

Of thy prevailing mysteries;

For I am but an earthly Muse,

And owning but a little art

To lull with song an aching heart,

And render human love his dues;

Out brooding on the dear one dead,

And all he said of things divine,

(And dear to me as sacred wine

To dying lips is all he said),

멗 murmured, as I came along,

Of comfort clasped in truth revealed;

And loitered in the mastered field,

And darkened sanctities with song.?

  XXXVIII. 

With weary steps I loiter on,

Tho?always under altered skies

The purple from the distance dies,

My prospect and horizon gone.

No joy the blowing season gives,

The herald melodies of spring,

But in the songs I love to sing

A doubtful gleam of solace lives.

If any care for what is here

Survive in spirits rendered free,

Then are these songs I sing of thee

Not all ungrateful to thine ear.

  XXXIX. 

Old warder of these buried bones,

And answering now my random stroke

With fruitful cloud and living smoke,

Dark yew, that graspest at the stones

And dippest toward the dreamless head,

To thee too comes the golden hour

When flower is feeling after flower;

But Sorrow poixt upon the dead,

And darkening the dark graves of men,

What whispered from her lying lips?

Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,

And passes into gloom again.

  XL. 

Could we forget the widowed hour

And look on Spirits breathed away,

As on a maiden in the day

When first she wears her orange-flower!

When crowned with blessing she doth rise

To take her latest leave of home,

And hopes and light regrets that come

Make April of her tender eyes;

And doubtful joys the father move,

And tears are on the mother's face,

As parting with a long embrace

She enters other realms of love;

Her office there to rear, to teach,

Becoming as is meet and fit

A link among the days, to knit

The generations each with each;

And, doubtless, unto thee is given

A life that bears immortal fruit

In those great offices that suit

The full-grown energies of heaven.

Ay me, the difference I discern!

How often shall her old fireside

Be cheered with tidings of the bride,

How often she herself return,

And tell them all they would have told,

And bring her babe, and make her boast,

Till even those that missed her most

Shall count new things as dear as old:

But thou and I have shaken hands,

Till growing winters lay me low;

My paths are in the fields I know,

And thine in undiscovered lands.

This poem is not a complete version My point is what is bolded. Charming serpent ...

Does poet always see things charming? Alfred Lord Tennyson said serpent is charming thing. That's so exceptional.

Sky and Ocean

Purple mullet and gold-fish rove at the deep wave with coral grove. Sea-flower's leaves were blue. Dew couldn't wet it. Beautiful and brine. Sandy floor and mountain too. Pearl very exceptional at sparkling but sea plants were playing at the coral rocks. Boughs and billows flew. Calm water showed me. That's all!

The Coral Grove

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air: There with its waving blade of green,

sea-flag streams not screams, leaves are at the dulse, bluch is a banner bathed in slaughter, ocean tufts in yellow and scarlet, looks like corn at the lea,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To bluch, like a banner bathed in slaughter: There with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea: And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms, Has made the top of the waves his own: And when the ship from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore; Then far below in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly, Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

James Gates Percival

Refer to: James Gates Percival's Corner

There was a snake

I Stood Tiptoe Upon a Little Hill

I tip-toed, cooly, modest, curve was slanting downward, stems tapered. starry diadems I crowned with, I cried every morning, Cottony cloud, fresh brook, blue sky, noiseless leaves, Sigh gave birth to everything. No motion, shades on the greens, wandering greedies, no peer-pressures.

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 or the green. There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety; Far round the horizontal 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.

bees at the May flowers, tasteful nook, lush laburnum sweeps, bind the moss.

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.

filbert hedge, soft wind, summer thrones, frequent tree, moss, clear waters, lovely daughters, blue bells, fair clusters, fresh beds, by infant hands left to die.

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 folds, ardent golds, dry, Apollo, praises, harps, dewiness, I rove in vale, his voice come upon gale, sweet peas, wings white, fingers catching, bind with tiny rings

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 over 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 streamlet rushy banks, And watch intently Nature gentle doings: They will be found softer than ring-dove cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend; Not the minutest whisper does it send To the overhanging sallows: blades of grass Slowly across the chequer shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon over their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies against the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Temper 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 emeald 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 maiden gown Fanning away the dandelion 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 over 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, Over which the mind may hover till it dozes; Over which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that is 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 Nature 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; Overhead 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 wreath and curl. 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 touch; what amorous and fondling nips They gave each other cheeks; with all their sighs, And how they kist each other 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 Jove throne. pulling off the boughs and look into a forest, Fawns and Dryades, Nymph and Pan weep, So did he feel, who pull 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 desolation - balmy pain. bard of old sing, narcissus spring, ramble he was found, boughs are woven, clearer pool

What first inspired a bard of old to sing Narcissus pining over 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 ever 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 over 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 over his fancy shot; Nor was it long ere he had told the tale Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo 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 wonderous 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 Dian temple; while upswelling, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. But though her face was clear as infant eyes, Though she stood smiling over 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 trumpet 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 cool their fever 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 wondering 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 gazing With hands held back, and motionless, amazing To see the brightness in each others?eyes; And so they stood, fill with a sweet surprise, Until their tongues were loosing 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 follow thine, and thy dear shepherd kisses: Was there a Poet born? - but now no more, My wandering spirit must no further soar.

John Keats

Refer to: John Keats' Corner

Champion of human honor -from To Belgium

To Belgium

Champion of human honor, let us lave 

Your feet and bind your wounds on bended knee. Though coward hands have nailed you to the tree And shed your innocent blood and dug your grave, Rejoice and live! Your oriflamme shall wave -- While man has power to perish and be free -- A golden flame of holiest Liberty, Proud as the dawn and as the sunset brave.

Belgium, where dwelleth reverence for right Enthroned above all ideals; where your fate And your supernal patience and your might Most sacred grow in human estimate, You shine a star above this stormy night Little no more, but infinitely great.

Eden Phillpotts 

Refer to: Eden Phillpotts's Corner

Olney Hymns by William Cowper

Longing to be with Christ

To Jesus, the crown of my hope,

My soul is in haste to be gone;

O bear me, ye cherubim, up,

And waft me away to His throne!

Oh, great

--Aristotelles 07:00, 23 Jun 2005 (UTC)

spend that much effort on my ***, you poet!

My Saviour, whom absent I love,

Whom, not having seen I adore;

Whose name is exalted above

*** stands for wish, wish, wish***

All glory, dominion, and power;

Dissolve thou these bonds that detain

My soul from her portion in thee.

Ah! strike off this adamant chain,

And make me eternally free.

When that happy era begins,

When arrayed in Thy glories I shine,

Nor grieve any more, by my sins,

The bosom on which I recline.

Oh then shall the veil be removed,

And round me Thy brightness be pour'd,

I shall meet Him whom absent I loved,

Shall see Him whom unseen I adored.

And then, never more shall the fears,

The trials, temptation, and woes,

Which darken this valley of tears,

Intrude on my blissful repose.

Or, if yet remember'd above,

Remembrance no sadness shall raise,

They will be but new signs of Thy love,

New themes for my wonder and praise.

Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain

Shall set me eternally free,

Will but strengthen and rivet the chain

Which binds me, my Saviour, to Thee.

Refer to: William Cowper's Corner

Blessings on hands of woman

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle Is The Hand That Rules The World

Blessings on the hand of women!

Angels guard its strength and grace,

In the palace, cottage, hovel,

Oh, no matter where the place;

Would that never storms assailed it,

Rainbows ever gently curled;

For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy's the tender fountain,

Power may with beauty flow,

Mother's first to guide the streamlets,

From them souls unresting grow--

Grow on for the good or evil,

Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;

For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission

Here upon our natal sod!

Keep, oh, keep the young heart open

Always to the breath of God!

All true trophies of the ages

Are from mother-love impearled;

For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of women!

Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,

And the sacred song is mingled

With the worship in the sky--

Mingles where no tempest darkens,

Rainbows evermore are hurled;

For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rules the world.

William Ross Wallace

Refer to: William Ross Wallace's Corner

I like rain this much separately

Hardwood Point

On a gray foggy summer day blessed by persistent drizzle we embarked down the narrow and rutted dirt road finally coming to a halt near a withered crabapple tree alone it stood like some aging sentinel left to watch over another era I followed a trail of wild berries until I spied a tiny cemetery tucked into the woods I roamed amongst the stones finally stumbling upon the memorial for my grandmother I envisioned her simple cottage under the apple tree the children at her skirts while she tended to her chores He is out to sea again the burden is all hers the fog closed in around me carried me back I understood her isolation I wondered did the rain on her roof at night comfort her or only amplify her loneliness?

Robin M. Berard

refer to: Robin M. Berard's Corner