Poezitë që parapëlqej.

Diskutime tek 'Letërsia' filluar nga Ema, 4 Nov 2002.

  1. alinos

    alinos Forumium maestatis

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    The Ghost's Leavetaking

    Enter the chilly no-man's land of about
    Five o'clock in the morning, the no-color void
    Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot
    Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums
    Which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much,

    Gets ready to face the ready-made creation
    Of chairs and bureaus and sleep-twisted sheets.
    This is the kingdom of the fading apparition,
    The oracular ghost who dwindles on pin-legs
    To a knot of laundry, with a classic bunch of sheets

    Upraised, as a hand, emblematic of farewell.
    At this joint between two worlds and two entirely
    Incompatible modes of time, the raw material
    Of our meat-and-potato thoughts assumes the nimbus
    Of ambrosial revelation. And so departs.

    Chair and bureau are the hieroglyphs
    Of some godly utterance wakened heads ignore:
    So these posed sheets, before they thin to nothing,
    Speak in sign language of a lost otherworld,
    A world we lose by merely waking up.

    Trailing its telltale tatters only at the outermost
    Fringe of mundane vision, this ghost goes
    Hand aloft, goodbye, goodbye, not down
    Into the rocky gizzard of the earth,
    But toward a region where our thick atmosphere

    Diminishes, and God knows what is there.
    A point of exclamation marks that sky
    In ringing orange like a stellar carrot.
    Its round period, displaced and green,
    Suspends beside it the first point, the starting

    Point of Eden, next the new moon's curve.
    Go, ghost of our mother and father, ghost of us,
    And ghost of our dreams' children, in those sheets
    Which signify our origin and end,
    To the cloud-cuckoo land of color wheels

    And pristine alphabets and cows that moo
    And moo as they jump over moons as new
    As that crisp cusp toward which you voyage now.
    Hail and farewell. Hello, goodbye. O keeper
    Of the profane grail, the dreaming skull.

    Sylvia Plath
  2. makuciko

    makuciko Forumium praecox

    Re: Poezi te preferuara


    Ich habe mich deinetwegen
    gewaschen und rasiert.
    Ich wollte mich zu dir legen
    mit einem Viertelchen,
    mit einem Achtelchen -

    Doch du hast dich geziert.
    Der Kuckuck hat geschrien
    auf deiner Schwarzwalduhr.
    Ich lag vor deinen Knien:
    "Gib mir ein Viertelchen!
    Gib mir ein Achtelchen!
    Ein kleines Stückchen nur!"

    Dein Bräutigam war prosaisch.
    Demselben hat gefehlt,
    dieweilen er mosaisch,
    ein kleines Viertelchen,
    ein kleines Achtelchen...
    das hätt dich sehr gequält!

    Du hast mir nichts gegeben
    und sahst mich prüfend an.
    Das, was du brauchst im Leben,
    sei nicht ein Viertelchen,
    und nicht ein Achtelchen...
    das sei ein ganzer Mann -!

    Mich hat das tief betroffen.
    Dein Blick hat mich gefragt...
    Ich ließ die Frage offen
    und habe nichts gesagt.
    Daß wir uns nicht besaßen!
    So aalglatt war mein Kinn.
    Nun irr ich durch die Straßen...
    und weine vor mich hin.

    Kurt Tucholsky
  3. ladouce2005

    ladouce2005 Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Drunk as Drunk

    Drunk as drunk on turpentine
    From your open kisses,
    Your wet body wedged
    Between my wet body and the strake
    Of our boat that is made of flowers,
    Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
    Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
    Over the sky's hot rim,
    The day's last breath in our sails.

    Pinned by the sun between solstice
    And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
    We drifted for months and woke
    With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
    Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
    And the sound of a rope
    Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
    We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
    And lay like fish
    Under the net of our kisses.

    Pablo Neruda
  4. ladouce2005

    ladouce2005 Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    If You Forget Me

    I want you to know
    one thing.

    You know how this is:
    if I look
    at the crystal moon, at the red branch
    of the slow autumn at my window,
    if I touch
    near the fire
    the impalpable ash
    or the wrinkled body of the log,
    everything carries me to you,
    as if everything that exists,
    aromas, light, metals,
    were little boats
    that sail
    toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

    Well, now,
    if little by little you stop loving me
    I shall stop loving you little by little.

    If suddenly
    you forget me
    do not look for me,
    for I shall already have forgotten you.

    If you think it long and mad,
    the wind of banners
    that passes through my life,
    and you decide
    to leave me at the shore
    of the heart where I have roots,
    that on that day,
    at that hour,
    I shall lift my arms
    and my roots will set off
    to seek another land.

    if each day,
    each hour,
    you feel that you are destined for me
    with implacable sweetness,
    if each day a flower
    climbs up to your lips to seek me,
    ah my love, ah my own,
    in me all that fire is repeated,
    in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
    my love feeds on your love, beloved,
    and as long as you live it will be in your arms
    without leaving mine.

    Pablo Neruda
  5. makuciko

    makuciko Forumium praecox

    Re: Poezi te preferuara


    Për hatrin tënd kësaj here
    U lava dhe u ndrita.
    Që të shtrihesha krah teje
    me një katërtat,
    me një të tetat

    Por ti s'di pse ngurrove.
    Dhe qyqja bëri zhurmë
    kur këndoi lart në orë.
    Unë ty të rashë në gjunjë:
    „Më jep veç një të katërtat!
    Më jep veç një të tetat!
    Më jep vetëm një copë!“

    Burri jot ish prozaik.
    Atij vetë i mungonte,
    diçka në mozaik,
    pakëz nga një e katërta,
    pakëz nga një e teta...
    sa shumë kjo të mundonte!

    Asgjë s'më dhe ti, jo,
    Më hodhe sytë këmb'e kokë.
    Nga jeta ti ç'kërkon,
    s'është një e katërta,
    s'është një e teta...
    por është një burrë i plotë - !

    Zemrën thellë ma godite.
    Më pyeti ai shikim ngadalë...
    E lashë unë pa përgjigje,
    nuk nxorra asnjë fjalë.
    Njëri-tjetrin s'patëm kurrë!
    Lotët rrjedhin përposh mjekrrës.
    Ngatrrohem nëpër rrugë...
    Malvina - !
    vajtoj unë brenda vetes.

    Kurt Tuholski
  6. ladouce2005

    ladouce2005 Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Mourir d'aimer

    Les parois de ma vie sont lisses
    Je m'y accroche mais je glisse
    Lentement vers ma destinée
    Mourir d'aimer

    Tandis que le monde me juge
    Je ne vois pour moi qu'un refuge
    Toute issue m'étant condamnée
    Mourir d'aimer

    Mourir d'aimer
    De plein gré s'enfoncer dans la nuit
    Payer l'amour au prix de sa vie
    Pécher contre le corps mais non contre l'esprit

    Laissons le monde à ses problèmes
    Les gens haineux face à eux-memes
    Avec leurs petites idées
    Mourir d'aimer

    Puisque notre amour ne peut vivre
    Mieux vaut en refermer le livre
    Et plutot que de le brûler
    Mourir d'aimer

    Partir en redressant la tete
    Sortir vainqueur d'une défaite
    Renverser toutes les données
    Mourir d'aimer

    Mourir d'aimer
    Comme on le peut de n'importe quoi
    Abandonner tout derrière soi
    Pour n'emporter que ce qui fut nous, qui fut toi

    Tu es le printemps, moi l'automne
    Ton coeur se prend, le mien se donne
    Et ma route est déjà tracée
    Mourir d'aimer
    Mourir d'aimer
    Mourir d'aimer

    Te vdesesh nga dashuria

    muret e jetes time jane te lemuara
    mundohem te mbahem ne to, por rreshqas
    ngadale drejt fatit tim
    te vdes nga dashuria

    nderkohe qe tere bota me gjykon
    gjej per veten vec nje strehim
    cdo zgjidhje tjeter me eshte e ndaluar
    vec te vdes nga dashuria

    te vdes nga dashuria
    me deshire te zhytem ne nate
    te paguaj dashurine me cmimin e jetes
    te bej mekat ndaj trupit, por jo ndaj shpirtit

    t’a le boten dhe problemet e saj
    njerezit me urrejtjen e tyre ndaj vetes
    me idete e tyre te pavlera
    dhe te vdes nga dashuria

    meqe dashuria jone nuk jeton dot
    do ish me mire t’a mbyllja librin
    dhe me mire se t’a djeg
    le te vdes nga dashuria

    te nisem duke mbajtur koken lart
    de iki fitues mbi nje disfate
    ti permbys te gjitha
    e te vdes nga dashuria

    te vdes nga dashuria
    ashtu si mund te vdesesh nga cdo gje tjeter
    te braktis gjithcka pas vetes
    per te marre me vete ate qe ishim "ne", qe ishe "ti"

    ti je pranvera dhe une vjeshta
    zemra jote merret, imja jepet
    dhe rruga ime eshte e shkruar
    te vdes nga dashuria
  7. ^Res-Cogitans^

    ^Res-Cogitans^ Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    <u>Ode to a Nightingale</u> - Keats

    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
    My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
    One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk :
    ‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
    But being too happy in thine happiness, -
    That thou, light winged Dryad of the trees,
    In some melodious plot
    Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
    Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

    O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
    Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
    Tasting of Flora and the country green,
    Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
    O for a beaker full of the warm South,
    Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
    And purple-stained mouth;
    That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
    And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

    Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
    What thou among the leaves hast never known,
    The weariness, the fever, and the fret
    Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
    Where palsy shakes a few. sad, last grey hairs,
    Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
    Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
    And leaden-eyed despairs,
    Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
    Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

    Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
    Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
    But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
    Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
    Already with thee! tender is the night,
    And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
    Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
    But here there is no light,
    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
    Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
    Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
    But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
    Wherewith the seasonable month endows
    The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
    White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
    Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
    And mid-May's eldest child,
    The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
    The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

    Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
    I have been half in love with easeful Death,
    Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
    To take into the air my quiet breath;
    Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
    To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
    While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
    In such an ecstasy!
    Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
    To thy high requiem become a sod.

    Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
    No hungry generations tread thee down;
    The voice I hear this passing night was heard
    In ancient days by emperor and clown:
    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
    Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
    She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
    The same that oft-times hath
    Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
    Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
    To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
    As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
    Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
    Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
    In the next valley-glades:
    Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
    Fled is that music: – Do I wake or sleep?

  8. ^Res-Cogitans^

    ^Res-Cogitans^ Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara


    <u>IL PRIMO DIO</u>

    C'è forza nella pioggia che bagna il bordo del lavandino
    e le mie braccia tese, oggi.
    Non nelle colline, nè nel cielo che tiene bassi gli uccelli
    e ha i colori sbiaditi di una polaroid.
    Emanuel Carnevali, morto di fame nelle cucine d'America
    sfinito dalla stanchezza nelle sale da pranzo d'America
    E c'è forza nelle tue parole
    Sopra le portate lasciate a metà, i tovaglioli usati
    Sopra le cicche macchiate di rossetto
    Sopra i posacenere colmi
    Sapevi di trovare l'uragano
    Dire qualcosa mentre si e' rapiti dall'uragano
    Ecco l'unico fatto che possa compensarmi
    di non essere io l'uragano
    Primo dio
    Preghiera a cose più belle di me
    Avvento della giovinezza
    Immagine perfetta
    Senzazione perfetta
    E' nella pioggia, oggi, il vostro grido
  9. ^Res-Cogitans^

    ^Res-Cogitans^ Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Mario Scalesi :


    L'instant où j'ai cessé de vivre,
    Je le verrai longtemps encor.
    (Quand l'espoir a fermé son livre
    On peut bien dire qu'on est mort).

    Muse, je veux que tu célèbres
    Ce vieil et banal escalier
    Qui, m'ayant brisé les vertèbres,
    Me force à ne point l'oublier.

    Tu connais l'histoire, je pense,
    Puisque étaient par toi visités
    Ces fantasques rêves d'enfance
    Où riaient mes naïvetés.

    C'était Noël. L'hiver d'Afrique,
    Cet hiver aux avrils pareil,
    Fleurissait dans l'air balsamique;
    Sous les dorures du soleil.

    J'allais là-haut chercher des cartes.
    Une coutume d'autrefois
    Voulait que l'on jouât les tartes,
    Les fèves cuites et les noix.

    L'escalier était un peu sombre.
    Heureux, je rapportais le jeu,
    Lorsque mon pied glissa dans l'ombre
    Comme je songeais au ciel bleu.

    On dit que, fuyant le suaire,
    Parfois, la nuit, un trépassé
    Hante sa chambre mortuaire
    Pour y revivre le passé.

    Et ces macabres escapades,
    Voyez comme on les nie à tort:
    Je sens fuir mes pensées malades
    Vers l'escalier où je suis mort.
  10. Hellena

    Hellena Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Nje proverb I vjeter thot o miq
    “Me mire vetem se me shoke te liq”
    Por un di nje me kuptimplot
    “Vetem me shoke shkon para ne bote”

    Thote nje proverb qe s’harrohet kurre
    “Kush eshte inisiator eshte edhe burre”
    Por un di nje tjeter qe me fort te bind
    “Kush ka njeqind shoke vlen sa per njeqind”

    Nje proverb prape thote pa I rene gjate
    “Ai qe rri vetem nuk ben dot shamate”
    Po ky mendim nuk ma mbush fare koken
    “Gezimin njeriu e ndjen nder shoke e nder shoqe “

    Xhani Rodari
  11. gurax

    gurax Pan ignoramus

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Blue Roses - Rudyard Kipling

    Roses red and roses white
    Plucked I for my love's delight.
    She would none of all my posies--
    Bade me gather her blue roses.

    Half the world I wandered through,
    Seeking where such flowers grew.
    Half the world unto my quest
    Answered me with laugh and jest.

    Home I came at wintertide,
    But my silly love had died
    Seeking with her latest breath
    Roses from the arms of Death.

    It may be beyond the grave
    She shall find what she would have.
    Mine was but an idle quest--
    Roses white and red are best!
  12. makuciko

    makuciko Forumium praecox

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Augen in der Großstadt

    Wenn du zur Arbeit gehst
    am frühen Morgen,
    wenn du am Bahnhof stehst
    mit deinen Sorgen:
    da zeigt die Stadt
    dir asphaltglatt
    im Menschentrichter
    Millionen Gesichter:
    Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
    die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider -
    Was war das? vielleicht dein Lebensglück ...
    vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.

    Du gehst dein Leben lang
    auf tausend Straßen;
    du siehst auf deinem Gang,
    die dich vergaßen.
    Ein Auge winkt,
    die Seele klingt;
    du hasts gefunden,
    nur für Sekunden ...
    Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
    die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider;
    Was war das? kein Mensch dreht die Zeit zurück ...
    Vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.

    Du musst auf deinem Gang
    durch Städte wandern;
    siehst einen Pulsschlag lang
    den fremden Andern.
    Es kann ein Feind sein,
    es kann ein Freund sein,
    es kann im Kampfe dein
    Genosse sein.
    Es sieht hinüber
    und zieht vorüber ...
    Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
    die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider.
    Was war das?
    Von der großen Menschheit ein Stück!
    Vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.
  13. Kordelja

    Kordelja Valoris scriptorum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Emily Dickinson

    A door just opened on a street--
    I, lost, was passing by--
    An instant's width of warmth disclosed
    And wealth, and company.

    The door as sudden shut, and I,
    I, lost, was passing by,--
    Lost doubly, but by contrast most,
    Enlightening misery.
  14. Rrapatushja

    Rrapatushja Nelk@

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    An Almost Made Up Poem

    I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
    blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
    they are small, and the fountain is in France
    where you wrote me that last letter and
    I answered and never heard from you again.
    you used to write insane poems about
    ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
    knew famous artists and most of them
    were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
    go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
    because we’ never met. we got close once in
    New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
    touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
    about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
    is that the famous are worried about
    their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
    with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
    in the morning to write upper case poems about
    ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
    us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
    it was the upper case. you were one of the
    best female poets and I told the publishers,
    editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
    magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
    like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
    writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
    loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
    cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
    but that didn’ happen.
    your letters got sadder.
    your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
    lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
    you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
    the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
    bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
    hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
    heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
    3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
    I would probably have been unfair to you or you
    to me. it was best like this.
  15. ladouce2005

    ladouce2005 Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

  16. makuciko

    makuciko Forumium praecox

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Sehnsucht nach der Sehnsucht

    Erst wollte ich mich dir in Keuschheit nahn.
    Die Kette schmolz.
    Ich bin doch schließlich, schließlich auch ein Mann,
    und nicht von Holz.

    Der Mai ist da. Der Vogel Pirol pfeift.
    Es geht was um.
    Und wer sich dies und wer sich das verkneift,
    der ist schön dumm.

    Denn mit der Seelenfreundschaft - liebste Frau,
    hier dies Gedicht
    zeigt mir und Ihnen treffend und genau:
    es geht ja nicht.

    Es geht nicht, wenn die linde Luft weht und
    die Amsel singt -
    wir brauchen alle einen roten Mund,
    der uns beschwingt.

    Wir brauchen alle etwas, das das Blut
    rasch vorwärtstreibt -
    es dichtet sich doch noch einmal so gut,
    wenn man beweibt.

    Doch heller noch tönt meiner Leier Klang,
    wenn du versagst,
    was ich entbehrte öde Jahre lang -
    wenn du nicht magst.

    So süß ist keine Liebesmelodie,
    so frisch kein Bad,
    so freundlich keine kleine Brust wie die,
    die man nicht hat.

    Die Wirklichkeit hat es noch nie gekonnt,
    weil sie nichts hält.
    Und strahlend überschleiert mir dein Blond
    die ganze Welt.

    Kurt Tucholsky
  17. true confidental

    true confidental Forumium maestatis

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    McCik sa duhet te presim per ti lexuar kto dy poezite e fundit te perkthyera ? /ubb/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/eusa_angel.gif
  18. ^Res-Cogitans^

    ^Res-Cogitans^ Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    ...sa me pelqen synori "Sehnsucht" ne gjermanisht.
    MCcik,kujdesu! /ubb/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/smile.gif
  19. ^Res-Cogitans^

    ^Res-Cogitans^ Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted - nevermore!

    "The Raven"- E.A.Poe
  20. ^Res-Cogitans^

    ^Res-Cogitans^ Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Proverbs of Hell

    In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
    Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
    The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
    Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
    He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
    The cut worm forgives the plow.
    Dip him in the river who loves water.
    A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
    He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
    Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
    The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
    The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure.
    All wholsom food is caught without a net or a trap.
    Bring out number weight & measure in a year of dearth.
    No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
    A dead body revenges not injuries.
    The most sublime act is to set another before you.
    If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
    Folly is the cloke of knavery.
    Shame is Prides cloke.

    Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion.
    The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
    The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
    The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
    The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
    Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.
    The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.
    The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
    Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
    Let man wear the fell of the lion. woman the fleece of the sheep.
    The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
    The selfish smiling fool, & the sullen frowning fool shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.
    What is now proved was once only imagin'd.
    The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbet; watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant, watch the fruits.
    The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.
    One thought fills immensity.
    Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
    Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.
    The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow.

    The fox provides for himself. but God provides for the lion.
    Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
    He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you.
    As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.
    The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
    Expect poison from the standing water.
    You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
    Listen to the fools reproach! it is a kingly title!
    The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.
    The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
    The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow; nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.
    The thankful reciever bears a plentiful harvest.
    If others bad not been foolish, we should be so.
    The soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd.
    When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius. lift up thy head!
    As the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.
    To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
    Damn braces: Bless relaxes.
    The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
    Prayers plow not! Praises reap not!
    Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!

    The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands & feet Proportion.
    As the air to a bird or the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.
    The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white.
    Exuberance is Beauty.
    If the lion was advised by the fox. he would be cunning.
    Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.
    Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
    Where man is not, nature is barren.
    Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd.
    Enough! or Too much.

    William Blake - The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

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