Ernst of Edelsheim I'll tell the story, kissing This white hand for my pains: No sweeter heart, nor falser E'er filled such fine, blue veins. I'll sing a song of true love, My Lilith dear! to you; Contraria contrariis— The rule is old and true. The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim; And why he was the happiest, I'll tell you in my rhyme. One summer night he wandered Within a lonely glade, And, couched in moss and moonlight, He found a sleeping maid. The stars of midnight sifted Above her sands of gold; She seemed a slumbering statue, So fair and white and cold. Fair and white and cold she lay Beneath the starry skies; Rosy was her waking Beneath the Ritter's eyes. He won her drowsy fancy, He bore her to his towers, And swift with love and laughter Flew morning's purpled hours. But when the thickening sunbeams Had drunk the gleaming dew, A misty cloud of sorrow Swept o'er her eyes' deep blue. She hung upon the Ritter's neck, S he wept with love and pain, She showered her sweet, warm kisses Like fragrant summer rain. "I am no Christian soul," she sobbed, As in his arms she lay; "I'm half the day a woman, A serpent half the day. "And when from yonder bell-tower Rings out the noonday chime, Farewell! farewell forever, Sir Ernst of Edelsheim!" "Ah! not farewell forever!" The Ritter wildly cried, "I will be saved or lost with thee, My lovely Wili-Bride!" Loud from the lordly bell-tower Rang out the noon of day, And from the bower of roses A serpent slid away. But when the mid-watch moonlight Was shimmering through the grove, He clasped his bride thrice dowered With beauty and with love. The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim— His true love was a serpent Only half the time!
Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.
Sonnet VIIIJe vis, je meurs : je me brûle et me noie,J’ai chaud extrême en endurant froidure ;La vie m’est et trop molle et trop dure,J’ai grands ennuis entremêlés de joie.Tout en un coup je ris et je larmoie,Et en plaisir maint grief tourment j’endure,Mon bien s’en va, et à jamais il dure,Tout en un coup je sèche et je verdoie.Ainsi Amour inconstamment me mèneEt, quand je pense avoir plus de douleur,Sans y penser je me trouve hors de peine.Puis, quand je crois ma joie être certaine,Et être en haut de mon désiré heur,Il me remet en mon premier malheur.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of being and ideal grace.I love thee to the level of every day'sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for right.I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.I love thee with the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.
Blest as the immortal gods is he,The youth who fondly sits by thee,And hears and sees thee, all the while,Softly speaks and sweetly smile.'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,And raised such tumults in my breast;For, while I gazed, in transport tossed,My breath was gone, my voice was lost;My bosom glowed; the subtle flameRan quick through all my vital frame;O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;My ears with hollow murmurs rung;In dewy damps my limbs were chilled;My blood with gentle horrors thrilled:My feeble pulse forgot to play;I fainted, sunk, and died away.
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.