Mertcan Bulak
@MBulak
769 okur puanı
Ağustos 2020 tarihinde katıldı
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Is it any wonder none of you know happiness? You are all twisted branches from the same sick tree.
One day uncertainty will come to your door, will clamber down your throat, and it will be a race to see which arrives first, humility or death.
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The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages.
Great Galileo was debarred the sun,
Because he fixed it, and to stop his talking
How earth could round the solar orbit run,
Found his own legs embargoed from mere walking.
The man was well nigh dead, ere men begun
To think his skull had not some need of caulking,
But now it seems he’s right, his notion just,
No doubt a consolation to his dust.
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on and bears afar
Our bubbles. As the old burst, new emerge,
Lashed from the foam of ages; while the graves
Of empires heave but like some passing waves.
He who doubts all things nothing can deny.
Were things but only called by their right name,
Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame.
’Tis strange, but true, for truth is always strange,
Stranger than fiction. If it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!
How oft would vice and virtue places change!
The new world would be nothing to the old.
She loved her lord or thought so, but that love
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil,
The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move
Our feelings ‘gainst the nature of the soil.
There is a flower called ‘Move in idleness’,
For which see Shakespeare’s ever blooming garden.
I will not make his great description less
And beg his British godship’s humble pardon,
If in my extremity of rhyme’s distress,
I touch a single leaf where he is warden.
Oh Time, why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it, shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast
Is that portentous phrase, ‘I told you so’,
Uttered by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, ‘stead of saying what you now should do.
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last.
You know, or don’t know, that great Bacon saith,
‘Fling up a straw, ’twill show the way the wind blows.’
And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is poesy, according as the mind glows
A paper kite, which flies ’twixt life and death,
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws.
And mine’s a bubble not blown up for praise,
But just to play with, as an infant plays.