Author: landscape design (---.spacegate.com.ua)
Date: 12-28-05 15:05
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Music to hear, why hear\'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov\'st thou that which thou receiv\'st not gladly,
Or else receiv\'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: \'Thou single wilt prove none.\'
Is it for fear to wet a widow\'s eye,
That thou consum\'st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children\'s eyes, her husband\'s shape in mind:
Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty\'s waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murd\'rous shame commits.
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture\'s sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,--
A closet never pierc\'d with crystal eyes--
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To side this title is impannelled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye\'s moiety, and the dear heart\'s part:
As thus; mine eye\'s due is thy outward part,
And my heart\'s right, thy inward love of heart.
God does not care about our mathematical difficulties. He integrates
empirically. --Albert Einstein
Our high respect for a well read person is praise enough for literature.
T. S. Eliot