Author: Henry David Thoreau (---.spacegate.com.ua)
Date: 01-26-06 04:02
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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.
Time hasn\'t stopped for any troubles, heartaches, or any other malfunctions of this world, so please don\'t tell me it will
stop for you.
- C.S. Lewis, In Time
If we love our country, we should also love our countrymen.
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Love\'s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol\'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov\'d that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I lov\'d, I view in thee,
And thou--all they--hast all the all of me.