Author: Mike (81.198.70.---)
Date: 01-20-06 17:51
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Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an
from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from
T. S. Eliot
I don\'t believe in pessimism. If something doesn\'t come up the way you
want, forge ahead. If you think it\'s going to rain, it will.
In order to form an immaculate member of a flock of sheep one must,
above all, be a sheep. --Albert Einstein
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy \'Will,\'
And \'Will\' to boot, and \'Will\' in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vex\'d thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in \'Will,\' add to thy \'Will\'
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind \'No\' fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one \'Will.\'
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy \'Will\',
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
\'Will\', will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon\'d none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store\'s account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov\'st me for my name is \'Will.\'
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchor\'d in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes\' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world\'s common place?
Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have err\'d,
And to this false plague are they now transferr\'d.