There is a way between voice and presence
where information flows.
In disciplined silence it opens.
With wandering talk it closes.
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Sonnet Ciii by William Shakespeare
Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,That having such a scope to show her pride,The argument all bare is of more worthThan when it hath my added praise beside!O, blame me not, if I no more can write!Look in your glass, and there appears a faceThat over-goes my blunt invention quite,Dulling my lines and doing…
Sonnets Xxix: When, In Disgrace With Fortune And Men’s Eyes by William Shakespeare
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast stateAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless criesAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,With what I most enjoy contented…
The Black Cottage – Poem by Robert Frost
We chanced in passing by that afternoonTo catch it in a sort of special pictureAmong tar-banded ancient cherry trees,Set well back from the road in rank lodged grass,The little cottage we were speaking of,A front with just a door between two windows,Fresh painted by the shower a velvet black.We paused, the minister and I, to…
The Truth
I remember how weArgued one day. You told me true love existedAnd I simply contradicted it. You, obviously, challenged meTo prove myself right. To that I replied, ‘Look into my eyesAnd tell me if you canTake me to a placeI’ve never been before, To a place of pure bliss,Where I’ll truly belong, To people I’ll…
Quatrain 1693 (Farsi With English Translation)
ay sâqî, az-ân bâda ke awwal dâd-îriTlê dô dar andâz-o be-y-afzâ shâdîyâ châshniyê az-ân na-bâyast namûdyâ mast-o kharâb kon, chô sar be-g’shâd-î English Translation O cupbearer, from that wine which you first gave,Toss in two [more] cups worth and increase (my) happiness.Either a taste of it must not be made known,Or, if you have opened…
Sonnet 142: Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate by William Shakespeare
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,O, but with mine, compare thou thine own state,And thou shalt find it merits not reproving,Or if it do, not from those lips of thineThat have profaned their scarlet ornamentsAnd sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,Robbed others’…