Favorite Poems, Quotes and Lyrics

[Honeylioness]

Always Marry An April Girl

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true --
I love April, I love you.

~Ogden Nash

[Honeylioness]

in time of daffodils

in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remembering how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so (forgetting seem)
in time of roses (who amaze
our now and here with praise)
forgetting if, remember yes
in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me

e.e. cummings

[Honeylioness]

"Hallelujah" - Leonard Cohen

Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah

******

Alternate last verse




Maybe there's a God above
And all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
It's not a cry you can hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

[Honeylioness]

May I Go Now?

May I go now?
Do you think the time is right?
May I say goodbye to pain filled days
and endless lonely nights?
I've lived my life and done my best,
an example tried to be.
So can I take that step beyond
and set my spirit free?

I didn't want to go at first,
I fought with all my might.
But something seems to draw me now
to a warm and loving light.
I want to go
I really do.
It's difficult to stay.

But I will try as best I can
to live just one more day.
To give you time to care for me
and share your love and fears.
I know you're sad and afraid,
because I see your tears.

I'll not be far,
I promise that, and hope you'll always know
that my spirit will be close to you
wherever you may go.
Thank you so for loving me.
You know I love you too,
that's why it's hard to say goodbye
and end this life with you.

So hold me now just one more time
and let me hear you say,
because you care so much for me,
you'll let me go today.

(Poem written for a beloved pet and friend, by Susan A. Jackson)

[Honeylioness]

This beautiful piece on mercy is from The Merchant of Venice, first performed in 1596 and published in 1600, when Portia speaks to Shylock in Act IV, Scene I.

The Quality of Mercy


The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show like God's
When mercy seasons justice.

[Honeylioness]

John Donne (1572-1631) was a man of passion and contradiction, and this was reflected in his life and poetry. Raised a Catholic, he left the Catholic Church, and, after a period of womanizing, joined the Church of England, and eventually became Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Death Be Not Proud, A Hymn to God the Father, and Batter My Heart are three of his more noted sonnets.

He is perhaps best known for the following lines from one of his Devotions, lines quoted by Ernest Hemingway in his powerful book For Whom the Bell Tolls:

"No man is an island entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the maine;
if a Clod be washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse,
as well as if a Promontorie were,
as well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine own were.
Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde.
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls.
It tolls for thee."

Death Be Not Proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go -
Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery!
Thou’rt slave to fate, chance , kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die.
~1620



A Hymn to God the Father

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore:
And having done that, Thou hast done;
I fear no more.
~1620



Batter My Heart

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labor to admit you, but O, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
but is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy.
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor even chaste, expect you ravish me.
~1620

[Honeylioness]

Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931) was born to a Maronite Catholic family on January 6, 1883 in Besharri, Lebanon, a scenic town nestled in the mountains near the Cedars of Lebanon. He began writing in Lebanon, and spent many years of his life in the United States. Following his death on April 10, 1931, his body was buried in his hometown of Besharri, where a museum preserves his writings and paintings.

His most famous book of poetry is The Prophet, published by AA Knopf of New York in 1923. Other writings include The Forerunner (1920), Sand and Foam (1926), Jesus The Son of Man (1928), and the Wanderer (1932). The Prophet has sold nearly ten million copies through the years, has been reprinted over 100 times, and has been translated into twenty languages. Kahlil Gibran has captured the human spirit in this exceptional work. This selection from the Prophet is on Love.

On Love


When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep,
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire,
that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart,
and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say,
'God is in my heart,' but rather,
'I am in the heart of God.'
And think not you can direct the course of love,
for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night,
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.


Kahlil Gibran
1923

[Honeylioness]

William Blake (1757-1827) was an energetic painter and writer. He was happily married to Catherine Boucher, who helped him publish his poetry. Blake wrote that "imagination is the divine vision, not of the world, nor of man, nor from man as he is a natural man, but only as he is a spiritual man." Unappreciated in his own time, he has become recognized as one of the world's great poets.

THE TYGER

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

[Honeylioness]

The Female of the Species
Rudyard Kipling
1911[/i]


When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale --
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise, --
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger --- Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue -- to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fiber of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity -- must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions -- not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions -- in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! --
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges -- even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons -- even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish -- like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice -- which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern -- shall enthrall but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

[Honeylioness]

Harp Song of the Dane Women
Rudyard Kipling


What is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

She has no house to lay a guest in --
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.

She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you --
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken --

Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters.
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.

You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables --
To pitch her sides and go over her cables.

Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow,
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.

Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker ?

[Honeylioness]

To an Athlete Dying Young
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)[/i]


The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields were glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

[Honeylioness]

Traditional Scottish Songs


Dumbarton Castle has been a citadel for over 1,000 years.

Dumbarton's Drums

Chorus
Dumbarton's drums, they sound so bonnie
And they remind me o' my Johnnie;
What fond delight doth steal upon me
When Johhnie kneels and kisses me.

My love he is a handsome laddie,
And though he is Dumbarton's caddie
Some day I'll be a captain's lady,
When Johnnie tends his vow to me.

Chorus

Across the fields of bounding heather,
Dumbarton sounds the hour of pleasure;
The joy I know will know no measure,
When Johnnie kneels and kisses me.

Chorus

'Tis he alone that can delight me,
His roving eye it doth invite me;
And when his tender arms enfold me,
The blackest night doth turn and flee.

Chorus

Meaning of unusual words:
caddie=messenger boy



Scotland the Brave

While "Flower of Scotland" is the de facto unofficcial national anthem of Scotland, "Scots wha' hae'" by Robert Burns and "Scotland the Brave" were early contenders for the honour. Here, is "Scotland the Brave" written by the author Cliff Hanley.


Hark when the night is falling,
Hear! hear the pipes are calling,
Loudly and proudly calling,
Down thro' the glen.
There where the hills are sleeping,
Now feel the blood a-leaping,
High as the spirits of the old Highland men.

Chorus
Towering in gallant fame,
Scotland my mountain hame,
High may your proud standards gloriously wave,
Land of my high endeavour,
Land of the shining river,
Land of my heart for ever,
Scotland the brave.

High in the misty Highlands
Out by the purple islands,
Brave are the hearts that beat
Beneath Scottish skies.
Wild are the winds to meet you,
Staunch are the friends that greet you,
Kind as the love that shines from fair maidens' eyes.
Chorus

Far off in sunlit places
Sad are the Scottish faces,
Yearning to feel the kiss
Of sweet Scottish rain.
Where the tropics are beaming
Love sets the heart a-dreaming,
Longing and dreaming for the hameland again.
Chorus

[Honeylioness]

Traditional Irish Songs



Carrigfergus

I wish I was in Carrigfergus
Only for nights in Ballygrant
I would swim over the deepest ocean
For my love to find
But the sea is wide and I cannot cross over
And neither have I the wings to fly
I wish I could meet a handsome boatsman
To ferry me over, to my love and die.
My childhood days bring back sad reflections
Of happy times I spent so long ago
My boyhood friends and my own relations
Have all passed on now like melting snow.
But I'll spend my days in endless roaming
Soft is the grass, my bed is free.
Ah, to be back now in Carrigfergus
On that long road down to the sea.

But in Kilkenny, it is reported
On marble stones there as black as ink
With gold and silver I would support her
But I'll sing no more 'till I get a drink.
For I'm drunk today, and I'm seldom sober
A handsome rover from town to town
Ah, but I'm sick now, my days are numbered
Come all you young men and lay me down.


Danny Boy

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.



Caledonia
(Dougie MacLean)


Verse 1:

I don't know if you can see, the changes that have come over me.
In these last few days I've been afraid, that I might drift away.
I've been telling old stories, singing songs, that make me think about where I come from.
That's the reason why I seem so far away today.


Chorus:
Let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time.
Caledonia you're calling me, now I'm going home.
But if I shall become a stranger, know that it would make me more than sad,
Caledonia's been everything I've ever had.


Verse 2:

Now I have moved and kept on moving, proved the points that I needed proving,
Lost the friends that I needed losing, found others on the way.
I have kissed the lads and left them crying, stolen dreams, yes there's no denying,
I have traveled hard sometimes with conscience flying, somewhere in the wind.

Chorus:

Verse 3:

Now I'm sitting here before the fire, the empty room, a forest choir,
The flames have cooled. Don't get any higher, they've withered now they've gone.
But I'm steady thinking my way is clear, and I know what I will do tomorrow,
When hands have shaken, the kisses flowed, then I will disappear.

Chorus:



GYPSY ROVER
(Leo Maguire)

The gypsy rover came over the hill, down through the valley so shady,
He whistled and he sang 'til the greenwoods rang, and he won the heart of a la--dy.

Chorus:

Ah-de-do, ah-de-do-da-day, ah-de-do, ah-de-da-ay
He whistled and he sang 'til the greenwoods rang, and he won the heart of a la--dy.


She left her father's castle gates, she left her own fine lover
She left her servants and her state to follow the gypsy rover.

Chorus:

Her father saddled up his fastest steed and roamed the valleys all over
Sought his daughter at great speed and the whistling gypsy rover.

Chorus:

He came at last to a mansion fine, down by the river Claydee
And there was music and there was wine, for the gypsy and his lady.

Chorus:

"He is no gypsy, my father" said she, "but lord of these lands all over,
And I shall stay 'til my dying day with my whistling gypsy rover."

Chorus:




The Last Rose Of Summer
Thomas Moore


Tis the Last Rose of Summer,
left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions,
are faded and gone;

No flow'r of her kindred,
no rose bud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,
or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
to pine on the stem
Since the lovely are sleeping,
go sleep thou with them
Thus kindly I scatter
thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
lie scentless and dead

So soon may I follow
when friendships decay
And from love's shining circle
the gems drop away
When true hearts lie withered
and fond ones are flown
Oh who would inhabit this bleak world alone?
This bleak world alone


Dulaman

Lyrics:	English Translation:
Curfá:	Chorus (after each verse):
Dúlamán na binne buí	Seaweed of the yellow cliff
Dúlamán Gaelach	Irish seaweed
Dúlamán na binne buí	Seaweed of the yellow cliff
Dúlamán Gaelach	Irish seaweed
A'níon mhín ó	Oh gentle daughter
Sin anall na fir shúirí	Here come the wooing men
A mháithair mhín ó	Oh gentle mother
Cuir na roithléan go dtí mé	Put the wheels in motion for me
Tá ceann buí óir	There is a yellow-gold head
Ar an dúlamán gaelach	On the Irish seaweed
Tá dhá chluais mhaol	There are two blunt ears
Ar an dúlamán gaelach	On the Irish seaweed
Rachaimid 'un an Iúr	We'll go to Newry
Leis an dúlamán gaelach	With the Irish seaweed
Ceannóimid bróga daora	I would buy expensive shoes
Ar an dúlamán gaelach	Said the Irish seaweed
Bróga breaca dubha	The Irish seaweed has
Ar an dúlamán gaelach	Beautiful black shoes
Tá bearéad agus triús	The Irish seaweed has
Ar an dúlamán gaelach	A beret and trousers
Ó chuir mé scéala chuici	I spent time telling her the story
Go gceannóinn cíor dí	That I would buy a comb for her
'Sé an scéal a chuir sí chugam	The story she told back to me
Go raibh a ceann cíortha	That she is well-groomed
Caidé thug tú 'na tíre?	"What did you bring from the land?"
Arsa an dúlamán gaelach	Says the Irish seaweed
Ag súirí le do níon	"Courting with your daughter"
Arsa an dúlamán maorach	Says the stately seaweed
Chan fhaigheann tú mo 'níon	"You're not taking my daughter"
Arsa an dúlamán gaelach	Says the Irish seaweed
Bheul, fuadóidh mé liom í	"Well, I'd take her with me"
Arsa an dúlamán maorach	Says the stately seaweed
Dúlamán na binne buí	Seaweed of the yellow cliff
Dúlamán a' tsleibhe	Seaweed of the mountain
Dúlamán na farraige	Seaweed from the sea
Is dúlamán a' deididh	Seaweed __

"Newgrange"[/u]


There is a place on the east
Mysterious ring, a magical ring of stones
The druids lived here once, they said
Forgotten is the race that no one knows

The circled tomb of a different age
Secret lines carved on ancient stones
Heroic kings laid down to rest
Forgotten is the race that no one knows

Wait for the sun on a winter's day
And a beam of light shines across the floor
Mysterious ring, a magical ring
Forgotten is the race that no one knows

[Honeylioness]

William Shakespeare - Hamlet speech - To be, or not to be

Hamlet Act III, scene I

Hamlet:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.


*****************************

O that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! O fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead!—nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, within a month,—
Let me not think on’t,—Frailty, thy name is woman!—
A little month; or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father’s body
Like Niobe, all tears;—why she, even she,—
O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle,
My father’s brother; but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules: within a month;
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married:— O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to good;
But break my heart,—for I must hold my tongue.

Hamlet’s
Act I, scene ii

***********************************

I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?


Hamlet
Act II, scene ii

[Honeylioness]

Finlandia Hymn


After the success of the full-length symphonic poem (most of which consists of rousing and turbulent passages, evoking the national struggle of the Finnish people), Sibelius published a stand-alone version of the hymn as the last of twelve numbers in his Masonic Ritual Music, Op. 113, with a text by opera singer Wäinö Sola. The version usually heard today has lyrics written by Veikko Antero Koskenniemi and was first performed in 1941. Sibelius himself arranged the hymn for choral performances.

The de facto national anthem of Finland is Maamme (Our Land), but it has never been officially recognised. There have been numerous suggestions that the Finlandia Hymn should become the national anthem. However, Maamme is already so widely recognised and used that it would be difficult to dislodge it. Furthermore, the Finlandia Hymn requires a more advanced musical skill to properly perform


A literal translation of the lyrics would be:

O, Finland, behold, your day is dawning,
The threat of night has been banished away,
And the lark of morning in the brightness sings,
As though the very firmament would sing.
The powers of the night are vanquished by the morning light,
Your day is dawning, O land of birth.

O, rise, Finland, raise up high
Your head, wreathed with great memories.
O, rise, Finland, you showed to the world
That you drove away the slavery,
And that you did not bend under oppression,
Your day has come, O land of birth.