Rebirth

Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor.

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Hallowed Ground

What’s hallowed ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God,
Erect and free,
Unscourged by Superstition’s rod
To bow the knee?

That’s hallowed ground where, mourned and missed,
The lips repose our love has kissed;
But where’s their memory’s mansion? Is’t
Yon churchyard’s bowers?
No! in ourselves their souls exist,
A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground
Where mated hearts are mutual bound:
The spot where love’s first links were wound,
That ne’er are riven,
Is hallowed down to earth’s profound,
And up to heaven!

For time makes all but true love old;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory’s mould;
And will not cool
Until the heart itself be cold
In Lethe’s pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
‘Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom;
Or Genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind
Whose sword or voice has served mankind,
And is he dead, whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high?
To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.

Is’t death to fall for Freedom’s right?
He’s dead alone that lacks her light!
And murder sullies in heaven’s sight
The sword he draws:
What can alone ennoble fight?
A noble cause!

Give that, and welcome War to brace
Her drums, and rend heaven’s reeking space!
The colors planted face to face,
The charging cheer,
Though Death’s pale horse lead on the chase,
Shall still be dear.

And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven! but Heaven rebukes my zeal!
The cause of Truth and human weal,
O God above!
Transfer it from the sword’s appeal
To Peace and Love.

Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o’er Devotion’s shrine,
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,
Where they are not,
The heart alone can make divine
Religion’s spot.

To incantations dost thou trust,
And pompous rites in domes august?
See mouldering stones and metal’s rust
Belie the vaunt,
That man can bless one pile of dust
With chime or chant.

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!
Thy temples,creeds themselves grow wan!
But there’s a dome of nobler span,
A temple given
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban,
Its space is heaven!

Its roof, star-pictured Nature’s ceiling,
Where, trancing the rapt spirit’s feeling,
And God himself to man revealing,
The harmonious spheres
Make music, though unheard their pealing
By mortal ears.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure?
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your
Aspect above?
Ye must be heavens that make us sure
Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime
I read the doom of distant time;
That man’s regenerate soul from crime
Shall yet be drawn,
And reason on his mortal clime
Immortal dawn.

What’s hallowed ground? ‘Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth’s compass round;
And your high-priesthood shall make earth
All hallowed ground.

– THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Beautiful you are

I love your skin, oh so white. I love your touch cold as ice. And I love every single tear you cry, I just love the way you’re losing your life. I adore the despair in your eyes. I worship your lips once red as wine. I crave for your scent sending shivers down my spine. I just love the way you’re running out of life. Oh how beautiful you are, oh my darling, completely torn apart. You are gone with the sin my darling and beautiful you are.

Invictus

There is a poem I reflect on when I feel I as a horse have been run to the ground. It keeps me going, it keeps me sane, it keeps me strong.

 

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

 

– William Ernest Henley