Selfish, vain, Eternal bane, That free love with bondage bound. Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! Shall arise, and seek For her Maker meek; And the desert wild Become a garden mild. Seven summers old Lovely Lyca told.
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Where can Lyca sleep? How can Lyca sleep If her mother weep? Sleeping Lyca lay, While the beasts of prey, Come from caverns deep, Viewed the maid asleep. Leopards, tigers, play Round her as she lay; While the lion old Bowed his mane of gold,. And her bosom lick, And upon her neck, From his eyes of flame, Ruby tears there came;. While the lioness Loosed her slender dress, And naked they conveyed To caves the sleeping maid.
A Loss of Innocence, A Loss of Life
Tired and woe-begone, Hoarse with making moan, Arm in arm, seven days They traced the desert ways. Seven nights they sleep Among shadows deep, And dream they see their child Starved in desert wild. Pale through pathless ways The fancied image strays, Famished, weeping, weak, With hollow piteous shriek. In his arms he bore Her, armed with sorrow sore; Till before their way A couching lion lay. Turning back was vain: Soon his heavy mane Bore them to the ground, Then he stalked around,.
Smelling to his prey; But their fears allay When he licks their hands, And silent by them stands. They look upon his eyes, Filled with deep surprise; And wondering behold A spirit armed in gold. Gone was all their care. A little black thing among the snow, Crying! O rose, thou art sick! If I live, Or if I die. I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? So he took his wings, and fled; Then the morn blushed rosy red. I dried my tears, and armed my fears With ten thousand shields and spears.
Soon my Angel came again; I was armed, he came in vain; For the time of youth was fled, And grey hairs were on my head. Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests 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?
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What the hammer? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. Besides, I can tell where I am used well; Such usage in heaven will never do well.
And God, like a father, rejoicing to see His children as pleasant and happy as He, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel, But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel. Pity would be no more If we did not make somebody poor, And Mercy no more could be If all were as happy as we. And mutual fear brings Peace, Till the selfish loves increase; Then Cruelty knits a snare, And spreads his baits with care. He sits down with holy fears, And waters the ground with tears; Then Humility takes its root Underneath his foot.
Soon spreads the dismal shade Of Mystery over his head, And the caterpillar and fly Feed on the Mystery. The gods of the earth and sea Sought through nature to find this tree, But their search was all in vain: There grows one in the human Brain. My mother groaned, my father wept: Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud. I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright, And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine,—. And into my garden stole When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning, glad, I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree. Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime. Once a youthful pair, Filled with softest care, Met in garden bright Where the holy light Had just removed the curtains of the night.
There, in rising day, On the grass they play; Parents were afar, Strangers came not near, And the maiden soon forgot her fear. To her father white Came the maiden bright; But his loving look, Like the holy book, All her tender limbs with terror shook. Ona, pale and weak, To thy father speak!
O the trembling fear! O the dismal care That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair! Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles. O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! How can you fail when you are simply practicing, learning, experimenting?
A Loss of Innocence, A Loss of Life - Bring Change to Mind
The length of the work is over a thousand pages and it is, to use. The Tunnel is first of all the story of a mind and a voice : those of William Frederick Kohler, a fifty-year old historian who, as he sits down to write a preface for his new work Guilt and Innocence in Hitler's Germany, finds himself unable to do it and starts writing about himself instead. The novel assumes the form of an extended diary-confession- memoir-essay, although the narrator repeatedly denies that he is indulging in introspection.
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What he is trying to do, on the is to escape from himself and his own sense of guilt. Out is all of it. Out of the print and over the cover I study other methods of. On the one hand, the narrator claims that his present enterprise goes beyond history :. What do I want? We drag our acts behind us like a string of monsters. I am the Reich, the third son, the remains. This sort of thing — confession — this father-forgive-me stuff — is not in my line. Imagine : history not serious enough, causality too comical, chronology insufficiently precise.
That's the measure of my turn. It surely is.
The Innocence Of
That I should ever frame such sentences We have On the other hand, the two narratives clearly reflect each other, as is suggested through a number of devices. First of all, the work which was intended as a preface i. To make a. Indeed, in the same way as Kohler's rejection of historical causality informs his historical work, the pattern of cause and effect is perpetually questioned in his introspection, through various reversals of the two terms.
One fundamental cause for the narrator's bitterness, as the narrative tries to explain, is the absence of a father's love in his childhood, which first instilled the seeds of hatred in his soul. Yet psychological motivation is when, in the account of his relationship with his lover Lou, hatred is presented both as cause and effect of the loss of his one true love.