Music and Literature

Making the Decision is in Your Hand

2012-07-04T03:46:00.001-07:00

"That's strange," said the boy, as he tried once again to read the burial scene that began the book. "I've been trying for two years to read this book, and I never get past these first few pages." Even without a king to provide an interruption, he was unable to concentrate.

He still had some doubts about the decision he had made. But he was able to understand one thing: making a decision was only the beginning of things. When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision.

When I decided to seek out my treasure, I never imagined that I'd wind up working in a

crystal shop, he thought. And joining this caravan may have been my decision, but where it goes is going to be a mystery to me.

Someone In The World Awaits You

2012-07-03T05:11:00.000-07:00

Finally, a young woman approached who was not dressed in black. She had a vessel on her shoulder, and her head was covered by a veil, but her face was uncovered. The boy approached her to ask about the alchemist.

At that moment, it seemed to him that time stood still, and the Soul of the World surged

within him. When he looked into her dark eyes, and saw that her lips were poised

between a laugh and silence, he learned the most important part of the language that all

the world spoke—the language that everyone on earth was capable of understanding in

their heart. It was love. Something older than humanity, more ancient than the desert.

Something that exerted the same force whenever two pairs of eyes met, as had theirs here at the well. She smiled, and that was certainly an omen—the omen he had been awaiting, without even knowing he was, for all his life. The omen he had sought to find with his sheep and in his books, in the crystals and in the silence of the desert.

It was the pure Language of the World. It required no explanation, just as the universe

needs none as it travels through endless time. What the boy felt at that moment was that he was in the presence of the only woman in his life, and that, with no need for words, she recognized the same thing. He was more certain of it than of anything in the world.

He had been told by his parents and grandparents that he must fall in love and really

know a person before becoming committed. But maybe people who felt that way had

never learned the universal language. Because, when you know that language, it's easy to understand that someone in the world awaits you, whether it's in the middle of the desert or in some great city. And when two such people encounter each other, and their eyes meet, the past and the future become unimportant. There is only that moment, and the incredible certainty that everything under the sun has been written by one hand only. It is the hand that evokes love, and creates a twin soul for every person in the world. Without such love, one's dreams would have no meaning.

Love never keeps a man from pursuing his destiny

2012-06-23T03:20:00.000-07:00

"I'm going to guide you across the desert," the alchemist said.

"I want to stay at the oasis," the boy answered. "I've found Fatima, and, as far as I'm

concerned, she's worth more than treasure."

"Fatima is a woman of the desert," said the alchemist. "She knows that men have to go

away in order to return. And she already has her treasure: it's you. Now she expects that you will find what it is you're looking for."

"Well, what if I decide to stay?"

"Let me tell you what will happen. You'll be the counselor of the oasis. You have enough

gold to buy many sheep and many camels. You'll marry Fatima, and you'll both be happy for a year. You'll learn to love the desert, and you'll get to know every one of the fifty thousand palms. You'll watch them as they grow, demonstrating how the world is always changing. And you'll get better and better at understanding omens, because the desert is the best teacher there is.

"Sometime during the second year, you'll remember about the treasure. The omens will

begin insistently to speak of it, and you'll try to ignore them. You'll use your knowledge

for the welfare of the oasis and its inhabitants. The tribal chieftains will appreciate what

you do. And your camels will bring you wealth and power.

"During the third year, the omens will continue to speak of your treasure and your

destiny. You'll walk around, night after night, at the oasis, and Fatima will be unhappy

because she'll feel it was she who interrupted your quest. But you will love her, and she'll return your love. You'll remember that she never asked you to stay, because a woman of the desert knows that she must await her man. So you won't blame her. But many times you'll walk the sands of the desert, thinking that maybe you could have left… that you could have trusted more in your love for Fatima. Because what kept you at the oasis was your own fear that you might never come back. At that point, the omens will tell you that your treasure is buried forever.

"Then, sometime during the fourth year, the omens will abandon you, because you've

stopped listening to them. The tribal chieftains will see that, and you'll be dismissed from

your position as counselor. But, by then, you'll be a rich merchant, with many camels and a great deal of merchandise. You'll spend the rest of your days knowing that you didn't pursue your destiny, and that now it's too late.

"You must understand that love never keeps a man from pursuing his destiny. If he

abandons that pursuit, it's because it wasn't true love… the love that speaks the Language of the World."

Fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself

2012-06-22T02:47:00.000-07:00

"Why do we have to listen to our hearts?" the boy asked, when they had made camp that day.

"Because, wherever your heart is, that is where you'll find your treasure."

"But my heart is agitated," the boy said. "It has its dreams, it gets emotional, and it's

become passionate over a woman of the desert. It asks things of me, and it keeps me from sleeping many nights, when I'm thinking about her."

"Well, that's good. Your heart is alive. Keep listening to what it has to say."

During the next three days, the two travelers passed by a number of armed tribesmen, and saw others on the horizon. The boy's heart began to speak of fear. It told him stories it had heard from the Soul of the World, stories of men who sought to find their treasure and never succeeded. Sometimes it frightened the boy with the idea that he might not find his treasure, or that he might die there in the desert. At other times, it told the boy that it was satisfied: it had found love and riches.

"My heart is a traitor," the boy said to the alchemist, when they had paused to rest the

horses. "It doesn't want me to go on."

"That makes sense," the alchemist answered. "Naturally it's afraid that, in pursuing your

dream, you might lose everything you've won."

"Well, then, why should I listen to my heart?"

"Because you will never again be able to keep it quiet. Even if you pretend not to have

heard what it tells you, it will always be there inside you, repeating to you what you're

thinking about life and about the world."

"You mean I should listen, even if it's treasonous?"

"Treason is a blow that comes unexpectedly. If you know your heart well, it will never be

able to do that to you. Because you'll know its dreams and wishes, and will know how to

deal with them.

"You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it's better to listen to what it has to

say. That way, you'll never have to fear an unanticipated blow."

The boy continued to listen to his heart as they crossed the desert. He came to understand its dodges and tricks, and to accept it as it was. He lost his fear, and forgot about his need to go back to the oasis, because, one afternoon, his heart told him that it was happy.

"Even though I complain sometimes," it said, "it's because I'm the heart of a person, and

people's hearts are that way. People are afraid to pursue their most important dreams,

because they feel that they don't deserve them, or that they'll be unable to achieve them. We, their hearts, become fearful just thinking of loved ones who go away forever, or of moments that could have been good but weren't, or of treasures that might have been found but were forever hidden in the sands. Because, when these things happen, we suffer terribly."

"My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy told the alchemist one night as they

looked up at the moonless sky.

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no

heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."

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Great Treasures Within You - Paulo Coelho

2012-06-21T03:53:00.000-07:00

On the following day, the first clear sign of danger appeared. Three armed tribesmen

approached, and asked what the boy and the alchemist were doing there.

"I'm hunting with my falcon," the alchemist answered.

"We're going to have to search you to see whether you're armed," one of the tribesmen

said.

The alchemist dismounted slowly, and the boy did the same.

"Why are you carrying money?" asked the tribesman, when he had searched the boy's

bag.

"I need it to get to the Pyramids," he said.

The tribesman who was searching the alchemist's belongings found a small crystal flask

filled with a liquid, and a yellow glass egg that was slightly larger than a chicken's egg.

"What are these things?" he asked.

"That's the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life. It's the Master Work of the

alchemists. Whoever swallows that elixir will never be sick again, and a fragment from

that stone turns any metal into gold."

The Arabs laughed at him, and the alchemist laughed along. They thought his answer was amusing, and they allowed the boy and the alchemist to proceed with all of their

belongings.

"Are you crazy?" the boy asked the alchemist, when they had moved on. "What did you

do that for?"

"To show you one of life's simple lessons," the alchemist answered. "When you possess

great treasures within you, and try to tell others of them, seldom are you believed."

Fear of Losing What We Have

2012-06-19T01:41:00.003-07:00

The camel driver told of his own life.

"I used to live near El Cairum," he said. "I had my orchard, my children, and a life that

would change not at all until I died. One year, when the crop was the best ever, we all

went to Mecca, and I satisfied the only unmet obligation in my life. I could die happily,

and that made me feel good.

"One day, the earth began to tremble, and the Nile overflowed its banks. It was

something that I thought could happen only to others, never to me. My neighbors feared

they would lose all their olive trees in the flood, and my wife was afraid that we would

lose our children. I thought that everything I owned would be destroyed.

"The land was ruined, and I had to find some other way to earn a living. So now I'm a

camel driver. But that disaster taught me to understand the word of Allah: people need

not fear the unknown if they are capable of achieving what they need and want.

"We are afraid of losing what we have, whether it's our life or our possessions and

property. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand."

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Disobedience Means Death

2012-06-17T03:15:00.002-07:00

"I'm the leader of the caravan," said a dark-eyed, bearded man. "I hold the power of life

and death for every person I take with me. The desert is a capricious lady, and sometimes she drives men crazy."

There were almost two hundred people gathered there, and four hundred animals—

camels, horses, mules, and fowl. In the crowd were women, children, and a number of

men with swords at their belts and rifles slung on their shoulders. The Englishman had

several suitcases filled with books. There was a babble of noise, and the leader had to

repeat himself several times for everyone to understand what he was saying.

"There are a lot of different people here, and each has his own God. But the only God I

serve is Allah, and in his name I swear that I will do everything possible once again to

win out over the desert. But I want each and every one of you to swear by the God you

believe in that you will follow my orders no matter what. In the desert, disobedience

means death."

There was a murmur from the crowd. Each was swearing quietly to his or her own God.

The boy swore to Jesus Christ. The Englishman said nothing. And the murmur lasted

longer than a simple vow would have. The people were also praying to heaven for

protection.

Life’s a Drug

2012-06-16T00:24:00.000-07:00

The merchant put some new coals in the hookah, and inhaled deeply.

"I've had this shop for thirty years. I know good crystal from bad, and everything else

there is to know about crystal. I know its dimensions and how it behaves. If we serve tea

in crystal, the shop is going to expand. And then I'll have to change my way of life."

"Well, isn't that good?"

"I'm already used to the way things are. Before you came, I was thinking about how

much time I had wasted in the same place, while my friends had moved on, and either

went bankrupt or did better than they had before. It made me very depressed. Now, I can

see that it hasn't been too bad. The shop is exactly the size I always wanted it to be. I

don't want to change anything, because I don't know how to deal with change. I'm used to

the way I am."

The boy didn't know what to say. The old man continued, "You have been a real blessing

to me. Today, I understand something I didn't see before: every blessing ignored becomes

a curse. I don't want anything else in life. But you are forcing me to look at wealth and at

horizons I have never known. Now that I have seen them, and now that I see how

immense my possibilities are, I'm going to feel worse than I did before you arrived.

Because I know the things I should be able to accomplish, and I don't want to do so."

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World’s Greatest Lie

2012-06-15T02:31:00.000-07:00

The old man persisted in his attempt to strike up a conversation. He said that

he was tired and thirsty, and asked if he might have a sip of the boy's wine. The boy

offered his bottle, hoping that the old man would leave him alone.

But the old man wanted to talk, and he asked the boy what book he was reading. The boy was tempted to be rude, and move to another bench, but his father had taught him to be respectful of the elderly. So he held out the book to the man—for two reasons: first, that he, himself, wasn't sure how to pronounce the title; and second, that if the old man didn't know how to read, he would probably feel ashamed and decide of his own accord to change benches.

"Hmm…" said the old man, looking at all sides of the book, as if it were some strange

object. "This is an important book, but it's really irritating."

The boy was shocked. The old man knew how to read, and had already read the book.

And if the book was irritating, as the old man had said, the boy still had time to change it

for another.

"It's a book that says the same thing almost all the other books in the world say,"

continued the old man. "It describes people's inability to choose their own destinies. And

it ends up saying that everyone believes the world's greatest lie."

"What's the world's greatest lie?" the boy asked, completely surprised.

"It's this: that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of what's happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. That's the world's greatest lie."

Just One More Time- Paulo Coelho

2012-06-14T03:43:00.001-07:00

The boy interrupted the old man "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because you are trying to realize your destiny. And you are at the point where you're

about to give it all up."

"And that's when you always appear on the scene?"

"Not always in this way, but I always appear in one form or another. Sometimes I appear in the form of a solution, or a good idea. At other times, at a crucial moment, I make it easier for things to happen. There are other things I do, too, but most of the time people don't realize I've done them."

The old man related that, the week before, he had been forced to appear before a miner, and had taken the form of a stone. The miner had abandoned everything to go mining for emeralds. For five years he had been working a certain river, and had examined hundreds of thousands of stones looking for an emerald. The miner was about to give it all up, right at the point when, if he were to examine just one more stone—just one more—he would find his emerald. Since the miner had sacrificed everything to his destiny, the old man decided to become involved. He transformed himself into a stone that rolled up to the miner's foot. The miner, with all the anger and frustration of his five fruitless years, picked up the stone and threw it aside. But he had thrown it with such force that it broke the stone it fell upon, and there, embedded in the broken stone, was the most beautiful emerald in the world.

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The Hidden Treasure And The Boy - Paulo Coelho

2012-06-13T00:03:00.000-07:00

The old woman led the boy to a room at the back of her house; it was separated from her living room by a curtain of colored beads. The room's furnishings consisted of a table, an image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and two chairs.

The woman sat down, and told him to be seated as well. Then she took both of his hands in hers, and began quietly to pray.

"Very interesting," said the woman, never taking her eyes from the boy's hands, and then she fell silent.

The boy was becoming nervous. His hands began to tremble, and the woman sensed it.

He quickly pulled his hands away.

"I didn't come here to have you read my palm," he said, already regretting having come.

He thought for a moment that it would be better to pay her fee and leave without learning a thing, that he was giving too much importance to his recurrent dream.

"You came so that you could learn about your dreams," said the old woman. "And

dreams are the language of God. When he speaks in our language, I can interpret what he has said. But if he speaks in the language of the soul, it is only you who can understand.

But, whichever it is, I'm going to charge you for the consultation."

Another trick, the boy thought. But he decided to take a chance. A shepherd always takes his chances with wolves and with drought, and that's what makes a shepherd's life exciting.

"I have had the same dream twice," he said. "I dreamed that I was in a field with my

sheep, when a child appeared and began to play with the animals. I don't like people to do that, because the sheep are afraid of strangers. But children always seem to be able to play with them without frightening them. I don't know why. I don't know how animals

know the age of human beings."

"Tell me more about your dream," said the woman. "I have to get back to my cooking,

and, since you don't have much money, I can't give you a lot of time."

"The child went on playing with my sheep for quite a while," continued the boy, a bit

upset. "And suddenly, the child took me by both hands and transported me to the

Egyptian pyramids."

He paused for a moment to see if the woman knew what the Egyptian pyramids were. But she said nothing.

"Then, at the Egyptian pyramids,"—he said the last three words slowly, so that the old

woman would understand—"the child said to me, If you come here, you will find a

hidden treasure.' And, just as she was about to show me the exact location, I woke up.

Both times."

The woman was silent for some time. Then she again took his hands and studied them

carefully.

"I'm not going to charge you anything now," she said. "But I want one-tenth of the

treasure, if you find it."

The boy laughed—out of happiness. He was going to be able to save the little money he

had because of a dream about hidden treasure!

"Well, interpret the dream," he said.

"First, swear to me. Swear that you will give me one-tenth of your treasure in exchange

for what I am going to tell you."

The shepherd swore that he would. The old woman asked him to swear again while

looking at the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

"It's a dream in the language of the world," she said. "I can interpret it, but the

interpretation is very difficult. That's why I feel that I deserve a part of what you find.

"And this is my interpretation: you must go to the Pyramids in Egypt. I have never heard

of them, but, if it was a child who showed them to you, they exist. There you will find a

treasure that will make you a rich man."

The boy was surprised, and then irritated. He didn't need to seek out the old woman for

this! But then he remembered that he wasn't going to have to pay anything.

"I didn't need to waste my time just for this," he said.

"I told you that your dream was a difficult one. It's the simple things in life that are the

most extraordinary; only wise men are able to understand them. And since I am not wise, I have had to learn other arts, such as the reading of palms."

"Well, how am I going to get to Egypt?"

Taste of Success- Paulo Coelho

2012-06-12T23:57:00.001-07:00

The next day, the boy met the old man at noon. He brought six sheep with him.

"I'm surprised," the boy said. "My friend bought all the other sheep immediately. He said

that he had always dreamed of being a shepherd, and that it was a good omen."

"That's the way it always is," said the old man. "It's called the principle of favorability.

When you play cards the first time, you are almost sure to win. Beginner's luck."

"Why is that?"

"Because there is a force that wants you to realize your destiny; it whets your appetite

with a taste of success."

Childhood Innocent Days

2012-06-12T05:25:00.001-07:00

Those Innocent Days Of Our Life :
Once Choosing Colour Of Sketch
Pen Was A Tough Process.
Catching The Seat Near The Window
In A Bus Was Called Obsession.
Gettng A Toffee As A Birthday Treat
From Friends Made Our Day.
Being The 1st To Finish Copying
From The Blackboard Was The
Moment Of Pride.
Hiding Your Answer From Your
Partner Was Not Called Selfishness.
When Homework Was The Last
Torture & You Thought All Elders
Are Ideal.
Sleeping Early Was A Routine.
Owning A Cycle Was Like Owning
Everything.
To Look Pretty Was To Put Loads Of
Powder And A Neat Comb.
Awesome Were Those Childhood
Days

The Secret of Happiness- Paulo Coelho

2012-06-12T03:08:00.001-07:00

"A certain shopkeeper sent his son to learn about the secret of happiness from the wisest man in the world. The lad wandered through the desert for forty days, and finally came upon a beautiful castle, high atop a mountain. It was there that the wise man lived.

"Rather than finding a saintly man, though, our hero, on entering the main room of the

castle, saw a hive of activity: tradesmen came and went, people were conversing in the

corners, a small orchestra was playing soft music, and there was a table covered with

platters of the most delicious food in that part of the world. The wise man conversed with everyone, and the boy had to wait for two hours before it was his turn to be given the man's attention.

"The wise man listened attentively to the boy's explanation of why he had come, but told

him that he didn't have time just then to explain the secret of happiness. He suggested that the boy look around the palace and return in two hours.

" 'Meanwhile, I want to ask you to do something,' said the wise man, handing the boy a

teaspoon that held two drops of oil. 'As you wander around, carry this spoon with you

without allowing the oil to spill.'

"The boy began climbing and descending the many stairways of the palace, keeping his

eyes fixed on the spoon. After two hours, he returned to the room where the wise man

was.

" 'Well,' asked the wise man, 'did you see the Persian tapestries that are hanging in my

dining hall? Did you see the garden that it took the master gardener ten years to create?

Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?'

"The boy was embarrassed, and confessed that he had observed nothing. His only

concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.

" 'Then go back and observe the marvels of my world,' said the wise man. 'You cannot

trust a man if you don't know his house.'

"Relieved, the boy picked up the spoon and returned to his exploration of the palace, this time observing all of the works of art on the ceilings and the walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around him, the beauty of the flowers, and the taste with which everything had been selected. Upon returning to the wise man, he related in detail everything he had seen.

" 'But where are the drops of oil I entrusted to you?' asked the wise man.

"Looking down at the spoon he held, the boy saw that the oil was gone.

" 'Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you,' said the wisest of wise men.

'The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world, and never to forget the

drops of oil on the spoon.' "

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Stop Child Labour

2012-06-12T00:48:00.001-07:00

Child labor did not begin with the advent of the industrial revolution. The young had always worked alongside their parents in the home, in the field, and as apprentices in skilled and semi-skilled trades, but the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries saw a drastic change in the type of labor children performed. Increasingly employed in factories and mines, children were thrust into dangerous and unhealthy situations within the adult working world, prompting reformers to call for legislative change and Romantic and Victorian writers to offer sympathetic representations of working children in their poetry and fiction.

In the early part of the nineteenth century thousands of children in England were employed in textile factories, workshops, and mines, usually working long hours for very low wages. Although the Factory Act of 1833 set at nine the minimum age for children working in factories, it was rarely enforced. Parents who depended on the wages of their offspring could easily obtain certificates testifying that their children met the required age. Mining was not regulated until much later when the Report of the Children's Employment Commission in 1842 exposed the dangerous and unhealthy conditions under which children as young as four and five labored underground. The smallest workers were most commonly employed as “trappers,” sitting alone in the dark shafts and opening the trap doors for approaching coal carts. Older children, six and up, worked in the mines as human beasts of burden, dragging loaded coal carts through narrow passages. Other industries, such as the manufacture of glass, lace, pottery, paper, and tobacco, were subject to no regulations at all until well past the mid-century mark.
An almost exclusively British practice was the tradition of using small boys, and sometimes girls, to climb narrow chimneys as apprentices to adult chimney-sweeps. George Phillips reports that elsewhere in the world chimneys were most often cleaned with a weighted rope operated by two men and later by machinery invented for the purpose, but it was an English tradition to use climbing boys. “Once he had started to employ climbing-boys, the Englishman did not wish to change his habit; and the custom of sending small children … up chimneys continued in a country noted for its tenacity in maintaining its traditions,” writes Phillips. Children as young as four, the smaller the better, were apprenticed by their poverty-stricken parents or by unscrupulous overseers of workhouses.

Dickens had a unique perspective on the subject of child labor, reflecting upon his own experience working at Warren's Blacking Factory at the age of twelve when his father was held in debtor's prison. Completely on his own, working long hours in rat-infested quarters, young Dickens felt abandoned by his family, and his bitterness over this period of his childhood continued to influence his life and writings. Numerous critics and biographers have studied the details of the Warren's Blacking episode and note that it informed the author's sympathetic treatment of working and abandoned children in many of his novels, particularly Oliver Twist and the largely autobiographical David Copperfield (1850). Like Dickens, David later recalled feeling utterly abandoned as he labored in the Murdstone and Grinby warehouse: “I know enough of the world now to have lost the capacity of being much surprised by anything; but it is a matter of some surprise to me, even now, that I can have been so easily thrown away at such an age.” By making his fictional persona only ten years old, rather than twelve, Dickens made the incident even more poignant in the novel than it had been in his own life.
In Frances Trollope's The Life and Adventures of Michael Armstrong, the Factory Boy (1840), an entire novel is devoted to the subject of child labor rather than a single chapter as in David Copperfield. But this approach caused special problems for authors: how to expose the social problem without sacrificing artistic integrity. Sympathetic writers, such as Mrs. Trollope, were charged with propagandizing as they sought to represent conditions and characters in a manner that would garner support for their young victims. Some critics felt Trollope went overboard in her characterization of Sir Matthew Dowling, the factory owner, as the embodiment of evil. One contemporary reviewer claimed that the novel was “an exaggerated statement of the vices of a class, and a mischievous attempt to excite the worst and bitterest feelings against men who are, like other men, creatures of circumstances, in which their lot has been cast.” Critic W. H. Chaloner cautions that although Trollope visited factories in the north of England while writing her novel, her fictional accounts of factory life for children should not be confused with historically accurate reports of their conditions.
Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna's factory novel, Helen Fleetwood (1840), drew on historical sources such as blue books, parliamentary records, and the Sadler Committee report. Critics Ivanka Kovačević and S. Barbara Kanner compare Tonna's fictional incidents with actual testimony from parliamentary witnesses and find many similarities. Kovačevic and Kanner state: “While Helen Fleetwood is unashamedly propagandistic and self-consciously reliant upon the dry bones of parliamentary and other reports, it is a genuinely moving assault upon the reader's conscience in its graphic account of what it is like to be a woman or child forced by compulsions of poverty to work in a factory.”

From “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho

2012-06-12T00:16:00.001-07:00

"People from all over the world have passed through this village, son," said his father.

"They come in search of new things, but when they leave they are basically the same

people they were when they arrived. They climb the mountain to see the castle, and they

wind up thinking that the past was better than what we have now. They have blond hair,

or dark skin, but basically they're the same as the people who live right here."

"But I'd like to see the castles in the towns where they live," the boy explained.

"Those people, when they see our land, say that they would like to live here forever," his

father continued.

"Well, I'd like to see their land, and see how they live," said his son.

"The people who come here have a lot of money to spend, so they can afford to travel,"

his father said. "Amongst us, the only ones who travel are the shepherds."

"Well, then I'll be a shepherd!"

His father said no more. The next day, he gave his son a pouch that held three ancient

Spanish gold coins.

"I found these one day in the fields. I wanted them to be a part of your inheritance. But

use them to buy your flock. Take to the fields, and someday you'll learn that our

countryside is the best, and our women the most beautiful."

And he gave the boy his blessing. The boy could see in his father's gaze a desire to be

able, himself, to travel the world—a desire that was still alive, despite his father's having

had to bury it, over dozens of years, under the burden of struggling for water to drink,

food to eat, and the same place to sleep every night of his life.

Poetry - Dream is Life, Life is Dream

2012-05-01T21:39:00.000-07:00


We live, while we see the sun,
Where life and dreams are as one;
And living has taught me this,
Man dreams the life that is his,
Until his living is done.
The king dreams he is king, and he lives
In the deceit of a king,
Commanding and governing;
And all the praise he receives
Is written in wind, and leaves
A little dust on the way
When death ends all with a breath.
Where then is the gain of the throne,
That shall perish and not be known
In the other dream that is death?
Dreams the rich man of riches and fears,
The fears that his riches breed;
The poor man dreams of his need,
And all his sorrows and tears;
Dreams he that prospers with years,
Dreams he that feigns and foregoes,
Dreams he that rails on his foes;
And in all the world, I see,
Man dreams whatever he be,
And his own dream no man knows.
And I too dream and behold,
I dream I am bound with chains,
And I dreamed that these present pains
Were fortunate ways of old.
What is life? a tale that is told;
What is life? a frenzy extreme,
A shadow of things that seem;
And the greatest good is but small,
That all life is a dream to all,
And that dreams themselves are a dream.

Poetry - Dream, Life

2012-05-01T21:36:00.000-07:00


A dream it was in which I found myself.
And you that hail me now, then hailed me king,
In a brave palace that was all my own,
Within, and all without it, mine; until,
Drunk with excess of majesty and pride,
Methought I towered so big and swelled so wide
That of myself I burst the glittering bubble
Which my ambition had about me blown
And all again was darkness. Such a dream
As this, in which I may be walking now,
Dispensing solemn justice to you shadows,
Who make believe to listen; but anon
Kings, princes, captains, warriors, plume and steel,
Ay, even with all your airy theatre,
May flit into the air you seem to rend
With acclamations, leaving me to wake
In the dark tower; or dreaming that I wake
From this that waking is; or this and that,
Both waking and both dreaming; such a doubt
Confounds and clouds our mortal life about.
But whether wake or dreaming, this I know
How dreamwise human glories come and go;
Whose momentary tenure not to break,
Walking as one who knows he soon may wake,
So fairly carry the full cup, so well
Disordered insolence and passion quell,
That there be nothing after to upbraid
Dreamer or doer in the part he played;
Whether tomorrow's dawn shall break the spell,
Or the last trumpet of the Eternal Day,
When dreaming, with the night, shall pass away.

Poetry - The Cross

2012-05-01T21:34:00.001-07:00


Tree which heaven has willed to dower
With that true fruit whence we live,
As that other death did give;
Of new Eden loveliest flower;
Bow of light, that in worst hour
Of the worst flood signal true
O'er the world, of mercy threw;
Fair plant, yielding sweetest wine;
Of our David harp divine;
Or our Moses tables new;
Sinner am I, therefore I
Claim upon thy mercies make;
Since alone for sinners' sake
God on thee endured to die.

So we'll go no more a-roving - Lord Byron

2012-03-23T23:54:00.001-07:00


So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have a rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

There be none of Beauty's daughters - Lord Byron

2012-03-23T23:53:00.001-07:00


There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like Thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

She Walks In Beauty - Lord Byron's Poetry

2012-03-23T23:49:00.000-07:00


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

When We Two Parted - Poetry By Lord Byron

2012-03-23T23:47:00.002-07:00


When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Lond, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

I secret we met--
I silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

George Gordon Byron - As Young As Fair

2012-03-23T23:46:00.000-07:00


And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.

William Stanley - Poetry

2012-03-17T06:39:00.000-07:00

All about the blown wind's ways,
Never unbelieving,
With a mellow, antique grace,
And triumphant grieving,--

Came across the meadow,
Went beyond the hill,
Thin as any shadow,
Passed my chronicle.

Earth writes the epitaph,
Rain and leaves wear it:--
Eyes to see, lips to laugh,
Are my shadows near it.