We have countless important conversations that need to be normalized in our society. Mental health struggles such as depression, feelings of hopelessness, and the topic of suicide are often stigmatized, yet they affect many individuals. Open dialogue about sex and sexuality is essential for fostering understanding and acceptance in diverse relationships. Moreover, it's vital to address issues like recognizing and naming harm, advocating for personal autonomy, and confronting feelings of shame that can arise in various contexts. Financial challenges and the struggle for survival are also pressing topics that deserve attention. In addition, we should emphasize the importance of building genuine friendships and learning effective ways to connect with others deeply. Discussions about our bodies, the intricacies of dating, and the experience of love are crucial for personal growth and societal acceptance. We also need to explore the concept of self-leadership, empowering individuals to take charge of their own lives. Lastly, conversations surrounding end-of-life topics, including grief and care, are necessary for creating compassionate and supportive communities. Let's work together to make these conversations a natural part of our everyday lives. #MentalHealthMatters #OpenDialogue #EndTheStigma #SexualityAwareness #PersonalAutonomy #FinancialStruggles #FriendshipGoals #SelfLeadership #LoveAndRelationships #GriefSupport #CompassionateCommunity #NormalizeTheConversation #Empowerment #EmotionalWellbeing #HealthyConnections

"Demeter And Persephone" Faint as a climate-changing bird that flies All night across the darkness, and at dawn Falls on the threshold of her native land, And can no more, thou camest, O my child, Led upward by the God of ghosts and dreams, Who laid thee at Eleusis, dazed and dumb, With passing thro' at once from state to state, Until I brought thee hither, that the day, When here thy hands let fall the gather'd flower, Might break thro' clouded memories once again On thy lost self. A sudden nightingale Saw thee, and flash'd into a frolic of song And welcome; and a gleam as of the moon, When first she peers along the tremulous deep, Fled wavering o'er thy face, and chased away That shadow of a likeness to the king Of shadows, thy dark mate. Persephone! Queen of the dead no more -- my child! Thine eyes Again were human-godlike, and the Sun Burst from a swimming fleece of winter gray, And robed thee in his day from head to feet -- "Mother!" and I was folded in thine arms. Child, those imperial, disimpassion'd eyes Awed even me at first, thy mother -- eyes That oft had seen the serpent-wanded power Draw downward into Hades with his drift Of fickering spectres, lighted from below By the red race of fiery Phlegethon; But when before have Gods or men beheld The Life that had descended re-arise, And lighted from above him by the Sun? So mighty was the mother's childless cry, A cry that ran thro' Hades, Earth, and Heaven! So in this pleasant vale we stand again, The field of Enna, now once more ablaze With flowers that brighten as thy footstep falls, All flowers -- but for one black blur of earth Left by that closing chasm, thro' which the car Of dark Aidoneus rising rapt thee hence. And here, my child, tho' folded in thine arms, I feel the deathless heart of motherhood Within me shudder, lest the naked glebe Should yawn once more into the gulf, and thence The shrilly whinnyings of the team of Hell, Ascending, pierce the glad and songful air, And all at once their arch'd necks, midnight-maned, Jet upward thro' the mid-day blossom. No! For, see, thy foot has touch'd it; all the space Of blank earth-baldness clothes itself afresh, And breaks into the crocus-purple hour That saw thee vanish. Child, when thou wert gone, I envied human wives, and nested birds, Yea, the cubb'd lioness; went in search of thee Thro' many a palace, many a cot, and gave Thy breast to ailing infants in the night, And set the mother waking in amaze To find her sick one whole; and forth again Among the wail of midnight winds, and cried, "Where is my loved one? Wherefore do ye wail?" And out from all the night an answer shrill'd, "We know not, and we know not why we wail." I climb'd on all the cliffs of all the seas, And ask'd the waves that moan about the world "Where? do ye make your moaning for my child?" And round from all the world the voices came "We know not, and we know not why we moan." "Where?" and I stared from every eagle-peak, I thridded the black heart of all the woods, I peer'd thro' tomb and cave, and in the storms Of Autumn swept across the city, and heard The murmur of their temples chanting me, Me, me, the desolate Mother! "Where"? -- and turn'd, And fled by many a waste, forlorn of man, And grieved for man thro' all my grief for thee, -- The jungle rooted in his shatter'd hearth, The serpent coil'd about his broken shaft, The scorpion crawling over naked skulls; -- I saw the tiger in the ruin'd fane Spring from his fallen God, but trace of thee I saw not; and far on, and, following out A league of labyrinthine darkness, came On three gray heads beneath a gleaming rift. "Where"? and I heard one voice from all the three "We know not, for we spin the lives of men, And not of Gods, and know not why we spin! There is a Fate beyond us." Nothing knew. Last as the likeness of a dying man, Without his knowledge, from him flits to warn A far-off friendship that he comes no more, So he, the God of dreams, who heard my cry, Drew from thyself the likeness of thyself Without thy knowledge, and thy shadow past Before me, crying "The Bright one in the highest Is brother of the Dark one in the lowest, And Bright and Dark have sworn that I, the child Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, thee, the Power That lifts her buried life from loom to bloom, Should be for ever and for evermore The Bride of Darkness." So the Shadow wail'd. Then I, Earth-Goddess, cursed the Gods of Heaven. I would not mingle with their feasts; to me Their nectar smack'd of hemlock on the lips, Their rich ambrosia tasted aconite. The man, that only lives and loves an hour, Seem'd nobler than their hard Eternities. My quick tears kill'd the flower, my ravings hush'd The bird, and lost in utter grief I fail'd To send my life thro' olive-yard and vine And golden grain, my gift to helpless man. Rain-rotten died the wheat, the barley-spears Were hollow-husk'd, the leaf fell, and the sun, Pale at my grief, drew down before his time Sickening, and Aetna kept her winter snow. Then He, the brother of this Darkness, He Who still is highest, glancing from his height On earth a fruitless fallow, when he miss'd The wonted steam of sacrifice, the praise And prayer of men, decreed that thou should'st dwell For nine white moons of each whole year with me, Three dark ones in the shadow with thy King. Once more the reaper in the gleam of dawn Will see me by the landmark far away, Blessing his field, or seated in the dusk Of even, by the lonely threshing-floor, Rejoicing in the harvest and the grange. Yet I, Earth-Goddess, am but ill-content With them, who still are highest. Those gray heads, What meant they by their "Fate beyond the Fates" But younger kindlier Gods to bear us down, As we bore down the Gods before us? Gods, To quench, not hurl the thunderbolt, to stay, Not spread the plague, the famine; Gods indeed, To send the noon into the night and break The sunless halls of Hades into Heaven? Till thy dark lord accept and love the Sun, And all the Shadow die into the Light, When thou shalt dwell the whole bright year with me, And souls of men, who grew beyond their race, And made themselves as Gods against the fear Of Death and Hell; and thou that hast from men, As Queen of Death, that worship which is Fear, Henceforth, as having risen from out the dead, Shalt ever send thy life along with mine From buried grain thro' springing blade, and bless Their garner'd Autumn also, reap with me, Earth-mother, in the harvest hymns of Earth The worship which is Love, and see no more The Stone, the Wheel, the dimly-glimmering lawns Of that Elysium, all the hateful fires Of torment, and the shadowy warrior glide Along the silent field of Asphodel. — Lord Alfred Tennyson #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Letter to Maria Gisborne" The spider spreads her webs, whether she be In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree; The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves; So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, Sit spinning still round this decaying form, From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought-- No net of words in garish colours wrought To catch the idle buzzers of the day-- But a soft cell, where when that fades away, Memory may clothe in wings my living name And feed it with the asphodels of fame, Which in those hearts which must remember me Grow, making love an immortality. Whoever should behold me now, I wist, Would think I were a mighty mechanist, Bent with sublime Archimedean art To breathe a soul into the iron heart Of some machine portentous, or strange gin, Which by the force of figured spells might win Its way over the sea, and sport therein; For round the walls are hung dread engines, such As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch Ixion or the Titan:--or the quick Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic, Or those in philanthropic council met, Who thought to pay some interest for the debt They owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation, By giving a faint foretaste of damnation To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and the rest Who made our land an island of the blest, When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with Empire:-- With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike and jag, Which fishers found under the utmost crag Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles, Where to the sky the rude sea rarely smiles Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn When the exulting elements in scorn, Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey, As panthers sleep;--and other strange and dread Magical forms the brick floor overspread,-- Proteus transformed to metal did not make More figures, or more strange; nor did he take Such shapes of unintelligible brass, Or heap himself in such a horrid mass Of tin and iron not to be understood; And forms of unimaginable wood, To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood: Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved blocks, The elements of what will stand the shocks Of wave and wind and time.--Upon the table More knacks and quips there be than I am able To catalogize in this verse of mine:-- A pretty bowl of wood--not full of wine, But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drink When at their subterranean toil they swink, Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who Reply to them in lava--cry halloo! And call out to the cities o'er their head,-- Roofs, towers, and shrines, the dying and the dead, Crash through the chinks of earth--and then all quaff Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. This quicksilver no gnome has drunk--within The walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin, In colour like the wake of light that stains The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains The inmost shower of its white fire--the breeze Is still--blue Heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver--for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhood--I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat:-- A hollow screw with cogs--Henry will know The thing I mean and laugh at me,--if so He fears not I should do more mischief.--Next Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. Then comes a range of mathematical Instruments, for plans nautical and statical, A heap of rosin, a queer broken glass With ink in it;--a china cup that was What it will never be again, I think,-- A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink The liquor doctors rail at--and which I Will quaff in spite of them--and when we die We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea, And cry out,--'Heads or tails?' where'er we be. Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,--disentangle them who may. Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie, And some odd volumes of old chemistry. Near those a most inexplicable thing, With lead in the middle--I'm conjecturing How to make Henry understand; but no-- I'll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo, This secret in the pregnant womb of time, Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. And here like some weird Archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery, The self-impelling steam-wheels of the mind Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind The gentle spirit of our meek reviews Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, Ruffling the ocean of their self-content;-- I sit--and smile or sigh as is my bent, But not for them--Libeccio rushes round With an inconstant and an idle sound, I heed him more than them--the thunder-smoke Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare; The ripe corn under the undulating air Undulates like an ocean;--and the vines Are trembling wide in all their trellised lines-- The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill The empty pauses of the blast;--the hill Looks hoary through the white electric rain, And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain, The interrupted thunder howls; above One chasm of Heaven smiles, like the eye of Love On the unquiet world;--while such things are, How could one worth your friendship heed the war Of worms? the shriek of the world's carrion jays, Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise? You are not here! the quaint witch Memory sees, In vacant chairs, your absent images, And points where once you sat, and now should be But are not.--I demand if ever we Shall meet as then we met;--and she replies. Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes; 'I know the past alone--but summon home My sister Hope,--she speaks of all to come.' But I, an old diviner, who knew well Every false verse of that sweet oracle, Turned to the sad enchantress once again, And sought a respite from my gentle pain, In citing every passage o'er and o'er Of our communion--how on the sea-shore We watched the ocean and the sky together, Under the roof of blue Italian weather; How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm, And felt the transverse lightning linger warm Upon my cheek--and how we often made Feasts for each other, where good will outweighed The frugal luxury of our country cheer, As well it might, were it less firm and clear Than ours must ever be;--and how we spun A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun Of this familiar life, which seems to be But is not:--or is but quaint mockery Of all we would believe, and sadly blame The jarring and inexplicable frame Of this wrong world:--and then anatomize The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes Were closed in distant years;--or widely guess The issue of the earth's great business, When we shall be as we no longer are-- Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not;--or how You listened to some interrupted flow Of visionary rhyme,--in joy and pain Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain, With little skill perhaps;--or how we sought Those deepest wells of passion or of thought Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years, Staining their sacred waters with our tears; Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed! Or how I, wisest lady! then endued The language of a land which now is free, And, winged with thoughts of truth and majesty, Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud, And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud, 'My name is Legion!'--that majestic tongue Which Calderon over the desert flung Of ages and of nations; and which found An echo in our hearts, and with the sound Startled oblivion;--thou wert then to me As is a nurse--when inarticulately A child would talk as its grown parents do. If living winds the rapid clouds pursue, If hawks chase doves through the aethereal way, Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their prey, Why should not we rouse with the spirit's blast Out of the forest of the pathless past These recollected pleasures? You are now In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. Yet in its depth what treasures! You will see That which was Godwin,--greater none than he Though fallen--and fallen on evil times--to stand Among the spirits of our age and land, Before the dread tribunal of "to come" The foremost,--while Rebuke cowers pale and dumb. You will see Coleridge--he who sits obscure In the exceeding lustre and the pure Intense irradiation of a mind, Which, with its own internal lightning blind, Flags wearily through darkness and despair-- A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, A hooded eagle among blinking owls.-- You will see Hunt--one of those happy souls Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom This world would smell like what it is--a tomb; Who is, what others seem; his room no doubt Is still adorned with many a cast from Shout, With graceful flowers tastefully placed about; And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung; The gifts of the most learned among some dozens Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and cousins. And there is he with his eternal puns, Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns Thundering for money at a poet's door; Alas! it is no use to say, 'I'm poor!' Or oft in graver mood, when he will look Things wiser than were ever read in book, Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderness.-- You will see Hogg,--and I cannot express His virtues,--though I know that they are great, Because he locks, then barricades the gate Within which they inhabit;--of his wit And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit. He is a pearl within an oyster shell. One of the richest of the deep;--and there Is English Peacock, with his mountain Fair, Turned into a Flamingo;--that shy bird That gleams i' the Indian air--have you not heard When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, His best friends hear no more of him?--but you Will see him, and will like him too, I hope, With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope Matched with this cameleopard--his fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it; A strain too learned for a shallow age, Too wise for selfish bigots; let his page, Which charms the chosen spirits of the time, Fold itself up for the serener clime Of years to come, and find its recompense In that just expectation.--Wit and sense, Virtue and human knowledge; all that might Make this dull world a business of delight, Are all combined in Horace Smith.--And these. With some exceptions, which I need not tease Your patience by descanting on,--are all You and I know in London. I recall My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night. As water does a sponge, so the moonlight Fills the void, hollow, universal air-- What see you?--unpavilioned Heaven is fair, Whether the moon, into her chamber gone, Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan Climbs with diminished beams the azure steep; Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep, Piloted by the many-wandering blast, And the rare stars rush through them dim and fast:-- All this is beautiful in every land.-- But what see you beside?--a shabby stand Of Hackney coaches--a brick house or wall Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl Of our unhappy politics;--or worse-- A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her trade, You must accept in place of serenade-- Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring To Henry, some unutterable thing. I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit Built round dark caverns, even to the root Of the living stems that feed them--in whose bowers There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers; Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance, Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance, Pale in the open moonshine, but each one Under the dark trees seems a little sun, A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone astray From the silver regions of the milky way;-- Afar the Contadino's song is heard, Rude, but made sweet by distance--and a bird Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet I know none else that sings so sweet as it At this late hour;--and then all is still-- Now--Italy or London, which you will! Next winter you must pass with me; I'll have My house by that time turned into a grave Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care, And all the dreams which our tormentors are; Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock, and Smith were there, With everything belonging to them fair!-- We will have books, Spanish, Italian, Greek; And ask one week to make another week As like his father, as I'm unlike mine, Which is not his fault, as you may divine. Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, And other such lady-like luxuries,-- Feasting on which we will philosophize! And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's wood, To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood. And then we'll talk;--what shall we talk about? Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout Of thought-entangled descant;--as to nerves-- With cones and parallelograms and curves I've sworn to strangle them if once they dare To bother me--when you are with me there. And they shall never more sip laudanum, From Helicon or Himeros (1);--well, come, And in despite of God and of the devil, We'll make our friendly philosophic revel Outlast the leafless time; till buds and flowers Warn the obscure inevitable hours, Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew;-- 'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.' — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Elegy to the Memory of David Garrick, Esq." DEAR SHADE OF HIM, who grac'd the mimick scene, And charm'd attention with resistless pow'r; Whose wond'rous art, whose fascinating mien, Gave glowing rapture to the short-liv'd hour! Accept the mournful verse, the ling'ring sigh, The tear that faithful Mem'ry stays to shed; The SACRED TEAR, that from Reflection's eye, Drops on the ashes of the sainted dead. Lov'd by the grave, and courted by the young, In social comforts eminently blest; All hearts rever'd the precepts of thy tongue, And Envy's self thy eloquence confess'd. Who could like thee the soul's wild tumults paint, Or wake the torpid ear with lenient art? Touch the nice sense with pity's dulcet plaint, Or soothe the sorrows of the breaking heart? Who can forget thy penetrating eye, The sweet bewitching smile, th' empassion'd look? The clear deep whisper, the persuasive sigh, The feeling tear that Nature's language spoke? Rich in each treasure bounteous Heaven could lend, For private worth distinguish'd and approv'd, The pride of WISDOM,­VIRTUE's darling friend, By MANSFIELD honor'd­and by CAMDEN lov'd! The courtier's cringe, the flatt'rer's abject smile, The subtle arts of well-dissembled praise, Thy soul abhorr'd;­above the gloss of guile, Truth lead thy steps, and Friendship crown'd thy days. Oft in thy HAMPTON's dark embow'ring shade The POET's hand shall sweep the trembling string; While the proud tribute §to thy mem'ry paid, The voice of GENIUS on the gale shall fling. Yes, SHERIDAN! thy soft melodious verse Still vibrates on a nation's polish'd ear; Fondly it hover'd o'er the sable hearse, Hush'd the loud plaint, and triumph'd in a tear. In life united by congenial minds, Dear to the MUSE, to sacred friendship true; Around her darling's urn a wreath SHE binds, A deathless wreath­immortaliz'd by YOU! But say, dear shade, is kindred mem'ry flown? Has widow'd love at length forgot to weep? That no kind verse, or monumental stone, Marks the lone spot where thy cold relics sleep! Dear to a nation, grateful to thy muse, That nation's tears upon thy grave shall flow, For who the gentle tribute can refuse, Which thy fine feeling gave to fancied woe? Thou who, by many an anxious toilsome hour, Reap'd the bright harvest of luxuriant Fame, Who snatch'd from dark oblivion's barb'rous pow'r The radiant glories of a SHAKSPERE's name! Rembrance oft shall paint the mournful scene Where the slow fun'ral spread its length'ning gloom, Where the deep murmur, and dejected mien, In artless sorrow linger'd round thy tomb. And tho' no laurel'd bust, or labour'd line, Shall bid the passing stranger stay to weep; Thy SHAKSPERE's hand shall point the hallow'd shrine, And Britain's genius with thy ashes sleep. Then rest in peace, O ever sacred shade! Your kindred souls exulting FAME shall join; And the same wreath thy hand for SHAKSPERE made, Gemm'd with her tears about THY GRAVE SHALL TWINE. — Robinson #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"From the French" Must thou go, my glorious Chief, Severed from thy faithful few? Who can tell thy warrior's grief, Maddening o'er that long adieu? Woman's love, and Friendship's zeal, Dear as both have been to me-- What are they to all I feel, With a soldier's faith for thee? Idol of the soldier's soul! First in fight, but mightiest now; Many could a world control; Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard, Blessing him they served so well. Would that I were cold with those, Since this hour I live to see; When the doubts of coward foes Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free! Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrowed glories dim, In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own, All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne Hearts like those which still are thine? My Chief, my King, my Friend, adieu! Never did I droop before; Never to my Sovereign sue, As his foes I now implore: All I ask is to divide Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side His fall--his exile--and his grave. — George Gordon, Lord Byron #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills" OCTOBER, 1818. Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on-- Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track: Whilst above the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, Riving sail, and cord, and plank, Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'er-brimming deep; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as ever still Longing with divided will, But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave. What, if there no friends will greet; What, if there no heart will meet His with love's impatient beat; Wander wheresoe'er he may, Can he dream before that day To find refuge from distress In friendship's smile, in love's caress? Then 'twill wreak him little woe Whether such there be or no: Senseless is the breast, and cold, Which relenting love would fold; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill; Every little living nerve That from bitter words did swerve Round the tortured lips and brow, Are like sapless leaflets now Frozen upon December's bough. On the beach of a northern sea Which tempests shake eternally, As once the wretch there lay to sleep, Lies a solitary heap, One white skull and seven dry bones, On the margin of the stones, Where a few gray rushes stand, Boundaries of the sea and land: Nor is heard one voice of wail But the sea-mews, as they sail O'er the billows of the gale; Or the whirlwind up and down Howling, like a slaughtered town, When a king in glory rides Through the pomp of fratricides: Those unburied bones around There is many a mournful sound; There is no lament for him, Like a sunless vapour, dim, Who once clothed with life and thought What now moves nor murmurs not. Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony: To such a one this morn was led, My bark by soft winds piloted: 'Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the paean With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical; Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail, And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow, down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still, Round the solitary hill. Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath Day's azure eyes Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old. Sun-girt City, thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne, among the waves Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of Ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way, Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path. Those who alone thy towers behold Quivering through aereal gold, As I now behold them here, Would imagine not they were Sepulchres, where human forms, Like pollution-nourished worms, To the corpse of greatness cling, Murdered, and now mouldering: But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence, and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime; If not, perish thou and they!-- Clouds which stain truth's rising day By her sun consumed away-- Earth can spare ye: while like flowers, In the waste of years and hours, From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming. Perish--let there only be Floating o'er thy hearthless sea As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally, One remembrance, more sublime Than the tattered pall of time, Which scarce hides thy visage wan;-- That a tempest-cleaving Swan Of the songs of Albion, Driven from his ancestral streams By the might of evil dreams, Found a nest in thee; and Ocean Welcomed him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung O'er a mighty thunder-fit, Chastening terror:--what though yet Poesy's unfailing River, Which through Albion winds forever Lashing with melodious wave Many a sacred Poet's grave, Mourn its latest nursling fled? What though thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own? oh, rather say Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul? As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs; As divinest Shakespeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light Like omniscient power which he Imaged 'mid mortality; As the love from Petrarch's urn, Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp by which the heart Sees things unearthly;--so thou art, Mighty spirit--so shall be The City that did refuge thee. Lo, the sun floats up the sky Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height; From the sea a mist has spread, And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now, Like its glory long ago. By the skirts of that gray cloud Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude, 'Mid the harvest-shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe, And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain, Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will; And the sickle to the sword Lies unchanged, though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home: Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow, Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. Padua, thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals, Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Played at dice for Ezzelin, Till Death cried, "I win, I win!" And Sin cursed to lose the wager, But Death promised, to assuage her, That he would petition for Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destined years were o'er, Over all between the Po And the eastern Alpine snow, Under the mighty Austrian. Sin smiled so as Sin only can, And since that time, ay, long before, Both have ruled from shore to shore,-- That incestuous pair, who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow, As Repentance follows Crime, And as changes follow Time. In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning; Like a meteor, whose wild way Is lost over the grave of day, It gleams betrayed and to betray: Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame, When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth: Now new fires from antique light Spring beneath the wide world's might; But their spark lies dead in thee, Trampled out by Tyranny. As the Norway woodman quells, In the depth of piny dells, One light flame among the brakes, While the boundless forest shakes, And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born: The spark beneath his feet is dead, He starts to see the flames it fed Howling through the darkened sky With a myriad tongues victoriously, And sinks down in fear: so thou, O Tyranny, beholdest now Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest: Grovel on the earth; ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride! Noon descends around me now: 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of Heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath, the leaves unsodden Where the infant Frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded; And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one; And my spirit which so long Darkened this swift stream of song,-- Interpenetrated lie By the glory of the sky: Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all Which from Heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon, And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs: And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again. Other flowering isles must be In the sea of Life and Agony: Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folded wings they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove, Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain, and guilt, In a dell mid lawny hills, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine: We may live so happy there, That the Spirits of the Air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing Paradise The polluting multitude; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm, And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies; And the love which heals all strife Circling, like the breath of life, All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood, They, not it, would change; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the earth grow young again. — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"To Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin" Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed; Yes, I was firm--thus wert not thou;-- My baffled looks did fear yet dread To meet thy looks--I could not know How anxiously they sought to shine With soothing pity upon mine. To sit and curb the soul's mute rage Which preys upon itself alone; To curse the life which is the cage Of fettered grief that dares not groan, Hiding from many a careless eye The scorned load of agony. Whilst thou alone, then not regarded, The ... thou alone should be, To spend years thus, and be rewarded, As thou, sweet love, requited me When none were near--Oh! I did wake From torture for that moment's sake. Upon my heart thy accents sweet Of peace and pity fell like dew On flowers half dead;--thy lips did meet Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw Their soft persuasion on my brain, Charming away its dream of pain. We are not happy, sweet! our state Is strange and full of doubt and fear; More need of words that ills abate;-- Reserve or censure come not near Our sacred friendship, lest there be No solace left for thee and me. Gentle and good and mild thou art, Nor can I live if thou appear Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart Away from me, or stoop to wear The mask of scorn, although it be To hide the love thou feel'st for me. — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"From The Ladies Defence" Melissa: I've still rever'd your Order [she is responding to a Parson] as Divine; And when I see unblemish'd Virtue shine, When solid Learning, and substantial Sense, Are joyn'd with unaffected Eloquence; When Lives and Doctrices of a Piece are made, And holy Truths with humble Zeal convey'd; When free from Passion, Bigottry, and Pride, Not sway'd by Int'rest, nor to Parties ty'd, Contemning Riches, and abhorring strife, And shunning all the noisy Pomps of Life, You live the aweful Wonders of your time, Without the least Suspicion of a Crime: I shall with Joy the highest Deference pay, and heedfully attend to all you say. From such, Reproofs shall always welcome prove, As being th' Effects of Piety and Love. But those from me can challenge no Respect, Who on us all without just Cause reflect: Who without Mercy all the Sex decry, And into open Defamations fly: Who think us Creatures for Derision made, And the Creator with his Works upbraid: What he call'd good, they proudly think not so, And with their Malice, their Prophaneness show. 'Tis hard we shou'd be by the Men despis'd, Yet kept from knowing what wou'd make us priz'd: Debarr'd from Knowledge, banish'd from the Schools, And with the utmost Industry bred Fools. Laugh'd out of Reason, jested out of Sense, And nothing left but Native Innocence: Then told we are incapable of Wit, And only for the meanest Drudgeries fit: Made Slaves to serve their Luxury and Pride, And with innumerable Hardships try'd, 'Till Pitying Heav'n release us from our Pain, Kind Heav'n to whom alone we dare complain. Th' ill-natur'd World will no Compassion show; Such as are wretched, it wou'd still have so: It gratifies its Envy and its Spight; The most in others Miseries take Delight. While we are present they some Pity spare, And feast us on a thin Repast of Air: Look Grave and Sigh, when we our Wrongs relate, An in a Compliment accuse our Fate: Blame those to whom we our Misfortunes owe, And all the Signs of real Friendship show. But when we're absent, we their Sport are made, They fan the Flame, and our Oppressors aid; Joyn with the Stronger, the Victorious Side, And all our Suff'ring, all our griefs deride. Those gen'rous few, whom kinder Thoughts inspire, And who the Happiness of all desire; Who wish we were from barb'rous Usage free, Exempt from Toils, and shameful Slavery, Yet let us, unreprov'd, mis. spend our Hours, And to mean Purposes employ our nobler Pow'rs. They think, if we our Thoughts can but express, And know but how to Work, to Dance and Dress, It is enough, as much as we shou'd mind, As if we were for nothing else design'd, But made, like Puppets, to divert Mankind. O that my Sex wou'd all such Toys despise; And only study to be Good, and Wise; Inspect themselves, and every Blemish find, Search all the close Recesses of the Mind, And leave no vice, no ruling Passion there, Nothing to raise a Blush, or cause a Fear: Their Memories with solid Notions fill, And let their Reason dictate to their Will, Instead of Novels, Histories peruse, And for their Guides the wiser Ancients chuse, Thro' all the Labyrinths of Learning go, And grow more humble, as they more do know. By doing this, they will Respect procure, Silence the Men, and lasting Fame secure; And to themselves the best Companions prove, And neither fear their Malice, nor desire their Love. — Lady Mary Chudleigh #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Epitaph on a Beloved Friend" Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death! Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But, who with me shall hold thy former place? Thine image, what new friendship can efface? Ah, none!--a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone. Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey, Thou still had'st liv'd to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight: Though low thy lot since in a cottage born, No titles did thy humble name adorn, To me, far dearer, was thy artless love, Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove. For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live, (Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive,) Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom, Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb; Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest, I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast; That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head, Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead; This life resign'd, without one parting sigh, Together in one bed of earth we'll lie! Together share the fate to mortals given, Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven._ — George Gordon, Lord Byron #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"To Caroline" Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay? The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this-- Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning, Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation, In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested--the dead. — George Gordon, Lord Byron #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"The Canterbury Tales. The Manciple's Tale." THE PROLOGUE. WEET ye not where there stands a little town, Which that y-called is Bob-up-and-down, Under the Blee, in Canterbury way? There gan our Hoste for to jape and play, And saide, "Sirs, what? Dun is in the mire. Is there no man, for prayer nor for hire, That will awaken our fellow behind? A thief him might full rob and bind See how he nappeth, see, for cocke's bones, As he would falle from his horse at ones. Is that a Cook of London, with mischance? Do him come forth, he knoweth his penance; For he shall tell a tale, by my fay, Although it be not worth a bottle hay. Awake, thou Cook," quoth he; "God give thee sorrow What aileth thee to sleepe by the morrow? Hast thou had fleas all night, or art drunk? Or had thou with some quean all night y-swunk, So that thou mayest not hold up thine head?" The Cook, that was full pale and nothing red, Said to Host, "So God my soule bless, As there is fall'n on me such heaviness, I know not why, that me were lever sleep, Than the best gallon wine that is in Cheap." "Well," quoth the Manciple, "if it may do ease To thee, Sir Cook, and to no wight displease Which that here rideth in this company, And that our Host will of his courtesy, I will as now excuse thee of thy tale; For in good faith thy visage is full pale: Thine eyen daze, soothly as me thinketh, And well I wot, thy breath full soure stinketh, That sheweth well thou art not well disposed; Of me certain thou shalt not be y-glosed. See how he yawneth, lo, this drunken wight, As though he would us swallow anon right. Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father's kin; The devil of helle set his foot therein! Thy cursed breath infecte will us all: Fy! stinking swine, fy! foul may thee befall. Ah! take heed, Sirs, of this lusty man. Now, sweete Sir, will ye joust at the fan? Thereto, me thinketh, ye be well y-shape. I trow that ye have drunken wine of ape, And that is when men playe with a straw." And with this speech the Cook waxed all wraw, And on the Manciple he gan nod fast For lack of speech; and down his horse him cast, Where as he lay, till that men him up took. This was a fair chevachie of a cook: Alas! that he had held him by his ladle! And ere that he again were in the saddle There was great shoving bothe to and fro To lift him up, and muche care and woe, So unwieldy was this silly paled ghost. And to the Manciple then spake our Host: "Because that drink hath domination Upon this man, by my salvation I trow he lewedly will tell his tale. For were it wine, or old or moisty ale, That he hath drunk, he speaketh in his nose, And sneezeth fast, and eke he hath the pose He also hath to do more than enough To keep him on his capel out of the slough; And if he fall from off his capel eftsoon, Then shall we alle have enough to do'n In lifting up his heavy drunken corse. Tell on thy tale, of him make I no force. But yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too nice Thus openly to reprove him of his vice; Another day he will paraventure Reclaime thee, and bring thee to the lure; I mean, he speake will of smalle things, As for to pinchen at thy reckonings, That were not honest, if it came to prefe." Quoth the Manciple, "That were a great mischief; So might he lightly bring me in the snare. Yet had I lever paye for the mare Which he rides on, than he should with me strive. I will not wrathe him, so may I thrive) That that I spake, I said it in my bourde. And weet ye what? I have here in my gourd A draught of wine, yea, of a ripe grape, And right anon ye shall see a good jape. This Cook shall drink thereof, if that I may; On pain of my life he will not say nay." And certainly, to tellen as it was, Of this vessel the cook drank fast (alas! What needed it? he drank enough beforn), And when he hadde pouped in his horn, To the Manciple he took the gourd again. And of that drink the Cook was wondrous fain, And thanked him in such wise as he could. Then gan our Host to laughe wondrous loud, And said, "I see well it is necessary Where that we go good drink with us to carry; For that will turne rancour and disease T'accord and love, and many a wrong appease. O Bacchus, Bacchus, blessed be thy name, That so canst turnen earnest into game! Worship and thank be to thy deity. Of that mattere ye get no more of me. Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray." "Well, Sir," quoth he, "now hearken what I say." THE TALE. When Phoebus dwelled here in earth adown, As olde bookes make mentioun, He was the moste lusty bacheler Of all this world, and eke the best archer. He slew Python the serpent, as he lay Sleeping against the sun upon a day; And many another noble worthy deed He with his bow wrought, as men maye read. Playen he could on every minstrelsy, And singe, that it was a melody To hearen of his cleare voice the soun'. Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun, That with his singing walled the city, Could never singe half so well as he. Thereto he was the seemlieste man That is, or was since that the world began; What needeth it his features to descrive? For in this world is none so fair alive. He was therewith full fill'd of gentleness, Of honour, and of perfect worthiness. This Phoebus, that was flower of bach'lery, As well in freedom as in chivalry, For his disport, in sign eke of victory Of Python, so as telleth us the story, Was wont to bearen in his hand a bow. Now had this Phoebus in his house a crow, Which in a cage he foster'd many a day, And taught it speaken, as men teach a jay. White was this crow, as is a snow-white swan, And counterfeit the speech of every man He coulde, when he shoulde tell a tale. Therewith in all this world no nightingale Ne coulde by an hundred thousand deal Singe so wondrous merrily and well. Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife; Which that he loved more than his life. And night and day did ever his diligence Her for to please, and do her reverence: Save only, if that I the sooth shall sayn, Jealous he was, and would have kept her fain. For him were loth y-japed for to be; And so is every wight in such degree; But all for nought, for it availeth nought. A good wife, that is clean of work and thought, Should not be kept in none await certain: And truely the labour is in vain To keep a shrewe, for it will not be. This hold I for a very nicety, To spille labour for to keepe wives; Thus writen olde clerkes in their lives. But now to purpose, as I first began. This worthy Phoebus did all that he can To please her, weening, through such pleasance, And for his manhood and his governance, That no man should have put him from her grace; But, God it wot, there may no man embrace As to distrain a thing, which that nature Hath naturally set in a creature. Take any bird, and put it in a cage, And do all thine intent, and thy corage, To foster it tenderly with meat and drink Of alle dainties that thou canst bethink, And keep it all so cleanly as thou may; Although the cage of gold be never so gay, Yet had this bird, by twenty thousand fold, Lever in a forest, both wild and cold, Go eate wormes, and such wretchedness. For ever this bird will do his business T'escape out of his cage when that he may: His liberty the bird desireth aye. Let take a cat, and foster her with milk And tender flesh, and make her couch of silk, And let her see a mouse go by the wall, Anon she weiveth milk, and flesh, and all, And every dainty that is in that house, Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse. Lo, here hath kind her domination, And appetite flemeth discretion. A she-wolf hath also a villain's kind The lewedeste wolf that she may find, Or least of reputation, will she take In time when her lust to have a make. All these examples speak I by these men That be untrue, and nothing by women. For men have ever a lik'rous appetite On lower things to perform their delight Than on their wives, be they never so fair, Never so true, nor so debonair. Flesh is so newefangled, with mischance, That we can in no thinge have pleasance That souneth unto virtue any while. This Phoebus, which that thought upon no guile, Deceived was for all his jollity; For under him another hadde she, A man of little reputation, Nought worth to Phoebus in comparison. The more harm is; it happens often so, Of which there cometh muche harm and woe. And so befell, when Phoebus was absent, His wife anon hath for her leman sent. Her leman! certes that is a knavish speech. Forgive it me, and that I you beseech. The wise Plato saith, as ye may read, The word must needs accorde with the deed; If men shall telle properly a thing, The word must cousin be to the working. I am a boistous man, right thus I say. There is no difference truely Betwixt a wife that is of high degree (If of her body dishonest she be), And any poore wench, other than this (If it so be they worke both amiss), But, for the gentle is in estate above, She shall be call'd his lady and his love; And, for that other is a poor woman, She shall be call'd his wench and his leman: And God it wot, mine owen deare brother, Men lay the one as low as lies the other. Right so betwixt a titleless tyrant And an outlaw, or else a thief errant, The same I say, there is no difference (To Alexander told was this sentence), But, for the tyrant is of greater might By force of meinie for to slay downright, And burn both house and home, and make all plain, Lo, therefore is he call'd a capitain; And, for the outlaw hath but small meinie, And may not do so great an harm as he, Nor bring a country to so great mischief, Men calle him an outlaw or a thief. But, for I am a man not textuel, I will not tell of texts never a deal; I will go to my tale, as I began. When Phoebus' wife had sent for her leman, Anon they wroughten all their lust volage. This white crow, that hung aye in the cage, Beheld their work, and said never a word; And when that home was come Phoebus the lord, This crowe sung, "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!" "What? bird," quoth Phoebus, "what song sing'st thou now? Wert thou not wont so merrily to sing, That to my heart it was a rejoicing To hear thy voice? alas! what song is this?" "By God," quoth he, "I singe not amiss. Phoebus," quoth he, "for all thy worthiness, For all thy beauty, and all thy gentleness, For all thy song, and all thy minstrelsy, For all thy waiting, bleared is thine eye With one of little reputation, Not worth to thee, as in comparison, The mountance of a gnat, so may I thrive; For on thy bed thy wife I saw him swive." What will ye more? the crow anon him told, By sade tokens, and by wordes bold, How that his wife had done her lechery, To his great shame and his great villainy; And told him oft, he saw it with his eyen. This Phoebus gan awayward for to wrien; Him thought his woeful hearte burst in two. His bow he bent, and set therein a flo, And in his ire he hath his wife slain; This is th' effect, there is no more to sayn. For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy, Both harp and lute, gitern and psaltery; And eke he brake his arrows and his bow; And after that thus spake he to the crow. "Traitor," quoth he, "with tongue of scorpion, Thou hast me brought to my confusion; Alas that I was wrought! why n'ere I dead? O deare wife, O gem of lustihead, That wert to me so sad, and eke so true, Now liest thou dead, with face pale of hue, Full guilteless, that durst I swear y-wis! O rakel hand, to do so foul amiss O troubled wit, O ire reckeless, That unadvised smit'st the guilteless! O wantrust, full of false suspicion! Where was thy wit and thy discretion? O! every man beware of rakelness, Nor trow no thing withoute strong witness. Smite not too soon, ere that ye weete why, And be advised well and sickerly Ere ye do any execution Upon your ire for suspicion. Alas! a thousand folk hath rakel ire Foully fordone, and brought them in the mire. Alas! for sorrow I will myself slee And to the crow, "O false thief," said he, "I will thee quite anon thy false tale. Thou sung whilom like any nightingale, Now shalt thou, false thief, thy song foregon, And eke thy white feathers every one, Nor ever in all thy life shalt thou speak; Thus shall men on a traitor be awreak. Thou and thine offspring ever shall be blake, Nor ever sweete noise shall ye make, But ever cry against tempest and rain, In token that through thee my wife is slain." And to the crow he start, and that anon, And pull'd his white feathers every one, And made him black, and reft him all his song, And eke his speech, and out at door him flung Unto the devil, which I him betake; And for this cause be all crowes blake. Lordings, by this ensample, I you pray, Beware, and take keep what that ye say; Nor telle never man in all your life How that another man hath dight his wife; He will you hate mortally certain. Dan Solomon, as wise clerkes sayn, Teacheth a man to keep his tongue well; But, as I said, I am not textuel. But natheless thus taughte me my dame; "My son, think on the crow, in Godde's name. My son, keep well thy tongue, and keep thy friend; A wicked tongue is worse than is a fiend: My sone, from a fiend men may them bless. My son, God of his endeless goodness Walled a tongue with teeth, and lippes eke, For man should him advise, what he speak. My son, full often for too muche speech Hath many a man been spilt, as clerkes teach; But for a little speech advisedly Is no man shent, to speak generally. My son, thy tongue shouldest thou restrain At alle time, but when thou dost thy pain To speak of God in honour and prayere. The firste virtue, son, if thou wilt lear, Is to restrain and keepe well thy tongue; Thus learne children, when that they be young. My son, of muche speaking evil advis'd, Where lesse speaking had enough suffic'd, Cometh much harm; thus was me told and taught; In muche speeche sinne wanteth not. Wost thou whereof a rakel tongue serveth? Right as a sword forcutteth and forcarveth An arm in two, my deare son, right so A tongue cutteth friendship all in two. A jangler is to God abominable. Read Solomon, so wise and honourable; Read David in his Psalms, and read Senec'. My son, speak not, but with thine head thou beck, Dissimule as thou wert deaf, if that thou hear A jangler speak of perilous mattere. The Fleming saith, and learn if that thee lest, That little jangling causeth muche rest. My son, if thou no wicked word hast said, Thee thar not dreade for to be bewray'd; But he that hath missaid, I dare well sayn, He may by no way call his word again. Thing that is said is said, and forth it go'th, Though him repent, or be he ne'er so loth; He is his thrall, to whom that he hath said A tale, of which he is now evil apaid. My son, beware, and be no author new Of tidings, whether they be false or true; Whereso thou come, amonges high or low, Keep well thy tongue, and think upon the crow." — Geoffrey Chaucer #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"On Music" When through life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love, In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh! how welcome breathes the strain! Wakening thoughts that long have slept, Kindling former smiles again In faded eyes that long have wept. Like the gale, that sighs along Beds of oriental flowers, Is the grateful breath of song, That once was heard in happier hours. Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on, Though the flowers have sunk in death; So, when pleasure's dream is gone, Its memory lives in Music's breath. Music, oh, how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell! Why should Feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are even more false than they; Oh! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray. — Thomas Moore #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho