• Never give up time to get to work - Follow @warrior___mindset to join a community of individuals driven to succeed - Credit : Avengers, Greg Plitt, Chad Wright, Keanue Reaves, Andy Frisella, and other speakers - #mindset #motivation #hardwork #warrior #winner #discipline #relentless
    Never give up time to get to work 😤🔥 - Follow @warrior___mindset to join a community of individuals driven to succeed - Credit : Avengers, Greg Plitt, Chad Wright, Keanue Reaves, Andy Frisella, and other speakers - #mindset #motivation #hardwork #warrior #winner #discipline #relentless
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  • "Lines Addressed to a Young Lady"

    Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
    Wafting destruction o'er thy charms
    And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,
    Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.

    Surely some envious Demon's force,
    Vex'd to behold such beauty here,
    Impell'd the bullet's viewless course,
    Diverted from its first career.

    Yes! in that nearly fatal hour,
    The ball obey'd some hell-born guide;
    But Heaven, with interposing power,
    In pity turn'd the death aside.

    Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
    Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
    Which _I_, th' unconscious cause of fear,
    Extracted from its glistening cell;--

    Say, what dire penance can atone
    For such an outrage, done to thee?
    Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
    What punishment wilt thou decree?

    Might I perform the Judge's part,
    The sentence I should scarce deplore;
    It only would restore a heart,
    Which but belong'd to _thee_ before.

    The least atonement I can make
    Is to become no longer free;
    Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake,
    Thou shalt be _all in all_ to me.

    But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
    Such expiation of my guilt;
    Come then--some other mode elect?
    Let it be death--or what thou wilt.

    Choose, then, relentless! and I swear
    Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
    Yet hold--one little word forbear!
    Let it be aught but banishment.

    — George Gordon, Lord Byron

    #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho
    "Lines Addressed to a Young Lady" Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead, Wafting destruction o'er thy charms And hurtling o'er thy lovely head, Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. Surely some envious Demon's force, Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career. Yes! in that nearly fatal hour, The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; But Heaven, with interposing power, In pity turn'd the death aside. Yet, as perchance one trembling tear Upon that thrilling bosom fell; Which _I_, th' unconscious cause of fear, Extracted from its glistening cell;-- Say, what dire penance can atone For such an outrage, done to thee? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, What punishment wilt thou decree? Might I perform the Judge's part, The sentence I should scarce deplore; It only would restore a heart, Which but belong'd to _thee_ before. The least atonement I can make Is to become no longer free; Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake, Thou shalt be _all in all_ to me. But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject Such expiation of my guilt; Come then--some other mode elect? Let it be death--or what thou wilt. Choose, then, relentless! and I swear Nought shall thy dread decree prevent; Yet hold--one little word forbear! Let it be aught but banishment. — George Gordon, Lord Byron #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho
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  • "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
    "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
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  • "Elegy to the Memory of Richard Boyle, Esq."

    NEAR yon bleak mountain's dizzy height,
    That hangs o'er AVON's silent wave;
    By the pale Crescent's glimm'ring light,
    I sought LORENZO's lonely grave.

    O'er the long grass the silv'ry dew,
    Soft Twilight's tears spontaneous shone;
    And the dank bough of baneful yew
    Supply'd the place of sculptured stone.

    Oft, as my trembling steps drew near,
    The aëry voice of FANCY gave
    The plaint of GENIUS to mine ear,
    That, lingering, murmur'd on his grave.

    "Cold is that heart, where honour glow'd,
    And Friendship's flame sublimely shone,
    And clos'd that eye where Pity flow'd,
    For ev'ry suff'ring but HIS OWN.

    "That form where youth and grace conspir'd,
    To captivate admiring eyes,
    No more belov'd, no more admir'd,
    A torpid mass neglected lies.

    "Mute is the music of that tongue,
    Once tuneful as the voice of love,
    When ORPHEUS, by his magic song,
    Taught trees, and flinty rocks to move.

    "Oft shall the pensive MUSE be found,
    Sprinkling with flow'rs his mould'ring clay;
    While soft-eyed SORROW wand'ring round,
    Shall pluck intruding weeds away."

    Sad victim of the sordid mind,
    That doom'd THEE to an early grave;
    Ne'er shall HER breast that pity find,
    Which thy forgiveness nobly gave!

    Thou, who, when SORROW'S icy hand
    Forbad the healthsome pulse to flow,
    Obedient to HER stern command,
    With meek submission bow'd thee low!

    And when thy faded cheek proclaim'd
    The thorn that rankled in thy breast,
    Thy steady soul that pride maintain'd,
    Which marks the godlike mind distress'd!

    Nor was thy mental strength subdu'd,
    When HOPE's last ling'ring shadows fled,
    Unchang'd, thy dauntless spirit view'd
    The dreary confines of the dead!

    And when thy penetrating mind,
    Life's thorny maze presum'd to scan,
    In ev'ry path condemn'd to find
    "The low ingratitude of man."

    Indignant would'st thou turn away,
    And smiling raise thy languid eye,
    And oft thy feeble voice would say,
    "TO ME 'TIS HAPPINESS TO DIE."

    And tho' thy FRIEND, I with skilful art,
    To heal thy woes, each balm apply'd;
    Tho' the fine feelings of his heart,
    Nor cost nor studious care deny'd!

    He saw the fatal hour draw near,
    He saw THEE fading to the grave;
    He gave his last kind gift, A TEAR,
    And mourn'd the worth he could not save.

    Nor could the ruthless breath of FATE
    Snatch from thy grave the tender sigh;
    Nor a relentless monster's hate
    Impede thy passage to the sky.

    And tho' no kindred tears were shed,
    No tribute to thy memory giv'n;
    Sublime in death, thy spirit fled,
    To seek its best reward IN HEAVEN!

    — Robinson

    #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho
    "Elegy to the Memory of Richard Boyle, Esq." NEAR yon bleak mountain's dizzy height, That hangs o'er AVON's silent wave; By the pale Crescent's glimm'ring light, I sought LORENZO's lonely grave. O'er the long grass the silv'ry dew, Soft Twilight's tears spontaneous shone; And the dank bough of baneful yew Supply'd the place of sculptured stone. Oft, as my trembling steps drew near, The aëry voice of FANCY gave The plaint of GENIUS to mine ear, That, lingering, murmur'd on his grave. "Cold is that heart, where honour glow'd, And Friendship's flame sublimely shone, And clos'd that eye where Pity flow'd, For ev'ry suff'ring but HIS OWN. "That form where youth and grace conspir'd, To captivate admiring eyes, No more belov'd, no more admir'd, A torpid mass neglected lies. "Mute is the music of that tongue, Once tuneful as the voice of love, When ORPHEUS, by his magic song, Taught trees, and flinty rocks to move. "Oft shall the pensive MUSE be found, Sprinkling with flow'rs his mould'ring clay; While soft-eyed SORROW wand'ring round, Shall pluck intruding weeds away." Sad victim of the sordid mind, That doom'd THEE to an early grave; Ne'er shall HER breast that pity find, Which thy forgiveness nobly gave! Thou, who, when SORROW'S icy hand Forbad the healthsome pulse to flow, Obedient to HER stern command, With meek submission bow'd thee low! And when thy faded cheek proclaim'd The thorn that rankled in thy breast, Thy steady soul that pride maintain'd, Which marks the godlike mind distress'd! Nor was thy mental strength subdu'd, When HOPE's last ling'ring shadows fled, Unchang'd, thy dauntless spirit view'd The dreary confines of the dead! And when thy penetrating mind, Life's thorny maze presum'd to scan, In ev'ry path condemn'd to find "The low ingratitude of man." Indignant would'st thou turn away, And smiling raise thy languid eye, And oft thy feeble voice would say, "TO ME 'TIS HAPPINESS TO DIE." And tho' thy FRIEND, I with skilful art, To heal thy woes, each balm apply'd; Tho' the fine feelings of his heart, Nor cost nor studious care deny'd! He saw the fatal hour draw near, He saw THEE fading to the grave; He gave his last kind gift, A TEAR, And mourn'd the worth he could not save. Nor could the ruthless breath of FATE Snatch from thy grave the tender sigh; Nor a relentless monster's hate Impede thy passage to the sky. And tho' no kindred tears were shed, No tribute to thy memory giv'n; Sublime in death, thy spirit fled, To seek its best reward IN HEAVEN! — Robinson #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho
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