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The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;

Only this, and nothing more."


Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,

Nameless here forevermore.


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.

This it is, and nothing more."


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---

Darkness there, and nothing more.


Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,

"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,

"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.

Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."


But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "Never---nevermore."


But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."


Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath

Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--

On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:

Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--

Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted---nevermore!

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The End Of The Weekend by Anthony Hecht


A dying firelight slides along the quirt

Of the cast iron cowboy where he leans

Against my father's books. The lariat

Whirls into darkness. My girl in skin tight jeans

Fingers a page of Captain Marriat

Inviting insolent shadows to her shirt.


We rise together to the second floor.

Outside, across the lake, an endless wind

Whips against the headstones of the dead and wails

In the trees for all who have and have not sinned.

She rubs against me and I feel her nails.

Although we are alone, I lock the door.


The eventual shapes of all our formless prayers:

This dark, this cabin of loose imaginings,

Wind, lip, lake, everything awaits

The slow unloosening of her underthings

And then the noise. Something is dropped. It grates against the attic beams. I climb the stairs

Armed with a belt.


A long magnesium shaft

Of moonlight from the dormer cuts a path

Among the shattered skeletons of mice.

A great black presence beats its wings in wrath.

Above the boneyard burn its golden eyes.

Some small grey fur is pulsing in its grip.

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Of Many Worlds in This World by Margaret Cavendish


Just like as in a nest of boxes round,

Degrees of sizes in each box are found:

So, in this world, may many others be

Thinner and less, and less still by degree:

Although they are not subject to our sense,

A world may be no bigger than two-pence.

Nature is curious, and such works may shape,

Which our dull senses easily escape:

For creatures, small as atoms, may there be,

If every one a creature’s figure bear.

If atoms four, a world can make, then see

What several worlds might in an ear-ring be:

For, millions of those atoms may be in

The head of one small, little, single pin.

And if thus small, then ladies may well wear

A world of worlds, as pendents in each ear.

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Do it Anyway . - Mother Theresa


People are often unreasonable,

illogical and self-centered;

Forgive them anyway.


If you are kind,

people may accuse you of selfish ulterior motives;

Be kind anyway.


If you are successful,

you will win some false friends and true enemies;

Succeed anyway.


If you are honest and frank,

people may cheat you;

Be honest anyway.


What you spend years building,

someone could destroy overnight;

Build anyway.


If you find serenity and happiness,

they may be jealous;

Be happy anyway.


The good you do today,

people will often forget tomorrow;

Do good anyway.


Give the world the best you have,

and it may never be enough;

Give the world the best you've got anyway.


You see, in the final analysis,

it is between you and God;

It was never between you and them anyway.

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What you spend years building,

someone could destroy overnight;

Build anyway. She sure did!

:eek: :D

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Apologia by Oscar Wilde


Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,

Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,

And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain

Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?


Is it thy will - Love that I love so well -

That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot

Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell

The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?


Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,

And sell ambition at the common mart,

And let dull failure be my vestiture,

And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.


Perchance it may be better so - at least

I have not made my heart a heart of stone,

Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,

Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.


Many a man hath done so; sought to fence

In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,

Trodden the dusty road of common sense,

While all the forest sang of liberty,


Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight

Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,

To where some steep untrodden mountain height

Caught the last tresses of the Sun God's hair.


Or how the little flower he trod upon,

The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,

Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun

Content if once its leaves were aureoled.


But surely it is something to have been

The best beloved for a little while,

To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen

His purple wings flit once across thy smile.


Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed

On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars,

Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed

The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!

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Mother Theresa's poem which I think was meant to provide folks with a succinct recipe for success and happiness is quite similar to this poem by R Kipling...


What you guys think?




If by Rudyard Kipling


If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;


If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools;


If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

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If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

Thats the line that separates losers from winners. Nice one! Thanks.

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Lol. What do you mean? Winners take risks, and if that risk entails putting everything on the line, so be it! If they lose, they dont whine and ***** but take actions to ensure they get it all back. Take Donald Trump for example. Losers are people who are blindsided by small losses, always nervous, forever scared to lose. So they just stay where they're at. Get it?

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Did you ever hear Conservative Risk takers..yeah Those are winners...Do you take risk and if so what kind of risk you like to take? Do u sometimes think going somalia and SAY: Hey al shababiis stop Fighting...lol

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I'm training myself to become a risk taker, lol! I'm one of those scary cats by nature but I figured playing safe wont get me anywhere. Yes, I do take risks on people, on goals,and other personal areas. Hey, I would holla at the Shabaab group if I trully believed they would listen, but I know they wont. So it becomes a suicide mission really.

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Luv your comment but in this era train ur self to become conservative risk taker and make sure there is such areas you don't have to be risk taker.....you hear me gal in minnesota?...lol

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