All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
Happiness We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
The life that was his choosing,
lonely, urgent,
goaded by a hope, all gone.
Lived down my fear, I guess.
Soft she turned
And felt his breath upon her hair, and prayed Her
happiness was earned.
Such a thing
To hurl her out of joy!
Youth condemns; maturity condones.
I ask but one thing of you, only one, That always you will be my dream of you That never shall I wake to find untrue All this I have believed and rested on, Forever vanished, like a vision gone Out into the night. Alas, how few There are who strike in us a chord we knew Existed, but so seldom heard its tone We tremble at the half-forgotten sound. The world is full of rude awakenings And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground, Yet still our human longing vainly clings To a belief in beauty through all wrongs. O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs.
I killed him because o' th' silence.
Streams, and points, and lines of fire!
Far
Within I kneel before you, speechless yet,
And life ablaze with beauty, I am dumb.
I'd ha' give my soul to hear him speak.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories