The world is weary of the past--
O might it die or rest at last!
The world is weary of the past--
O might it die or rest at last!
Kings are like stars,they rise and set, they have The worship of the world, but no repose.
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
Heaven's ebon vault Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.
And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still
Guiding its irresistible career
In thy devastating omnipotence,
Art king of this frail world!
Oh, cease Must hate and death return Cease Must men kill and die Cease Drain not to its dregs the urn of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last.
I knew
What to the evil world is due,
And therefore sternly did refuse
To link me with the infamy
Of one so lost as Helen.
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing A tone Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling Are one.
Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Art and eloquence,
And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vain
To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories