 |
The Blind Men and the Elephant
It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.
The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
"God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!"
The Second, feeling of the tusk
Cried, "Ho! what have we here,
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me `tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!"
The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up he spake:
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a snake!"
The Fourth reached out an eager hand,
And felt about the knee:
"What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain," quoth he;
"'Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!"
The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: "E'en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!"
The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope.
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a rope!"
And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!
----by John Godfrey Saxe
Nancy Lalonde
Canada - Friday, June 22, 2001 at 20:12:12 (EDT)
COME play with me;
Why should you run
Through the shaking tree
As though I'd a gun
To strike you dead?
When all I would do
Is to scratch your head
And let you go.
by W.B. Yeats. 1865-1939
Nancy Lalonde
Canada - Friday, June 22, 2001 at 20:11:29 (EDT)
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
The stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth
Nancy Lalonde
USA - Friday, June 22, 2001 at 20:10:33 (EDT)
Nostalgia
A stiff, aged woman stands on the road ahead of me
The path bends and broadens into all eternity...
But her tired, frowning face is all that I can see.
As I come closer, I can sense her fears
I see her hands, wrinkled with the years
I gaze into her empty eyes and mine fill with tears.
I am haunted by the woman, her body and spirit so lame
And I turn around to head back down the way from which I came
Only now that I have walked it, the road is not the same.
It's foggy and clouded, and I stumble down the street
The pavement, then so sturdy, now dissolves beneath my feet
I don't even recognize faces of people that I meet.
Faint become the images that were once clear
I lose my grip on the things that I hold so dear
As all that once seemed far away threatens to come near.
I struggle to grasp even the smallest grains
But it all slips away, and the streetlight wanes
Until behind me, it is dark, and ahead is all that remains.
The road passed has disappeared from sight
But for one smiling face, bright eyes glistening in the night
There's a young girl, dreaming big and fearing little, and I hold her hand
tight.
Then she gives a little wave and tells me to let go
She stays behind as I must leave and grow
And I continue down the broadening road, she forever in my shadow.
A stiff, aged woman stands on the road ahead of me
Her tired, frowning face is all that I can see
I fear that she, with empty eyes, is what I am to be.
Sarah
<littleamico@aol.com>
NY USA - Friday, June 22, 2001 at 10:56:33 (EDT)
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
-- W. H. Auden
Mar
<0030392@student.ul.ie>
Limerick, Ireland - Saturday, May 19, 2001 at 11:40:31 (EDT)
TRUST IN ME
I know your sorrow: I feel your pain
I hear you cry and call My name
I'LL wipe your tears I'll hold you tight
I'll keep you near and in My sight.
Please do not sorrow,have no fear
Know that I am always near
Just whisper out a silent prayer
Let Me take you in My care.
Then all your burdens I will fight
Granting you favor in your enemies sight
I'll heal your illness;relieve your pain
Remove your sorrows,restore you again
I'll walk beside you every day
In front and behind you always
I am your Savior; your brother; your friend
Standing with you until the end
Please trust in Me
Helene Howard
<hjh71hotmail.com>
New Brunswick, Canada - Saturday, May 19, 2001 at 09:49:23 (EDT)
Dreams by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
for if dreams die
life is a broken-winged bird
that cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
for when dreams go
life is a barren field
frozen with snow.
C.Lewis
<vercyn@randomc.com>
Atlanta, GA USA - Friday, May 04, 2001 at 22:25:20 (EDT)
Invictus Out of the night that covers me Black as the pit from pole to pole
I thank whatever Gods may be For my unconquerable soul. Through the fell
clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Through the
bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place
of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace
of the years, Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how straight
the gate, How charged with punishment the scroll, I am the Master of my Fate.
I am the Captain of my soul. William Ernest Henley
Claire
<ckolkosk@yahoo.com>
Las Vegas, NV USA - Tuesday, March 27, 2001 at 19:41:57 (EST)
PRAYER AT DUSK
Give me no promise of glory tonight; build me no hope of a shining new day.
It is enough, Lord, to see with Thine eyes the hurts that hidden and mute
at my feet.
I shall not ask of Thee a winged steed, to ride high the thunder and cleave
through the dark; just let me walk lightly and leave no bruised print where
delicate things reach for dawn.
Allow me to travel where titans have trod, and grappled in fury their way
up to might; but let my hands learn from Thy ways. Keep me tonight, oh Lord,alone
with the little crushed things of earth, and Thee. Author unknown
Janet Roberts
<janetr@iopener.net>
Gaithersburg, MD USA - Tuesday, March 27, 2001 at 11:05:49 (EST)
|
|
