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Thread: Quotes, Poems and Different Statements

  1. #321
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    A man's admiration for absolute government
    is proportionate to the contempt he feels
    for those around him.


    - Alexis de Tocqueville

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    Senior Member Ullarsskald's Avatar
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    A poem used by some in Asatru - Odinism

    "TO A POET A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE"

    I who am dead a thousand years,
    And wrote this sweet archaic song,
    Send you my words for messengers
    The way I shall not pass along.

    I care not if you bridge the seas,
    Or ride secure the cruel sky,
    Or build consummate palaces
    Of metal or of masonry.

    But have you wine and music still,
    And statues and a bright-eyed love,
    And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
    And prayers to them who sit above?

    How shall we conquer? Like a wind
    That falls at eve our fancies blow,
    And old Maeonides the blind
    Said it three thousand years ago.

    O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
    Student of our sweet English tongue,
    Read out my words at night, alone:
    I was a poet, I was young.

    Since I can never see your face,
    And never shake you by the hand,
    I send my soul through time and space
    To greet you. You will understand.

    By James Elroy Flecker (1884-1915).

    Read well - Pip

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    Senior Member Dreyrithoka's Avatar
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    The Conqueror Worm

    Lo! ‘tis gala night
    Within the lonesome latter years!
    An angel throng, bewinged, bedlight
    In veils, and drowned in tears
    Sit in a theatre, to see
    A play of hopes and fears,
    While the orchestra breathes fitfully
    The music of the spheres.

    Mimes, in the form of god on high,
    Mutter and mumble low,
    And hither and thither fly –
    Mere puppets they, who come and go
    At bidding of vast formless things
    That shift the scenery to and fro,
    Flapping out from their Condor wings
    Invisible Woe!

    That motley drama – oh, be sure
    It shall not be forgot!
    With its phantom chased for evermore,
    By a crowd that seize it not,
    Through a circle that ever returneth in
    To the self-same spot,
    And much of madness, and more of Sin,
    And Horror the soul of the plot.

    But see, amid the mimic rout
    A crawling shape intrude!
    A blood-red thing that writhes from out
    The scenic solitude!
    It writhes! – it writhes! – with mortal pangs
    The mimes become its food,
    And angels sob at vermin fangs
    In human gore imbued.

    Out – out are the lights – out all!
    And, over each quivering form,
    The curtain, a funeral pall,
    Comes down with the rush of a storm,
    And the angels, all pallid and wan,
    Uprising, unveiling, affirm
    That the play is the tragedy “Man,”
    And its hero the Conqueror Worm

    - Edgar Allan Poe


    Chorus of Priests

    Oh wearisome Condition of Humanity!
    Borne vnder one Law, to another bound:
    Vainely begot, and yet forbidden vanity,
    Created sicke, commanded to be sound:
    What meaneth Nature by these diuerse Lawes?
    Passion and Reason, selfe-diuision cause:
    Is it the marke, or Majesty of Power,
    To make offences that it may forgive?
    Nature herselfe, doth her owne selfe defloure,
    To hate those errors she her-selfe doth giue.
    For how should man thinke that, he may not doe
    If Nature did not faile, and punish too?
    Tyrant to others, to her selfe viust,
    Onely commands things difficult and hard.
    Forbids us all things, which it knowes is lust,
    Makes easie paines, vnpossible reward.
    If Nature did not take delight in blood,
    She would haue made more east waies to good,
    We that are boud by vowes, and by Promotion,
    With pomp of holy Sacrifice and rites,
    To teach beleefe in good and still deuotion,
    To preach of Heauens wonders, and delights:
    Yet when each of vs, in his owne heart lookes,
    He finds the God there, farre vnlike his Bookes.

    - Lord Brooke

    Dunkelheit

    When night falls
    She cloaks the world
    In impenetrable darkness
    A chill rises
    From the soil
    And contaminates the air
    Suddenly...
    Life has new meaning

    - Varg Vikernes

    Life Eternal

    A dream of another existence
    You wish to die
    A dream of another world
    You pray for death to release the soul.
    One must die to find peace inside, you must get eternal
    I am a mortal but am I human?
    How beautiful life is now when my time has come.
    A human destiny but nothing human inside.
    What will be left of me when I'm dead?
    There was nothing when I lived.
    What you found was eternal death
    No one will ever miss you.

    - Per Yngve "Dead" Ohlin (RIV)

  4. #324
    Senior Member Arundel's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Georgia View Post
    The Stranger within my gate ~ Rudyard Kipling

    The Stranger within my gate,
    He may be true or kind,
    But he does not talk my talk—
    I cannot feel his mind.
    I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
    But not the soul behind.

    The men of my own stock
    They may do ill or well,
    But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
    They are used to the lies I tell.
    And we do not need interpreters
    When we go to buy and sell.

    The Stranger within my gates,
    He may be evil or good,
    But I cannot tell what powers control—
    What reasons sway his mood;
    Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
    Shall repossess his blood.

    The men of my own stock,
    Bitter bad they may be,
    But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
    And see the things I see;
    And whatever I think of them and their likes
    They think of the likes of me.

    This was my father's belief
    And this is also mine:
    Let the corn be all one sheaf—
    And the grapes be all one vine,
    Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
    By bitter bread and wine.
    That is a wonderful poem, I was not familiar with it.

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    THE BEGINNINGS - Rudyard Kipling

    (My apology if this has been posted elsewhere ... I searched widely but could not find it here, and it is, after all, worthy of repetition)
    ======================================== ===========

    THE BEGINNINGS
    Rudyard Kipling
    (1915, published 1917)

    It was not part of their blood,
    It came to them very late,
    With long arrears to make good,
    When the Saxon began to hate.

    They were not easily moved,
    They were icy — willing to wait
    Till every count should be proved,
    Ere the Saxon began to hate.

    Their voices were even and low.
    Their eyes were level and straight.
    There was neither sign nor show
    When the Saxon began to hate.

    It was not preached to the crowd.
    It was not taught by the state.
    No man spoke it aloud
    When the Saxon began to hate.

    It was not suddenly bred.
    It will not swiftly abate.
    Through the chilled years ahead,
    When Time shall count from the date
    That the Saxon began to hate.


    -----------------------------------
    I especially loved the lines that "it was not preached to the crowd and not taught by the state ... no man spoke it aloud when the Saxon began to hate.
    ....................... sounds familar, c'nest pas?

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    MY EVER FAVORITE: Terence, this is stupid stuff

    LXII. Terence, this is stupid stuff
    A. E. Housman (1859–1936). A Shropshire Lad. 1896.

    (... like fine wine, meant to be enjoyed slowly, savoring each syllable ... submitted here for every kid that struggled through the Classics while yearning for the open fields and merrier brew than 102)


    ‘TERENCE, this is stupid stuff:
    You eat your victuals fast enough;
    There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
    To see the rate you drink your beer.
    But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, 5
    It gives a chap the belly-ache.
    The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
    It sleeps well, the horned head:
    We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
    To hear such tunes as killed the cow. 10
    Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
    Your friends to death before their time
    Moping melancholy mad:
    Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’

    Why, if ’tis dancing you would be, 15
    There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
    Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
    Or why was Burton built on Trent?
    Oh many a peer of England brews
    Livelier liquor than the Muse, 20
    And malt does more than Milton can
    To justify God’s ways to man.
    Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
    For fellows whom it hurts to think:
    Look into the pewter pot 25
    To see the world as the world’s not.
    And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
    The mischief is that ’twill not last.
    Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
    And left my necktie God knows where, 30
    And carried half way home, or near,
    Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
    Then the world seemed none so bad,
    And I myself a sterling lad;
    And down in lovely muck I’ve lain, 35
    Happy till I woke again.
    Then I saw the morning sky:
    Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
    The world, it was the old world yet,
    I was I, my things were wet, 40
    And nothing now remained to do
    But begin the game anew.

    Therefore, since the world has still
    Much good, but much less good than ill,
    And while the sun and moon endure 45
    Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure,
    I’d face it as a wise man would,
    And train for ill and not for good.
    ’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
    Is not so brisk a brew as ale: 50
    Out of a stem that scored the hand
    I wrung it in a weary land.
    But take it: if the smack is sour,
    The better for the embittered hour;
    It should do good to heart and head 55
    When your soul is in my soul’s stead;
    And I will friend you, if I may,
    In the dark and cloudy day.

    There was a king reigned in the East:
    There, when kings will sit to feast, 60
    They get their fill before they think
    With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
    He gathered all the springs to birth
    From the many-venomed earth;
    First a little, thence to more, 65
    He sampled all her killing store;
    And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
    Sate the king when healths went round.
    They put arsenic in his meat
    And stared aghast to watch him eat; 70
    They poured strychnine in his cup
    And shook to see him drink it up:
    They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt:
    Them it was their poison hurt.
    —I tell the tale that I heard told. 75
    Mithridates, he died old.

    ======================================

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    Only A Boche - by Robert Service

    Only A Boche
    From: Rhymes of a Red Cross Man
    ... by Robert Service


    We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie;
    For what's the use of risking one's skin for a tyke that's going to die?
    What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire,
    When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, and all messed up on the wire?
    However, I say, we brought him in. Diable! The mud was bad;
    The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had!
    And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan;
    And how we were wet with blood and with sweat! but we carried him in like our own.

    Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance,
    And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, and remarks, "He hasn't a chance."
    And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge on the glistening, straw-packed floor,
    And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore.
    For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim,
    And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls and our faces bristly and grim;
    And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play,
    And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away.
    As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath,
    You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death.

    Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit;
    The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit,
    So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there,
    And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare.
    Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be,
    The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me.

    It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that.
    It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat,
    Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue,
    With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through;
    Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down,
    And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown.

    And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring,
    And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string,
    A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see:
    Just as I thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three;
    Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls,
    With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls.
    "Zut!" I say. "He has beaten me; for me, I have only two,"
    And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue.

    Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God,
    Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod;
    Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind,
    It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind.
    For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain,
    And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again.

    So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play,
    Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away.
    War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance;
    But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance.
    One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm not
    The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot.

    No trumps you make it, I think you said? You'll pardon me if I err;
    For a moment I thought of other things . . .Mon Dieu! Quelle vache de gueerre.

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    the Cremation of Sam McGee - by Robert Service

    The Cremation of Sam McGee
    by Robert W. Service


    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
    Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
    He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
    Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

    On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
    Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
    If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
    It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

    And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
    And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
    He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
    And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

    Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
    “It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
    Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
    So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

    A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
    And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
    He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
    And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

    There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
    With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
    It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
    But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
    In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
    In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
    Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

    And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
    And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
    The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
    And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

    Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
    It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
    And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
    Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

    Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
    Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
    The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

    Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
    Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
    And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
    It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
    And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.


    I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
    But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
    I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
    I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.

    And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
    And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
    It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
    Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

    —From Later Collected Verse; by Robert Service;
    Dodd, Mead & Company; New York; 1970; pages 33-36.
    ======================================== ========
    For a reading w musical surprise, go to:
    cf: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8yIqwyR1ays

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    Aphorisms: From the Writings of Oswald Spengler

    Man makes history; woman is history. The reproduction of the species is feminine: it runs steadily and quietly through all species, animal or human, through all short-lived cultures. It is primary, unchanging, everlasting, maternal, plantlike, and cultureless. If we look back we find that it is synonymous with life itself.

    Little as we know about the events of the future, one thing is certain: the moving forces of the future will be none other than those of the past -- the will of the stronger, healthy instincts, race, will to property, and power.

    The question of whether world peace will ever be possible can only be answered by someone familiar with world history. To be familiar with world history means, however, to know human beings as they have been and always will be. There is a vast difference, which most people will never comprehend, between viewing future history as it will be and viewing it as one might like it to be. Peace is a desire, war is a fact; and history has never paid heed to human desires and ideals ...

    Talk of world peace is heard today only among the white peoples, and not among the much more numerous colored races. This is a perilous state of affairs. When individual thinkers and idealists talk of peace, as they have done since time immemorial, the effect is negligible. But when whole peoples become pacifistic it is a symptom of senility. Strong and unspent races are not pacifistic. To adopt such a position is to abandon the future, for the pacifist ideal is a terminal condition that is contrary to the basic facts of existence. As long as man continues to evolve, there will be wars ...

    Pacifism means letting the non-pacifists have control ... Pacifism will remain an ideal, war a fact. If the white races are resolved never to wage war again, the colored will act differently and become rulers of the world.

    The wealth of birth in primitive populations is a natural phenomenon, the very existence of which no one thinks about, let alone its advantages or disadvantages. Where reasons for questioning the existence of life enter the human consciousness, life itself has already become questionable.

    Suddenly all those individuals who yesterday felt that "we" meant only their families, their professions, or perhaps their communities, become men of the nation. Their emotions and thoughts, their egos, that "something" within them, all are transformed: they have become historical.

    This is our task: to make as meaningful as possible this life that has been bestowed upon us, this reality with which fate has surrounded us; to live in such a way that we may be proud of ourselves; to act in such a way that some part of us lives on.

    Animals and primitive men are neither perverse nor licentious. Their Eros is in rhythmic harmony with the universe... Only civilization has made a problem of erotism, converted it into unrestrained greed.

    The common man wants nothing of life but health, longevity, amusement, comfort -- "happiness." He who does not despise this should turn his eyes from world history, for it contains nothing of the sort. The best that history has created is great suffering.

    In history it is not idealism, goodness or morality that reign -- their kingdom is not of this world -- but rather resolve, energy, presence of mind, and practical ability. One cannot erase this fact with laments and moral judgments. That is the way man is; that is the way life is; that is way history is.

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    here is the origin of the meme in the first sentence of my post

    http://forums.skadi.net/showthread.p...428#post633428
    Tip the world over on its side
    and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.


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