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The great and unlooked for discoveries that have taken place of late years have all concurred to lead many men into the opinion that we were touching on a period big with the most important changes.
quote by Thomas Malthus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What is quite unlooked for is more crushing in its effect, and unexpectedness adds to the weight of a disaster. This is a reason for ensuring that nothing ever takes us by surprise. We should project our thoughts ahead of us at every turn and have in mind every possible eventuality instead of only the usual course of events…
Sonnet 25: Let those who are in favour with their stars
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlooked for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies burièd,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famousèd for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour razèd quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.
Then happy I that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
poem by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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By The Sea
Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
It frets against the boundary shore;
All earth's full rivers cannot fill
The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.
Sheer miracles of loveliness
Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:
Anemones, salt, passionless,
Blow flower-like; just enough alive
To blow and multiply and thrive.
Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike,
Encrusted live things argus-eyed,
All fair alike, yet all unlike,
Are born without a pang, and die
Without a pang, and so pass by.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Composed During a Storm
One who was suffering tumult in his soul,
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer,
Went forth--his course surrendering to the care
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl
Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear
The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,
And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl
As if the sun were not. He raised his eye
Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear
Large space ('mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky,
An azure disc--shield of Tranquillity;
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister
Of providential goodness ever nigh!
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To One Shortly to Die
From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you,
You are to die--let others tell you what they please, I cannot
prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless, but I love you--there is no escape for you.
Softly I lay my right hand upon you, you 'ust feel it,
I do not argue, I bend my head close and half envelop it,
I sit quietly by, I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbor,
I absolve you from all except yourself spiritual bodily, that is
eternal, you yourself will surely escape,
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.
The sun bursts through in unlooked-for directions,
Strong thoughts fill you and confidence, you smile,
You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick,
You do not see the medicines, you do not mind the weeping friends,
I am with you,
I exclude others from you, there is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate, I congratulate you.
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Diamonds Sparkle 0595 Current Version
Mined diamonds sparkle in bright light's reflection
Although no such distinction may one glean
Uncut, when, buried, beauty's sheen's unseen.
Destined love links minds, finds fond affection,
Evolves above what natural selection
Could create through stray mutating gene.
Music in one voice joy's choice has been
Attracted through predestined web, election
Unlooked for, an ethereal subjection.
Devoid of chance, one glance gleamed on life's screen.
EGO SUM who follows fate unseen.
Choice smiles, I am! that is my soul connection,
Means where our dream is care within one name,
Charm came whose flame fast put past fame to shame.
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Out of Darkness, Light
OUT OF DARKNESS, LIGHT
Stars clouded, light shrouded, all's rusted
that once seemed dream blade ever bright,
brow bowed, hope now disallowed, busted
is confidence, day fades to night.
That confidence spotless and trusted
in tatters lies shattered, delight
mock mirage appears, jeers, undusted,
unburnished, ill furnished, contrite.
Yet solace solution unlooked for
may phoenix-like fountain despite
past errors - all terrors forsook for
renascent ascension's free flight.
Past buries past, flush faith fertile ferries
fresh cream, cake, white icing, lush red cherries
20 February 2010
robi03_1955_robi03_0000 SXX_JKZ
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Juliette's twins
Dear Catherine, and David too,
How very sweet it was of you
To telegraph that you were here,
New-lighted on this lower sphere.
That though unlooked for, both had come,
To bring into the earthly home
The light and joy of Paradise
That shine from your four infant eyes.
Your excellent and learned papa,
Your beautiful and sweet mama,
Must be most charmed to call you theirs;
Although you bring new fears and cares.
Perhaps at night you'll cry and roar,
And they must wake, and walk the floor.
You'll have the measles and the mumps,
The whooping-cough, the rash, the dumps.
And all those things, so troublesome,
That mortal children suffer from.
Dear little pilgrims, just begun
In this wide world life's race to run
Upon life's rough and thorny road,
Fresh from the fashioning hand of God;
Speed on the course, and win the prize,
The prize most worthy in his eyes.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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New Hampshire
GOD bless New Hampshire! from her granite peaks
Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks.
The long-bound vassal of the exulting South
For very shame her self-forged chain has broken;
Turn the black seal of slavery from her mouth,
And in the clear tones of her old time spoken!
Oh, all undreamed-of, all unhoped for changes!
The tyrants's ally proves his sternest foe;
To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges,
New Hampshire thunders an indignant No!
Who is it now despairs? Oh, faint of heart,
Look upward to those Northern mountain cold,
Flouted by Freedom's victor-flag unrolled
And gather strength to bear a manlier part!
All is not lost. The angel of God's blessing
Encamps with Freedom on the field of fight;
Still to her banner, day by day, are pressing,
Unlooked-for allies, striking for the right!
Courage, then, Northern hearts! Be firm, be true:
What one brave State hath done, can ye not also do?
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Within Your Arms
living in the world I’ve created in my dreams for you and me
I didnt understand that anything could happen
when you take a chance
I never believed it before I was in your arms
I never opened my heart to what I couldn’t see
I didn’t want to see all the possibilities
there could be
there should be between you and me
I know something is different in me
I’ve never felt this way
this could be the start of something deeper
it felt so right to be in your arms
when I looked into your eyes that one night
I saw that same need
that same want
that same drive
that I was feeling inside
who ever thought I would have met you here tonight
you’re the last thing I expected
the world looks so much brighter within your arms tonight
I can see the day though the night
you have reached deep inside me somewhere and started something new
cause I know I’ve never felt this way without it being you
you’ve unlooked some kind of new and more passionate feeling
I never knew it could happen until it happened to me
I never knew it could have happened like that
I never knew it could be that strong
so fast
I thought it would take more time
I didn’t know but now it’s easy to see
if only you just looked into my eyes you would have saw
you could have seen that I would be loyal to you
you could have had your way with me right then and there
I wanted you to take me away
I wanted you to have what we wanted
I was ready for you to
I dare not to say it out loud
dare not to even think it for you might see it in my all telling eyes
only feeling my body telling me that I was ready
ready for you
and ready to tell you I’m willing to stay in your arms for ever
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Weeding
As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play,
Was labouring industriously hard
To cull the vile weeds from the flowerets away,
Which grew in her father's court-yard;
In her juvenile anger, wherever she found,
She plucked, and she pulled, and she tore;
The poor passive sufferers bestrewed all the ground;
Not a weed of them all she forbore.
At length 'twas her chance on some nettles to light
(Things, till then, she had scarcely heard named);
The vulgar intruders called forth all her spite;
In a transport of rage she exclaimed,
'Shall briars so unsightly and worthless as those
Their great sprawling leaves thus presume
To mix with the pink, the jonquil, and the rose,
And take up a flower's sweet room?'
On the odious offenders enragëd she flew;
But she presently found to her cost
A tingling unlooked for, a pain that was new,
And rage was in agony lost.
To her father she hastily fled for relief,
And told him her pain and her smart;
With kindly caresses he soothëd her grief,
Then smiling he took the weed's part.
'The world, my Aurelia, this garden of ours
Resembles: too apt we're to deem
In the world's larger garden ourselves as the flowers,
And the poor but as weeds to esteem.
'But them if we rate, or with rudeness repel,
Though some will be passive enough,
From others who 're more independent 'tis well
If we meet not a stinging rebuff.'
poem by Charles Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Two Look at Two
Love and forgetting might have carried them
A little further up the mountain side
With night so near, but not much further up.
They must have halted soon in any case
With thoughts of a path back, how rough it was
With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness;
When they were halted by a tumbled wall
With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this,
Spending what onward impulse they still had
In One last look the way they must not go,
On up the failing path, where, if a stone
Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself;
No footstep moved it. 'This is all,' they sighed,
Good-night to woods.' But not so; there was more.
A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them
Across the wall, as near the wall as they.
She saw them in their field, they her in hers.
The difficulty of seeing what stood still,
Like some up-ended boulder split in two,
Was in her clouded eyes; they saw no fear there.
She seemed to think that two thus they were safe.
Then, as if they were something that, though strange,
She could not trouble her mind with too long,
She sighed and passed unscared along the wall.
'This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?'
But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait.
A buck from round the spruce stood looking at them
Across the wall as near the wall as they.
This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril,
Not the same doe come back into her place.
He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head,
As if to ask, 'Why don't you make some motion?
Or give some sign of life? Because you can't.
I doubt if you're as living as you look."
Thus till he had them almost feeling dared
To stretch a proffering hand -- and a spell-breaking.
Then he too passed unscared along the wall.
Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from.
'This must be all.' It was all. Still they stood,
A great wave from it going over them,
As if the earth in one unlooked-for favour
Had made them certain earth returned their love.
poem by Robert Frost
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Magic Unfurled in Stilly Night
MAGIC UNFURLED IN STILLY NIGHT
If fair stars glitter in my eyes from you they're sent 'tis no surprise.
Magic unfurled in stilly night, imagination wings free flight,
Advances past life's present plight, to share with you new world's delight.
Unusual lustre in my eyes from you reflects as bright sunrise
Deft spins earth's orbit's winning skies, dark light returns with shared insight.
Each 'twenty-four' speed [s]print as one - see fairies' tasks are never done!
If fair stars' sparkle represents tenderness where each assents,
May verse returned to sender's plane retain the quintessential plain,
All's well, remains, each heart sustains through to, from, each, pane eases pains.
Unforeseen our recompense as new dreams span both 'whither' 'whence'
Dispersing day's incompetence, these energies increase, intense,
Effacing care and worries, - one from two may spring, from struggles, fun.
If scintillation smoothes away the fuss, the cuss of dusty day,
Mending rays send fey touch bright, beam aura gold which somehow might
As epidemic, spread aright, for world polluted care, heal quite.
Unlooked for glister sent from you to you returns through interplay.
Dawn day prepares to permeate two tender hearts that chart shared fate,
Enchanted future cycle's spun through one in two, you too we won, won't be undone.
18 May 2008
robi03_1385_robi03_0000 AXX_LXX
(c) Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0165 Ironing
On the top unlooked-at shelf
of the cupboard rarely opened
there it was.
A tidy, self-effacing, neat and ordered pile
of mother's ironing
- after how many years? -
of those seldom used, worn almost to holes, frayed,
white things, for the house and family:
their worn yet serviceable hems and stitching
ironed with a jeweller's perfection...
and suddenly the living and the dead
were intimate and closer than any sought or unsought sentiment,
and I was a child again
silently watching,
taking in without commentary
as children do,
yet in every fine detail,
a mother's love;
a love simply watched, observed;
not, for a change, demanded
or expected
as a matter of course:
the iron nosing with supreme care
across the smell of hot and just-wet cotton
with a little, smooth, smooth swish,
over the warm bed of cloth and blanket,
taken from their special drawer;
the hand and elbow moving with a dancer's grace.
and I knew then,
in the nose, the nub, of that just-rightly-heavy iron,
the whole love of a woman and her life -
repetition and care, duty, love unspoken -
all the emotions raised by family
who'd never dream of thanking Mum
for the ironing...
'Where's my special shirt? ....M-u-mm....? '
No wonder that so many women hate
this incessant, unthanked act
of holy communion.
And I reflected:
every child should have the chance to watch
without commenting - as children do -
but seeing what they will remember all their life,
in every fine detail,
some to imitate it and remember;
some to find it after years,
on the shelf unsought
within the cupboard seldom opened,
(in the rose-garden, beyond time,
and time past is time present; and the time is always now...)
this act, this ritual
of purest love.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Inner Liberty - 0253 - 1997 Version
The spent cartridge of inspiration hangs in mid air, arrested as if Time and Space did conspire to offset that energy which aspires to fire the ages, and shatter the need for conceptual anchors. Awaiting the meeting which would mutate mate to mating, pivot and pillow word challenge the anchors of Tie and Place, the immortality of the soul, seek to block the spirit's mating/meeting with itself.
A straight line, desperate to [t]race with light itself, as if its life depended upon its speed, soars, curving, through the universe attempting to reach, underscore, and underline itself. Light affects all levels of cosmic consciousness until the circle reforms an image of universal harmony.
Emotions long to [l]ink the pages of the Present, intertwining Past and Future, and, in letters large as life, decipher themselves, decode the genius so near, and yet so far. The door of insight and enlightenment is ever ajar, though it often seems too narrow to all who ephemerally flicker through their three score years and ten.
The sleeper seeks to wake, awakening unlooked for in this temporal continuum. Kernel, unrooted from the inner recesses of the mind, that dark fertile area where creativity restlessly anticipates release, bursts into activity. Innovation is considered cancerous by many who would their inner selves refute, or fear to know. The universal soul awaits the inspiration to send the sap soaring, outpouring at all levels. Tendrils tentatively touch, the tenderly tease the tortured synapses of the spirit. Explosion of consciousness calls all, especially itself, into question. Truth's essential essence reflects prismatically on all aspects of awareness, the soul works on the Will to redefine the Way.
The sleeper wakes, works on the Will, finds, refines, and redefines the Way.
(28 September 1997)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0164In Mind
It’s only now, only now, that I remember, that I can see,
how you made your presence felt so often;
so long unlooked for, seeing only absence, never believing presence;
for in the subtlety of your wisdom, the wisdom of your subtlety,
you leave reminders of that presence in that secret place
where it’s as safe as childhood happiness
forgotten, then remembered…
for you speak a closer language to a child,
closer than the growing child comes to believe.
When was the first time - now I can remember who you are,
when you first spoke to me?
Wasn’t it that day when I could toddle unsteadily
but with wide open eyes, where the lion’s head
poured water from its mouth into the basin?
and in the paving of the bricks – which anyone could see –
you left me that private, secret message,
knowing that I’d not notice, (so I’d not forget) ,
until one day it swam out of memory?
For this is your so secret, open generosity: you leave every one of us
this secret message: that moment when we knew
that we knew something certain – and yet,
did not know what that something was?
And then, that time after a year or two – a lifetime for a child –
when you announced your presence by your so painful absence,
and I made that solemn decision for a four-year-old,
never to trust a grown-up ever again; not because
of being a helpless child – but because there was that in me
which knew when you were there, and when you weren’t?
Then you left so many messages I did not need to heed
-or so it seemed, because they were so obvious –
and only in your absence was your presence felt:
the day after a gale, the ozone of the beach, the sea
now brown but calming, seaweed salty on the stones;
the field of flowers and dewdrops –the moths in ecstasy;
and in that silent glade of woodland, as if you had made that space
between the trees, to leave a message loud and clear: that
you live in space, so visibly invisible…
then later, on the tennis court, green grass just newly cut,
that exhilarating smell; lime-white lines just newly marked;
and when the ball hit the centre of the racquet, just so,
I missed your message, in the will to win…
And then, grown up: how are we to know – until we know –
your messages left all around, in so many places, all so different?
When, like the unicorn, we know we’ll never see you,
yet know we know that in our minds, you live?
That single horn upon its clear-eyed brow,
that dips in recognition of innocence,
how could we miss your message, so gently elegant,
one-pointed image of yourself, in mind?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bard of Furthest Out
He longed to be a Back-Blocks Bard,
And fame he wished to win—
He wrote at night and studied hard
(He read The Bulletin);
He sent in “stuff” unceasingly,
But couldn’t get it through;
And so, at last, he came to me
To see what I could do.
The poet’s light was in his eye,
He aimed to be a man;
He bought a bluey and a fly,
A brand new billy-can.
I showed him how to roll his swag
And “sling it” with the best;
I gave him my old water-bag,
And pointed to the west.
“Now you can take the train as far
As Blazes if you like—
The wealthy go by motor-car
(Some travellers go by bike);
They race it through without a rest,
And find it very tame—
But if you tramp it to the west
You’ll get there just the same.
“(No matter if the hour is late,
The morning goes Out-Back),
You do not need a dog nor mate,
You’ll find them on the track.
You must avoid such deadly rhymes
As ‘self’ and ‘elf’ and ‘shelf’.
But were it as in other times,
I’d go with you myself.
“Those days are done for me, but ah!
On hills where you shall be,
The wattle and the waratah
Are good to smell and see.
But there’s a scent, my heart believes,
That ‘travellers’ set higher
Than wattle—’tis the dried gum leaves
That light the evening fire.
“The evening fire and morning fire
Are one fire in the Bush.
(You’ll find the points that you require
As towards the west you push.)
And as you pass by ancient ways,
Old camps, and mountain springs,
The spirits of the Roaring Days
Will whisper many things.
“The lonely ridge-and-gully belt—
The spirit of the whole
It must be seen; it must be felt—
Must sink into your soul!
The summer silence-creek-oaks’ sigh—
The windy, rainy “woosh”—
’Tis known to other men, and I—
The Spirit of the Bush!
“So on, and on, through dust and heat,
When past the spurs you be—
And you shall meet whom you shall meet,
And see what you shall see,
You need not claim the stranger’s due,
They yield it everywhere,
And mateship is a thing that you
Must take for granted there.
“And in the land of Lord-knows-where—
Right up and furthest out—
You find a new Australia there
That we know nought about.
Live as they live, fight as they fight,
Succeed as they succeed,
And then come back again and write
For all the world to read.”
I’ve got a note from Hungerford,
’Tis written frank and fair;
The bushman’s grim philosophy—
The bushman’s grin are there.
And tramping on through rain and drought—
Unlooked for and unmissed—
I may have sent to furthest out
The Great Bush Novelist.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death
Why should man's high aspiring mind
Burn in him with so proud a breath,
When all his haughty views can find
In this world yields to death?
The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise,
The rich, the poor, the great, and small,
Are each but worm's anatomies
To strew his quiet hall.
Power may make many earthly gods,
Where gold and bribery's guilt prevails,
But death's unwelcome, honest odds
Kick o'er the unequal scales.
The flattered great may clamours raise
Of power, and their own weakness hide,
But death shall find unlooked-for ways
To end the farce of pride,
An arrow hurtled eer so high,
From een a giant's sinewy strength,
In Time's untraced eternity
Goes but a pigmy length;
Nay, whirring from the tortured string,
With all its pomp of hurried flight,
Tis by the skylark's little wing
Outmeasured in its height.
Just so man's boasted strength and power
Shall fade before death's lightest stroke,
Laid lower than the meanest flower,
Whose pride oer-topt the oak;
And he who, like a blighting blast,
Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms
Shall be himself destroyed at last
By poor despised worms.
Tyrants in vain their powers secure,
And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown,
For unawed death at last is sure
To sap the babels down.
A stone thrown upward to the sky
Will quickly meet the ground agen;
So men-gods of earth's vanity
Shall drop at last to men;
And Power and Pomp their all resign,
Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls.
Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrine
As bare as prison walls,
Where the poor suffering wretch bows down
To laws a lawless power hath passed;
And pride, and power, and king, and clown
Shall be Death's slaves at last.
Time, the prime minister of Death!
There's nought can bribe his honest will.
He stops the richest tyrant's breath
And lays his mischief still.
Each wicked scheme for power all stops,
With grandeurs false and mock display,
As eve's shades from high mountain tops
Fade with the rest away.
Death levels all things in his march;
Nought can resist his mighty strength;
The palace proud, triumphal arch,
Shall mete its shadow's length.
The rich, the poor, one common bed
Shall find in the unhonoured grave,
Where weeds shall crown alike the head
Of tyrant and of slave.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Dedication
IN trellised shed with clustering roses gay,
And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire,
When yeas of wedded life were as a day
Whose current answers to the heart's desire,
Did we together read in Spenser's Lay
How Una, sad of soul--in sad attire,
The gentle Una, of celestial birth,
To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth.
Ah, then, Beloved! pleasing was the smart,
And the tear precious in compassion shed
For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart,
Did meekly bear the pang unmerited;
Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart
The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,--
And faithful, loyal in her innocence,
Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.
Notes could we hear as of a faery shell
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;
Free Fancy prized each specious miracle,
And all its finer inspiration caught;
Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell,
We by a lamentable change were taught
That 'bliss with mortal Man may not abide:'
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!
For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow,
For us the voice of melody was mute.
--But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,
Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow
A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit,
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.
It soothed us--it beguiled us--then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell;
And griefs whose aery motion comes not near
The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel:
Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,
High over hill and low adown the dell
Again we wandered, willing to partake
All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake.
Then, too, this Song 'of mine' once more could please,
Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep,
Is tempered and allayed by sympathies
Aloft ascending, and descending deep,
Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees
Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep
Of the sharp winds;--fair Creatures!--to whom Heaven
A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.
This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks
Of female patience winning firm repose;
And, of the recompense that conscience seeks,
A bright, encouraging, example shows;
Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks,
Needful amid life's ordinary woes;--
Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless
A happy hour with holier happiness.
He serves the Muses erringly and ill,
Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:
Oh, that my mind were equal to fulfil
The comprehensive mandate which they give--
Vain aspiration of an earnest will!
Yet in this moral Strain a power may live,
Beloved Wife! such solace to impart
As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.
RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND,
April , 1815.
_____________
'Action is transitory--a step, a blow,
The motion of a muscle--this way or that--
'Tis done; and in the after-vacancy
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed:
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,
And has the nature of infinity.
Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem
And irremoveable) gracious openings lie,
By which the soul--with patient steps of thought
Now toiling, waked now on wings of prayer--
May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds
Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent
Even to the fountain-head of peace divine.'
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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