Another
Go! obedient to my call,
Turn to profit thy young days,
Wiser make betimes thy breast
In Fate's balance as it sways,
Seldom is the cock at rest;
Thou must either mount, or fall,
Thou must either rule and win,
Or submissively give in,
Triumph, or else yield to clamour:
Be the anvil or the hammer.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Related quotes
Brittania's Throne
MIRROR of the trackless sky,
Priestess of its changing mood,
Ere thy shores were piled on high
Thou didst feel God’s Spirit brood;
Thou didst hear His word alone;—
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
From thy deeps the creeping things
Spread through cove and brook and fen,
Changing scales for soaring wings
And the mould of mortal men;
From thy womb the world hath grown!
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
Then among the happier ones
Filing in millennial train,
Thou didst make us favoured sons,
Teaching us to rule and reign:
Thou didst call us for thine own—
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
Mighty Mistress, thou didst school
England’s heart in all thy ways;
May she learn no nicer rule
In the ease of after days;
For the greatness we have known
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
For the passion of our plea,
For the memory of our brave,
For the fights we fought for thee,
For the bones that thou dost lave,
For the love that we have shown!
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
poem by Arthur Maquarie
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Between The Hammer And The Anvil
Storm warning
But there's no fear
Lies forming
The sacrament lays bare
The sinner
Will testify
They'll suffer
When sacrificed on high
The burning sermons purge their evil words
Between the Hammer and the Anvil
Force rises
False rituals
Baptises
The body and the soul
Our union
Their fall from grace
Confession (confess your sins)
Will seal them to their fate
The burning sermons will survive their curse
Between the Hammer and the Anvil
Transgression
They prey on grief
Our mission
To purify belief
This altar
Gives power and light
They'll falter
While we are shining bright
The burning sermons consecrate their sin
Between the Hammer and the Anvil
Storm warning
But there's no fear
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Between The Hammer & The Anvil
Storm warning
But there's no fear
Lies forming
The sacrament lays bare
The sinner
Will testify
They'll suffer
When sacrificed on high
The burning sermons purge their evil words
Between the hammer and the anvil
Force rises
False rituals
Baptises
The body and the soul
Our union
Their fall from grace
Confession (confess your sins)
Will seal them to their fate
The burning sermons will survive their curse
Between the hammer and the anvil
Transgression
They prey on grief
Our mission
To purify belief
This altar
Gives power and light
They'll falter
While we are shining bright
The burning sermons consecrate their sin
Between the hammer and the anvil
Storm warning
But there's no fear
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Between The Hammer & The Anvil
Storm warning
But there's no fear
Lies forming
The sacrament lays bare
The sinner
Will testify
They'll suffer
When sacrificed on high
The burning sermons purge their evil words
Between the Hammer and the Anvil
Force rises
False rituals
Baptises
The body and the soul
Our union
Their fall from grace
Confession (confess your sins)
Will seal them to their fate
The burning sermons will survive their curse
Between the Hammer and the Anvil
Transgression
They prey on grief
Our mission
To purify belief
This altar
Gives power and light
They'll falter
While we are shining bright
The burning sermons consecrate their sin
Between the Hammer and the Anvil
Storm warning
But there's no fear
song performed by by Judas Priest from Painkiller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Holy Sonnet X: Death Be Not Proud
Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
poem by John Donne
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Hymn For My Brother's Ordination
Christ to the young man said: 'Yet one thing more;
If thou wouldst perfect be,
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor,
And come and follow me!'
Within this temple Christ again, unseen,
Those sacred words hath said,
And his invisible hands to-day have been
Laid on a young man's head.
And evermore beside him on his way
The unseen Christ shall move,
That he may lean upon his arm and say,
'Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?'
Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,
To make the scene more fair;
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane
Of pain and midnight prayer.
O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!
Like the beloved John
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,
And thus to journey on!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Holy Sonnet X:Death be not proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
poem by John Donne
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Holy Sonnet X
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Between The Hammer The Anvil
Storm warning
But theres no fear
Lies forming
The sacrament lays bare
The sinner
Will testify
Theyll suffer
When sacrificed on high
The burning sermons purge their evil words
Between the hammer and the anvil
Force rises
False rituals
Baptises
The body and the soul
Our union
Their fall from grace
Confession (confess your sins)
Will seal them to their fate
The burning sermons will survive their curse
Between the hammer and the anvil
Transgression
They prey on grief
Our mission
To purify belief
This altar
Gives power and light
Theyll falter
While we are shining bright
The burning sermons consecrate their sin
Between the hammer and the anvil
Storm warning
But theres no fear
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 63
It is written in the Evangel: ‘O son of Adam, if I give thee riches, thou wilt turn away from me with mundane cares, and if I make thee poor thou wilt sit down with a sad heart; then where wilt thou enjoy the sweetness of adoring me, and when wilt thou hasten to serve me?’
Sometimes thou art made haughty, and careless by wealth,
Sometimes art in distress from exhaustion and penury.
If thy state be such in joy and in distress,
I know not when thou wilt turn to God from thyself.
Anton Martin Schweigaard (In The Church After The Funeral Oration)
Give us, God, to Thee now turning,
Fullness of joy, tears full and burning,
Of will the full refining fire!
Hear our prayer o'er his inurning:
His will was
one
, the whole discerning,
His whole soul would to it aspire.
Yes; give us yet again,
With power to lead, great men,-
Power in counsel our folk to lead,
Our folk in deed,
Our folk in gladness and in need!
Thou, O God, our want preventest;
To raise the temple
him
Thou lentest,
A spirit bright and pure and great.
When Thou from time to call him meantest,
Her tender soul to him Thou sentest
Who went before to heaven's gate.
When Thou didst set him free,
An epoch ceased to be.
Men then marveled, the while they said:
'Living and dead,
O'er all our land he beauty spread.'
Help us, God, to wiser waring,
When to our land Thou light art bearing,
That we Thy dayspring then may know.
God, our future Thou'rt preparing,
Oh, give us longing, honor's daring,
That we the great may not forego!
Thou sentest many out,-
Cease not, our God, nor doubt!
Let us follow Thy way, Thy call,
Men, words, and all!
Thy mercies shall our North enwall!
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Death Be Not Proud
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
poem by John Donne
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(V – 1988) Fighting Fate
Oh, things out of control we call real fate
For factors far unknown too decide our state!
But things there are we must not see as mere fate;
Such things if controlled can oh, alter our state!
No thunder or tyrant is ever such fate
If faced with courage and soon held to checkmate!
Oh, thou art the architect of thy own fate!
So fight well with will and thus safeguard thy state!
At times we may fall to some strange, cruel fate;
By them should never our will still abate!
With arrows of resolve and faith, fight thy fate!
Oh, give no space ever to stand or to wait!
So bow not or falter before any fate;
Oh, fear and despair will thy fate aggravate!
Grim panic and anguish will strengthen our fate;
They make us, oh, lick a time unduly late!
So well in advance to, oh, face any fate
Thou equip thyself and thus secure thy state!
Challenges of life are challenges of fate –
So meeting them well, oh, means living life great!
Thy Better Self
I AM thy other self, what thou wilt be,
When thou art I, the one seest now;
In finding thy true self thou wilt find me,
The springing blade, where now thou dost but plough.
I am thy neighbor, a new house I've built,
Which thou as yet hast never entered in;
I come to call thee; come in when thou wilt,
The feast is always ready to begin.
Thou should'st love me, as thou dost love thyself,
For I am but another self beside;
To show thee him thou lov'st in better health,
What thou would'st be, when thou to him hast died;
Then visit me, I make thee many a call;
Nor live I near to thee alone, but all.
poem by Jones Very
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Holy Sonnet 10 - Death be not proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more, Death, thou shalt die.
poem by John Donne from Holy Sonnets
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sans Merci
Wouldst thou then I should depart.
A hollow man without a heart,
a victim of thy cruelty.
Hast thou non, e no trace of pity.
They beauty doth ensnare young men.
Thou toyest with them heartlessly
The bored, thou bidst them forth again.
A maiden lacking all pity.
Thy turn will come and thou wilt lose
thy heart in turn to some young man,
thy beauty’s lure he will refuse.
Thou art surprised because he can
Hoist upon thine own petard
methinks it is thy just reward
(poeticpiers/31-May-07)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec and the Death of General Wolfe
AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasures start.
O WOLFE! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
QUEBEC in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead-
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise!
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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The Exchange
THE stones in the streamlet I make my bright pillow,
And open my arms to the swift-rolling billow,
That lovingly hastens to fall on my breast.
Then fickleness soon bids it onwards be flowing;
A second draws nigh, its caresses bestowing,--
And so by a twofold enjoyment I'm blest.
And yet thou art trailing in sorrow and sadness
The moments that life, as it flies, gave for gladness,
Because by thy love thou'rt remember'd no more!
Oh, call back to mind former days and their blisses!
The lips of the second will give as sweet kisses
As any the lips of the first gave before!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Germany And Her Princes
Thou hast produced mighty monarchs, of whom thou art not unworthy,
For the obedient alone make him who governs them great.
But, O Germany, try if thou for thy rulers canst make it
Harder as kings to be great,--easier, though, to be men!
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Death
DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go--
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!
poem by John Donne
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