Kalidasa:

Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn!
Look to this Day!
For it is Life, the very Life of Life.
In its brief course lie all the
Verities and Realities of your Existence.
The Bliss of Growth,
The Glory of Action,
The Splendor of Beauty;
For Yesterday is but a Dream,
And To-morrow is only a Vision;
But To-day well lived makes
Every Yesterday a Dream of Happiness,
And every Tomorrow a Vision of Hope.
Look well therefore to this Day!
Such is the Salutation of the Dawn!

Think of Me

~Andrew Lloyd Webber

Think of me,
Think of me fondly,
When we've said goodbye.
Remember me once in a while
Please promise me you'll try.

When you find that, once again,
You long to take your heart
Back and be free -
If you ever find a moment,
Spare a thought for me...

We never said our love was evergreen,
Or as unchanging as the sea
But if you can still remember,
Stop and think of me...

Think of all the things
We've shared and seen -
Don't think about the things
Which might have been...

Think of me,
Think of me waking, silent and resigned.
Imagine me, trying too hard
To put you from my mind.

Recall those days,
Look back on all those times,
Think of the things we'll never do -
There will never be a day,
When I won´t think of you...


Phantom of the Opera

Drowning

Don't surround yourself with your self.
Move on back two squares.
The words from your move
Now take on different meaning.
I have surrounded myself
And now I am drowning in the life that
I cannot live.

I am finding myself surrounded by wonderful things
All of which are trying to kill me.
And most of all, I'm finding that I'm losing
My own self. My own sense of being
I'm stuck, sinking in a swamp full of
Beautiful water lillies.
But ultimately, they consume me
Until I have no drive to do anything.
Until I have no purpose
Or wish to survive anymore.
Until I have no want to breathe.
My action has no reaction,
Defying the laws of physics.

No bounty from me is reaped.
No love is formed, no ice broken.
It is not just because of the shadows.
It is not just because of my own inner battles.
It is because of my surroundings.
I leave the home to enrich my mind.
I can't enrich my mind, though...
WHeN I'vE lOsT it.

I come home for safety and shelter
To find that there is none, really.
There is love, but not shelter,
There is peace, but not peace of mind.

I leave to work for some money,
And that is the only thing that brings me any peace anymore.

And I have less and less time to do it.
I need to take more time for myself

Why is this existence so...............purposeless?
Why is it so.............agitating?

Because now I am crashing
Diving, falling,
Drowning.

Encore est vive la souris

Nouvelles ont couru en France,
Par mains leiux que j'estoye mort,
Dont avoient peu desplaisance
Aucuns qui me hayent a tort;
Autres en ont eu desconfort,
Qui m'aiment de loyal vouloir,
Comme mes bons et vrais amis:
Si fais a toutes gens savoir
Qu'encore est vive la souris.

Je n'ay eu ne mal ne grevance,
Dieu mercy, amis suis sain et fort,
Et passe temps en esperance
Que Paix, qui trop longuement dort,
S'esveillera, et par Accort
A tous fera liësse avoir;
Pour ce de Dieu soient maudis
Ceux qui sont dolens de veoir
Qu'encore est vive la souris.

Jeunesse sur moy a puissance,
Mais Viellesse fait son effort
De m'avoir en sa gouvernance;
A present faillira son sort:
Je suis assez loing de son port.
De pleurer vueil garder mon hoir;
Loué soit Dieu de paradis,
Qui m'a donné force et povoir
Qu'encor est vive la souris.

Nul ne porte pour moy le noir:
On vent meilleur marchié drap gris;
Or tiengne chascun pour tout voir
Qu'encore est vive la souris.


Charles d'Orléans







Worth Regarding:
In light of Valentines Day, I present to you Charles d' Orleans, who is said to have written the first valentine ever to his wife while he was imprisoned in London. This isn't the first Valentine ever...but you can see the translation above.

Encore est vive la souris (English)

News has spread about in France
In many a place that I was dead,
Which hardly displeased a few
Who bear me hatred quite unjust,
Others were distressed
Who love me by loyal faith,
As do my friends all good and true:
So I here let all folk know
That this mouse is still alive.

I've suffered no harm nor grief,
Thank God, friends I'm safe and sound,
And spend my time in the hope
That Peace, who has slept a little long,
Will soon awake and by Accord
Will bring better cheer to all;
And so by God may they be damned
Who are saddened now to see
That this mouse is still alive.

Youth o'er me stills reigns
But Old Age is trying hard
To bring me to its realm;
For the moment its arts will fail:
I' m still far enough from its port.
I want to keep my heirs from tears;
Praised be God in paradise,
Who' s given me strength and vigor,
That this mouse is still alive.

Let none for me be decked in black:
A cheaper cloth is sold in gray;
So let each one know it's very true
That this mouse is still alive.


~Charles d'Orléans

The Birds Will Still Be Singing

Summertime withers as the sun descends
He wants to kiss you. Will you condescend?
Before you wake and find a chill within your bones
Under a fine canopy of lover's dust and humourous bones
Banish all dismay
Extinguish every sorrow
Eternity stinks, my darling. That's no joke
Don't waste your precious time pretending you're heartbroken
There will be tears and candles
Pretty words to say
Spare me lily-white lillies
With the awful perfume of decay
Banish all dismay
Extinguish every sorrow
If I'm lost or I'm forgiven
The birds will still be singing

It's so hard to tear myself away
Even when you know it's over
It's too much to say.
Banish all dismay
Extinguish every sorrow
If I'm lost or I'm forgiven
The birds will still be singing

-The Juliet Letters

Goethe:

Here stands an ancient castle
On yonder mountain height,
Where, fenced with door and portal,
Once tarried steed and knight.

But gone are door and portal,
And all is hushed and still;
O'er ruined wall and rafter
I clamber as I will.

A cellar with many a vintage
Once lay in yonder nook;
Where now are the cellarer's flagons
And where is his jovial look?

No more he sets the beakers
For the guests at the wassail feast;
Nor fills a flask from the oldest cask
For the duties of the priest.

No more he gives on the staircase
The stoup to the thirsty squires,
And a hurried thanks for the hurried gift
Receives, nor more requires.

For burned are roof and rafter,
And they hang begrimed and black;
And stair, and hall, and chapel,
Are turned to dust and wrack.

Yet, as with song and cittern,
One day when the sun was bright,
I saw my love ascending
The slopes of yon rocky height;

From the hush and the desolation
Sweet fancies did unfold,
And it seemed as they had come back again,
The jovial days of old.

As if the stateliest chambers
For noble guests were spread,
And out from the prime of that glorious time
A youth a maiden led.

And, standing in the chapel,
The good old priest did say,
"Will ye wed with one another?"
And we smiled and answered "Yea!"

We sung, and our hearts they bounded
To the thrilling lays we sung,
And every note was doubled
By the echo's catching tongue.

And when, as eve descended,
The hush grew deep and still,
And the setting sun looked upward
On that great castled hill;

Then far and wide, like lord and bride,
In the radiant light we shone --
It sank; and again the ruins
Stood desolate and alone.

The Last of Him

This is the last of you, my vision
My dream, I have awoken
Unto a new life
And while I sigh,
And cry
And weep and mourn
For the love....the feeling....
The star studded kisses,
The sound of your voice, Micheal.
This is over.
You love her.
No. You don't. You don't even love her.
But it's better that way.
Because you never really loved me, either, did you?
Did you?
WHY this feeling?
WHY this agony?!
This ache, this ache, this ache this ache.
The lies, the lies, the lies, the lies...

But that night,
The stars
That kiss
Those words....

Will they haunt me for the rest of my life?
Will I ever love again?

Does love even exist?
If what we had was not love,
Then what is it?
And if that was not love,
Is love worth having?

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:--
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Edgar Allen Poe

Romeo's last monologue

In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.
MERCUTIO's kinsman, noble County Paris!
What said my man when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet.
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet
To think it was so? O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.
A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth,
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.




[Lays him in the tomb.]

How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death. O, how may I
Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
Thou art not conquer'd. Beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
TYBALT, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favour can I do to thee
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin.' Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe
That unsubstantial Death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that I still will stay with thee
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again. Here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark!
Here's to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die

Shakespeare

The Lady of Shalott

PART I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."


PART II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.


PART III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.


PART IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance -
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right -
The leaves upon her falling light -
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Lord Tennyson

Break, break, break

Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Lord Tennyson