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Is It Really so

Seemingly turbulent in the sea,
But is it really so?
For water ifself is not life,
But is that really so?

Seemingly cold is the snow,
But is it really so?
For snow does not have life,
But is that really so?

I feel turbulent right now,
And I know it so,
I feel turbulent and cold inside,
Like the sea and the snow.

poem by Vera Sidhwa
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Knyghthode and Bataile

A XVth Century Verse Paraphrase of Flavius Vegetius Renatus' Treatise 'DE RE MILITARI'

Proemium.
Salue, festa dies
i martis,
Mauortis! auete
Kalende. Qua Deus
ad celum subleuat
ire Dauid.

Hail, halyday deuout! Alhail Kalende
Of Marche, wheryn Dauid the Confessour
Commaunded is his kyngis court ascende;
Emanuel, Jhesus the Conquerour,
This same day as a Tryumphatour,
Sette in a Chaire & Throne of Maiestee,
To London is comyn. O Saviour,
Welcome a thousand fold to thi Citee!

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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So give me a turbulent world as opposed to a quiet world and I'll take the turbulent one.

quote by Andy Grove
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The Brook And The Wave. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Third)

The brooklet came from the mountain,
As sang the bard of old,
Running with feet of silver
Over the sands of gold!

Far away in the briny ocean
There rolled a turbulent wave,
Now singing along the sea-beach,
Now howling along the cave.

And the brooklet has found the billow,
Though they flowed so far apart,
And has filled with its freshness and sweetness
That turbulent, bitter heart!

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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By The Name of Hope and Love

Messages of solitude overwhelms me from winter trees
Sometimes by dreams, sometimes by despair and uncertainty
I continue to travel the road of solitude and dream
As has been the turbulent history of mankind

Messages of happiness captures me from the dawning
Sometimes by expectation, sometimes by stark reality
I continue a long march of life by the name of solitude
As has been the life of a Saint

Messages of challenges awakens me from turbulent sea waves
Sometimes by courage, sometimes by fear
I continue the long journey of challenges by the name of hope
As has been the dream of an ambitious boy

Messages of hope comes from my deep heart
Sometimes by dream, sometimes by energy and spirit
I continue to walk in the darkness by the name of love
As has been the life of Jesus Christ

poem by Tae Woo Park
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Drum-Taps

Aroused and angry,
I thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war;
But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd, and I resign'd
myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead.

Drum-Taps

FIRST, O songs, for a prelude,
Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum, pride and joy in my city,
How she led the rest to arms--how she gave the cue,
How at once with lithe limbs, unwaiting a moment, she sprang;
(O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless!
O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than
steel!)
How you sprang! how you threw off the costumes of peace with
indifferent hand;
How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard
in their stead;

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poem by Walt Whitman
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So Many People

Where do you want to go?
Are you sure of the road that you're on?
Who do you want to be?
All I know is the world deserves to be free
Let's pretend we're staring from the moon
Love is not only for the human
Look at the world you know
Do you believe it will go on?
Where do you want to go?
The things we take will only last for so long
In the end you know it's up to you
Love is not only for the human
Oh man, we are so many people
Living different lives under turbulent times
Oh man, we don't know good from evil
Looking through our eyes is the burden of our lives
Say can we tell for sure
The North and South will keep their snow on?
Say can the Earth endure
Do you really believe we can go on?

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song performed by Simply Red
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The Recluse - Book First

HOME AT GRASMERE

ONCE to the verge of yon steep barrier came
A roving school-boy; what the adventurer's age
Hath now escaped his memory--but the hour,
One of a golden summer holiday,
He well remembers, though the year be gone--
Alone and devious from afar he came;
And, with a sudden influx overpowered
At sight of this seclusion, he forgot
His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been
As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said,
'What happy fortune were it here to live!
And, if a thought of dying, if a thought
Of mortal separation, could intrude
With paradise before him, here to die!'
No Prophet was he, had not even a hope,
Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought,
A fancy in the heart of what might be
The lot of others, never could be his.

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poem by William Wordsworth
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Three Women

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.

Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.

Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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