The Dying Child (John Clare)

The Dying Child

by John Clare

He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o’er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.

Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?

He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood’s sweet delight.

And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds’ nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.

When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.

_____________________________________________________

 

My young little boy; he was only four, when he first got ill. It was a beautiful day last May, last spring. Wherever he would go, he was surrounded by trees that were just growing their first blossoms, and beautiful flowers – his favourites being the bluebells that grew in the field just behind our house – which he would try to grasp as he was carried through the field.

In his last months, when he had his good days, and we were out on the paddock, he would love to see the bees up in the sky, and he would hold one in his hands and sing a song, that cheered him up immediately. It melted my heart to see that the joy of spring was of such great importance to him.

These little children, meant to be enjoying their youthful time in spring, how could they possibly die, when the butterflies flutter all around, when the grass is green and the sky is blue as never seen before? How could they die during spring?

My little son would pick the flowers that grew in the fields, every single year. He picked the white daisies, and the blue violets, and took them all up to his room. Such little things can mean so much, it’s the joy that childhood brings.

And then he closed his little eyes, yet everything outside stayed the same. The flowers kept dancing in the wind, and the birds still quietly sat in their nests, watching over their eggs, while my son was missing the spirit of life.

But when winter came, it was cold outside – the flowers were dead, the trees without blossom – and he peacefully lay in his bed. And when he last glanced up to me, his eyes seemed to say “I’m free to go with the spirit of spring” and so he let out his very last breath.

by Anonymous

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The Lady of Shalott (Afred, Lord Tennyson)

The Lady of Shalott (1832)

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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;
The yellow-leaved waterlily
The green-sheathed daffodilly
Tremble in the water chilly
Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.
The sunbeam showers break and quiver
In the stream that runneth ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,
The reaper, reaping late and early,
Hears her ever chanting cheerly,
Like an angel, singing clearly,
O’er the stream of Camelot.
Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,
Beneath the moon, the reaper weary
Listening whispers, ‘ ‘Tis the fairy,
Lady of Shalott.’

The little isle is all inrail’d
With a rose-fence, and overtrail’d
With roses: by the marge unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken sail’d,
Skimming down to Camelot.
A pearl garland winds her head:
She leaneth on a velvet bed,
Full royally apparelled,
The Lady of Shalott.

Part II
No time hath she to sport and play:
A charmed web she weaves alway.
A curse is on her, if she stay
Her weaving, either night or day,
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be;
Therefore she weaveth steadily,
Therefore no other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.
Over the water, running near,
The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.
Before her hangs a mirror clear,
Reflecting tower’d Camelot.
And as the mazy web she whirls,
She sees 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, came from 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 flam’d 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 from 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 from Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over green 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 from Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash’d into the crystal mirror,
‘Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:’
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom
She made three paces thro’ the room
She saw the water-flower 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;
Outside the isle a shallow boat
Beneath a willow lay afloat,
Below the carven stern she wrote,
The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,
All raimented in snowy white
That loosely flew (her zone in sight
Clasp’d with one blinding diamond bright)
Her wide eyes fix’d on Camelot,
Though the squally east-wind keenly
Blew, with folded arms serenely
By the water stood the queenly
Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Beholding all his own mischance,
Mute, with a glassy countenance—
She look’d down to Camelot.
It was the closing of the day:
She loos’d the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,
By creeks and outfalls far from home,
Rising and dropping with the foam,
From dying swans wild warblings come,
Blown shoreward; so to Camelot
Still as the boathead wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her chanting her deathsong,
The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her eyes were darken’d wholly,
And her smooth face sharpen’d slowly,
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 pale, pale corpse she floated by,
Deadcold, between the houses high,
Dead into tower’d Camelot.
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
To the planked wharfage came:
Below the stern they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

They cross’d themselves, their stars they blest,
Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.
There lay a parchment on her breast,
That puzzled more than all the rest,
The wellfed wits at Camelot.
‘The web was woven curiously,
The charm is broken utterly,
Draw near and fear not,—this is I,
The Lady of Shalott.’
_____________________________________________________

The four grey walls.

These four grey walls, they might be the only thing I’ve seen for as long as I can remember. It’s a dull sight really, compared to what is out there, what I know is out there. The marvelous island of Shalott,, stepped on by lovely people, covered by what I assume to be beautiful flowers, and surrounded next to a flowing river. These things, are however merely shadows to me, seen through a simple mirror. I feel it in me that the mirror does not do this landscape any justice, but sadly is the only way I can lay my eyes on this world out there, as I’ve been cursed. I wouldn’t know why, and I wouldn’t know by whom, and I don’t think I’ll ever find out. All I know is that if I do, there will be great consequences.  It took me a while, but I think I’ve made peace with my fate. When I look at the mirror, I see young men and women passing. As I hear them marching and cheerily talking on the highway nearby the river, I am reminded of how much I envy them. They are surrounded by lovely daisies and blue waters, while I’m surrounded by grey concrete and fear. Do they know I’m out here, could anyone know? During the daytime, I rarely show myself. No, I couldn’t have been seen, however I could have been heard. Early in the mornings, I tend to sing a song, I wouldn’t know I’ve anyone has ever heard it, but I will never hesitate to chant them.

During the day I don’t do much, I don’t have the time nor the patience to play games whatsoever. The only thing that keeps me sane and alive is weaving, on and on, and on and on. I have a magical web, weaved with beautiful colors.

Before, I hadn’t seen much that could’ve distracted me from my weaving, it should be the only thing I care about. On an afternoon, the same as any other one, something I saw in the mirror caught my eye. I saw something I’ve never seen before, what looked like a funeral, a real one. I decided to ignore it, as I could almost hear the mysterious whisper warning me about the curse. However, not even an hour later, something different caught my eye. It was a young couple, about to marry each other. The feeling I had before was back. And when i looked into the mirror, I stopped focusing on the cheerful colors of my weave, and on the grey walls behind it, but I looked at myself. And I decided that these shadows were what they were; merely shadows. I was half-sick of these shadows and of this life!

Despite this incident, I continued to weave and to weave. The shadows still to be seen in my mirror. Until that day arrived,  that marked the beginning of my life, and with that the end.

I was busy with my weaving, until I looked in my mirror and saw a shadow in no way like all the others I’ve seen. A man, surely a knight, riding a horse. The brass armor worn by the knight, was struck by the rays of sunlight, causing it to sparkle. The bells on the bridle of his horse rang cheerfully, sounds that I could never forget. The gems on the bridle sparkled as well, they reminded me of a thousand stars in the galaxy, all together. I thought I had seen everything; men, women, crimsons. Beautiful and hideous. But none as god-like as this man.

I dropped my web, and I paced around three times before I decided I couldn’t hold myself in anymore, and I looked down on Camelot. I saw his Helmet and his plume, and after a huge wave of joy came over me, a bigger wave of fear came crashing into me. The mirror broke into a thousand pieces and the colorful web flew away. ‘The curse is upon me now’ I cried!

The previously clear clouds, had started to rumble. A storm was on its way. As I ran outside, the very first thing I saw was a boat, this was my only way to be free. On the prow of the boat, i carved my name: The lady of Shalott. I laid down and let the stream take me wherever it would go. I started singing my last song..

by Anonymous

The World Is Too Much With Us (William Wordsworth)

The World Is Too Much With Us

By William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

_____________________________________________________

Everybody in the world is only consuming and consuming, not caring whether they are destroying the earth. Negligent if the world is going to end because of them.

The mind-set of the people nowadays is also not about giving but all about taking. Taking, taking and more taking, everybody only thinks about themselves and that ruins the earth.

The majority off the people these presently lives in the city, with all the busy noises, busses and cars. People running to their work and they forget all about the natural world. The natural world is too much for humans these days. They can only live the life of the city.

We only drift away from our nature. We give our hearts away, that is great. In matter of fact, it is not. It is such a shame that we get more and more further away from the purest being of ourselves, our nature.

We do not care about the world around us, all of the influence of nature does not bother us anymore. The beauty of the see, the sharp wind, the leaves that fall of the tree when the autumn is coming and the captivating thunder and rain.

Despite all of the beauty of nature, we still are out of tune. We still do not want to interfere with nature.

It does not matter how beautiful the world is, the city is too busy and the people do not care. It moves us not. I would rather be a dork, a douche, a bastard, the worst of all the people in the whole wide world, but only if I do care about the beautiful nature. That is the only thing that matters to me.

Standing here in a meadow looking at the sea I see the beauty of everything the nature gives us and maybe if I were a dork I would appreciate it more.

I am looking at the see hoping for a glimpse of maybe Proteus or Triton, masters of the sea. The purest and most beautiful form of nature. I can only dream of it.

by Anonymous

Robin Hood (John Keats)

Robin Hood

By John Keats

TO A FRIEND

No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter’s shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest’s whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz’d to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the “grenè shawe”;
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall’n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her—strange! that honey
Can’t be got without hard money!

So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.

_____________________________________________________

Speech for any socialist party

The good glorious old days where people were equal, equal in rights and equal in money.
The good glorious old days have been buried like our own most frightened secrets.
The good glorious old days had cold winters like nowadays, and sunny Sundays like today.

Yet no, the upper classes have been stepping up their games and taken money on their behalf.

Not only the upper classes in where we are now, but the upper classes in all directions: our people are in danger. The time seems not to be ours anymore, which is utterly unreasonable, the time should be everyone’s,  at any moment, and everywhere, not just the wolfs of Wallstreet’s time

Even in the times where the brightest of lights is, we don’t get what we deserve, we don’t get what we need. As I said before, this is not just for you, but for every human kind that has the right to live a good life. With all modern technology, why don’t we finally start to think normal/modern and give people equality. We get to see all beautiful things in life that we can afford, though we never get to see a Robin Hood nowadays, even when it’s urgent.. Never will we be able to see Robin Hood, or any of his comrades again. Never and nowhere: not in this country, not in this continent and not on this globe. Not a bloody chance!

Gone, all good glorious old days are gone, where we (workers) had our rights and money.
Gone, all things people like Karl Marx, Saint-Simon and Friedrich Engels fought for: equality.
Gone, like the fighting spirit we used to have, the spirit to succeed in what we want to achieve.

Robin Hood should be brought back to life again, so the oppressors and capitalists would be stunned and held back. We should not cry and watch the situation getting worse and worse. We should stand up for what we stood up for, even though it seems like we started to sit down. When Robin Hood isn’t here, you and I can be Robin Hood, you and I can be the change everyone needs. Let us give the people what they really need, let us stand up as humans!

by Abel Pleij

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (William Wordsworth)

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

_____________________________________________________

Dear diary,

I woke up early in the morning and had no idea what to do, so I decided to go for a walk because I couldn’t stay at home and do nothing. “Some fresh air would satisfy me.” That’s what I thought and left my house.

I was wandering lonely, without any purpose, through the beautiful nature. As lonely as a cloud that is excluded from the rest of the world. Thinking about the meaning of life. The thoughts in my head were as excluded from the world as a cloud. I continued wandering over hills and valleys. Suddenly I saw a group of flowers. I couldn’t stop gazing at them, because they were gleaming. The gold color of the flowers were controlling my eyes. I think these flowers are more than special. They’re called daffodils. I had never seen such flowers before beside the lake and beneath the trees. The wind let them dance, just like humans do. The upper parts of the flowers were moving slowly from the left to the right. The flowers, the daffodils, were as continuous as the stars. They couldn’t stop gleaming and there were so many of them. They stretched in a never-ending line and I guess there were thousands of them. Not only the flowers were beautiful on their own, but the waves of the lake next the flowers were flowing differently compared to a normal lake. It looked like the lake was dancing with the flowers. But no matter what, nothing could beat the beauty of the flowers.

When I had come home, I decided to lie on the couch. My mind was empty and I didn’t feel good. I had no idea what to do. But then, I remembered the daffodils and an image of them flashed through my mind. Immediately I felt better and the loneliness of my mind was kicked out. The image of the daffodils was as real as the reality and I imagined myself dancing, just like the flowers and the waves of the lake.

by Anonymous

 

(Extract from) The Ballad of Reading Gaol (Oscar Wilde)

(Extract from) The Ballad of Reading Gaol

by Oscar Wilde

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
“That fellow’s got to swing.”

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

_____________________________________________________

Dear Diary,

I saw him walking in the halls. I saw the colour of wine on his hands. With blood on his hands he was found next to his wife. Murdered in her bed. He cut the throat of his own beloved Laura Ellen. His view at the day was so wistful but I never did I see it. While I was walking with other prisoners on my side, I was wondering. I was wondering what the man had done. If he had done a great or little thing. But then someone scared me. ‘That fellow’s got to swing’, someone whispered in my ear. That ‘fellow’ was my friend Woolridge. Woolridge had killed the thing he loved. Because of that he had to die. This scared me so much I could not feel my pain anymore and it felt like the prison walls were moving around me.

Woolridge will be executed for killing his wife.

But why did he murder his wife? I wouldn’t know. I don’t understand why you would take your loved ones away voluntary.

The pain I feel by being separared from my family is so much of an emotion I never felt before. But the execution makes me feel more angry. Why is this punishment so brutal?

Yet each man kills the thing he loves.

by Anonymous

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (William Wordsworth)

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

_____________________________________________________

I was walking lonely, but had no connection with the rest of world. It was as if I was locked out by everybody else. At that moment I saw a field, but it wasn’t just a field, it was a smooth field made of flowers. And not just flowers, but daffodils, and every one of them was shining like a little sun. They were next to the sparkling lake, and under the moving tree. They were all in balance and harmony, swinging in the light spring breeze.

They looked like they were never ending, as the stars in the milky way. It felt like the time stood still, during the perfect sunset under an infinite coastline. There were so much, they were uncountable, there were at least ten thousand of them just on the hill next to the lake. Al of them were wobbling together with the leaves of the tree, as if it was a perfect orchestrated whole.

The field surrounds a lake, which laid there glittering and wrinkled in the sun. The free and fluttering flowers pulled at me, and held me in their grip. The lake on the other hand looked like it was poisoned and has had its time, next to the beautiful daffodils. Although I enjoyed the moment to the fullest, I wasn’t aware how great it was, and that such a moment is all you need in life.

That night, when I lied in my bed, I was wondering and thinking about the day and the freedom of the daffodils. They were forever in my memory captured. This remembrance fills me with such joy, that I never wanted something else. This feeling is all I want in life. This feeling like I am dancing with the daffodils.

by Anonymous

Ozymandias (Percy Bysshe Shelley)

Ozymandias

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear —
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’

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Once upon a time in the West there was a little town. It was a very peaceful town with about fifty citizens. They were the only people there in a large desert. No one else would be so crazy to go to that place. It was rather boring. Each day was just like the previous day. Till an certain day, because this day would totally change someone´s live.

It was Sunday in the afternoon. On Sunday everyone is free, just as God had taken his free day. It was very peaceful like always, also in the desert around the village. Suddenly there was a dust-cloud, which became continually bigger and bigger and it came closer and closer. You could see a silhouette from a man on a horse. It was Lucky Luke. No, I am joking I don’t know who he was, actually nobody knows, and no one will ever know. Then he entered the village and after he had nearly rode old lady Johnson down, who unsuspectingly crossed the street, he stopped in front of the Saloon. He fastened his horse and he entered the Saloon. Everyone was actively talking with each other, but everyone stopped, when they saw him. They all looked at him, but he did not mind them and he set himself down by the bar. He ordered a whole lunch, because he was hungry. When he was finished, he called the barkeeper and he asked him the following: “I am looking for someone, who comes sometimes in this area here. Do you know someone?” He pointed out the area he meant on his map. The barkeeper looked momentarily weird at him and asked then: “Who are you? And why did you ask this to me?” He answered: “It doesn’t matter who I am and I ask this to you, because you are the barkeeper. You know everyone in this village, except for me.” “Yes, that is true, but who would say that we can trust. Maybe you are a dangerous psychopath”, said the barkeeper. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. You must help me”, said he and he looked at him deep in his eyes.

“Okay fine”, said the barkeeper, “do you see that man there? That is Jack. He has a farm and he is sometimes in that area with his cows.” “Thanks”, he stood up and he would go, but then the barkeeper said: “Wait, you haven’t paid for this lunch yet.” After he paid his lunch, he went to Jack and he asked Jack to come with him outwards. A few minutes later went Jack back in the Saloon. His friends asked him: “Who is that man? What does he want from you?” Jack had no idea, the only thing he knew, was that the stranger would visit him this evening.

That evening rang the bell by the Family Waes. Mrs. Mary Waes opened the door and there right before her eyes stood he. She was frightened to death. Who was he? What was this total stranger intending? He asked: “Where is your man, Jack?”

“Uh… who are you?”, stuttered Mary. “That doesn’t matter. Your man knows that I would come, so where is he?”, said he. His piercing eyes did the work for him and she pointed him to cowshed. “There is Jack”. He walked straight on to the cowshed. Jack was surprised. Jack had not thought that the stranger would know where he lives, but there stood. He asked: “I must talk to you, Jack.” “Who is there?”, said an unknown voice. “Who is that”,asked he. “Oh, that is our son, Michael”, said Jack, “It is nobody, Michael” Michael appeared and said: “He looked to me as somebody. Who are you.” “Not now, Michael, he has to talk with me”, said Jack.

“No, I will tell who I am”, said he, “I am a man on a mission.” He grabbed his map. “And to succeed, I need someone, who can help me to find the way in this area.

I know that you sometimes come there, Jack”. “Yes dad, we came there formerly with the cows”, said Michael. “Yeah, but we don’t come there any more. It is to dangerous now. For some reason has there arisen a lot of shrubbery”, said Jack.

“So you know that area very well”, said he. “Yes, but we won’t go there”, said Jack.

“I would like to go”, said Michael. “No, you don’t go there. Are you forgotten what happened there?”, said Jack. “No, of course no.” “So, don’t be so stupid”, said Jack.

“I am now eighteen and I decide by myself, what I do and don’t do. This is the perfectly select chance to be a few days away from the farm,” said Michael. “You are right. You have the right to choose by yourself, but your Mother and I find this not a good plan”. “Dad, you don’t have to worry”, said Michael, “In a few days I would safely back at home”. “Yes we will be a few days away”, said he, “we would be back before you can say the word: Waterpolo”. “Nothing to worry about, dad.” After that he and Michael arranged what the plan was. They agreed that he tomorrow in the morning would come to pick up Michael. Then would the Journey start.

The next morning they went on their journey to…., Uh…, we actually do not know were they are going to, but they went to something. The first part was very easy. Close by the village, where other people often walk, but the further they go the more difficult it was. Michael knows the road and they were already at twelve o’clock by the border of the concerned area. By the border was a sign: ‘Stop, go back, extremely dangerous’. “My father has placed this sigh here”, said Michael. “Why?”, asked he. “I won’t preferably tell you why”, said Michael. “In that case I don’t have to know”. They went on, but It was rather difficult to went through the shrubbery. The nature was free here and that was noticeable. They went further till the point Michael said: “This is the furthest I have ever been in this area, after this I don’t recognize it any more”. “Okay than, we are going to spend the night here”, said he, “Tomorrow we must do it with only the map and our well thinking mind”. They sat around a self-made camp-fire, when Michael asked: “What are you looking for here in this area?” “I would explain it”, said he, “Centuries ago was here a great empire, named Ozym, and his king was Ozymandias. Ozymandias found himself the greatest king ever. For his greatness, he let build a statue of himself. There is being said that this statue is the biggest statue ever made.” “So you are looking for that statue”, interrupted Michael. “Yes, and according to some old scriptures is this statue the only thing left from Ozym and in the same scriptures stand that the statue is located somewhere in this area.” “Wow, it would be awesome if we find that ancient statue”, said Michael, “But how precisely do you know the place of it?” “Enough to know which way we must go”, said he, “Don’t worry, all will be fine at the end.”

The next day they went on with a good feeling. They looked good on the map to indicate their way. Suddenly there was an open place with only sand and no shrubbery. “Are we still on the good way”, asked Michael. “Yes, this place stands also on the map and we are indeed still on the good way”. “Great”, said Michael and Michael walked on, but after a few steps he felt over a stone. “Wow, that is weird there is no other stone in this whole area”, said Michael after he stood up. “Wait, maybe is this a stone of the statue”, said he, “Come, we are going to dig this stone up”. They grabbed their shovel and they dug the stone up. “Look, there is a text

on it”, said Michael, “What does it mean?” “Let me see”, said he, “It’s an ancient language. They spoke this language in Ozym. It’s called Urath and luckily I can read it a little bit. There stands: ‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings, Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ “Haha, he found himself really great, didn’t he”, said Michael. “With emphasis on the word ‘found’, said he cynical, “he died a long time…

He was being interrupted by the sand, what slowly slid away. “Wow, what is happening!”, shouted Michael. “Go back, Go back”, said he, “we must go back to a secure place”. “Where is that secure place”, shouted Michael. “There by the shrubs, there is a secure place”, said he. They both managed them self safely to that place. They looked around and they saw the all the sand disappearing. When the most of  the sand was disappeared, there lays the big statue of Ozymandias. “Wow, the text on that stone looks to be a aphorism”, said Michael. “Yes, you’re right”, said he,“And  there is Ozymandias. We stood already above him.” “You didn’t lie, it is really big”, said Michael, “And surprisingly it is in such a good condition.” He looked to the statue and he gets twinkling eyes. “It lays here under the sand for centuries”, said he, “Now we have found it, it is unbelievable. I’ve worked so hard to find Ozymandias and now finally the work is done.” “What are your plans now with it?”, asked Michael. “Hmm, It’s to big to transport and to set this in a museum”, said he, “So it will stay here and I think that there are more people, who want to see Ozymandias.”

“And we will be known as the finders of Ozymandias”, said Michael, “That should be great”. They were looking to each other and they both felt very satisfied. The next five minutes they just were staring to the statue. “Soon there will go millions of people to this place to see Ozymandias”, said he, “Ozym may be gone, but the remembrance of it always existed and still exist and that is what we will show the world: a remembrance of Ozym and Ozymandias. Material things will disappear first, but the thoughts, which belongs to those things will be remembered. But there comes a day that even those thoughts will disappear and then it is all gone, for ever.”

“Now we have found Ozymandias, would become the remembrance of Ozym much bigger”, said Michael. “Yes, you are right, but that is momentarily as well. Time absorbs everything.” After he had said this, they went back to home. And when they have told the world about Ozymandias, they will be known as the finders of the statue of Ozymandias. “Yes we will be famous, but also we will be forgotten at some time”, said the man, whose name we still do not know.

by Wouter Kroon

No Coward Soul is Mine (Emily Brontë)

No Coward Soul Is Mine

By Emily Brontë

No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven’s glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear

O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee

There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.

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Oh god, my dear god, be merciful to me.
I pray to You all day long, and I will never stop praying. Night and day I pray to You, for days, months, weeks on end. Never will I stop, for I would never want You to think I waver in devotion to You.

Oh god, I’m so thankful for you. I knew I could trust you, and You have shown me that You are my steadfast rock in immortality. Before I was so afraid, afraid of what would come and what death would bring, afraid that I wasn’t strong enough to face my illness.

Oh god, my soul is yours, and so your fearless soul is mine.

Although others are cowardly, I can’t be so because you, ever-present Deity, are by my side. You brought back my faith when I had none. Instead of faith there was fear in my heart, and you have taken it all away, and all that remains is love for you. No longer do I fear death. I know you created the undying life for me and everyone who has faith in you. I will bathe in the eternal glory of your kingdom, as will all of the ones who have been faithful to You. I know we will be rewarded for our adoration towards You. You have made us al infinite. You had created the most beautiful world, which we then proceed to contaminate with our sins. But I won’t be a part of that for much longer. I cannot wait to be with you for eternity, and with that to be forever faithful.

For you have always been there for me, in that same manner I will be there for you, so when my illness has taken me, I will come to you. My prayers and devotedness will even then not stop.
Amen

by Anonymous

London (William Blake)

London

By William Blake

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

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12/4/2017 16:2

Confused man wanders through the streets of London

This Monday around noon a man was wandering through the chartered streets of London. He was very pale and it seemed like he was going to faint. He was very confused and people tried to speak to him, but he didn’t answer them correctly. Instead of answering he kept screaming that he saw weakness and woe in people’s faces and that he heart mind-forged chains. It seemed like he was in a kind of trance, so people called the police. Fortunately he was not aggressive to anyone. After the police came and took him with them, he got admitted to a mental institution. After his psychiatrist had a lot of interviews with him and after he got medicines he is now stable and accountable again. He had been in a psychosis. He said that the reason of his psychosis was that he walked that morning through the streets and he realised that everybody sets limits for himself and he saw how sad it made the people. He also saw prostitutes and he could only think about the new generation getting infected by the youthful Harlot’s curse. He found out that the church and the government are guilty. Guilty of the Chimney-sweeper’s cry and the hapless Soldier’s sigh. All of this drove him crazy and it got so bad that he got into the psychosis. The psychosis made him unable to control himself. Fortunately he is now in good hands and he gets lots of help to never let something like this happen again to him.

by Anonymous

(Extract from) The Ballad of Reading Gaol (Oscar Wilde)

(Extract from) The Ballad of Reading Gaol

by Oscar Wilde

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
“That fellow’s got to swing.”

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

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(Extract from) The Ballad of the Reading Gaol

Dear stranger,

Were you looking for this story? I guess you didn’t. Probably you were just bored, wandering upon the tiniest yellow stones and you came across this little object. I would have loved to brighten your day, by writing some words on paper. I’m afraid that is not going to happen. If you want to be cheered up, turn around, walk away and try to find some joyful happening. My story is only there for the people, that want to get a message, eventhough you haven’t got a clue what this message contains. Still interested? Maybe I should tell you I am a criminal. God, I just loved other boys. I don’t know if that even is a crime. Is it, where you come from? Anyways, that’s how I ended up between the walls of Reading Gaol.

One day, I am slumbering through my cell and all of a sudden, I hear yelling. I run outside to see what is happening. I hear that a man has been convicted. With blood on his body and wine on his hands, this man was captured alive, carrying his beloved lady. She had just been killed. They tell me the man had been drunk. He is sober right now, wearing his downtrodden suit of grey, but he can’t escape the trial, that is waiting for him. However, the man is walking as if it is the first day of spring and nothing bad can break his day. But I am looking carefully and I remark the melancholic look in his eyes.  The eyes, that are fixed at the deepblue sky and some grey clouds.
Just as I am asking the man before me what the man had misdone, I hear a rasping voice behind me say: ‘That man needs to swing!’. The reality of life in jail suddenly becomes so real to me. The place is far from pleasant…
At this point, I realise why the man has such a melancholic look and why his eyes are fixed on the sky: the man had killed one of his most beloved persons in his life. But as murder is a crime, the man has to face the consequences. Before they take his life, he suddenly feels the urge to say some valuable words: ‘Everyone of you has killed some things he loved. The only reason why you are free from guilt and I am about to be slain, is that a coward does it with the sweetest kiss and I did it with my sword!’

The last words of a criminal hunted me for the rest of my life. I couldn’t bear living with other people around me, as these words screamed out the main problem of our society. You can see this as my suicide note. I don’t want to be remembered for who I was. I want this message to be seen by as many people as possible, all over the world.
So please, pick up the bottle, roll up this letter, put it back in the bottle and put back the cork.
Throw it as far as you can,
Back into the ocean.

by Roderick Peul

Ozymandias (Percy Bysshe Shelley)

Ozymandias

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear —
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’

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Dear diary,

Today something really strange happened. I was just walking to my work when someone suddenly began to talk to me. It was probably a traveler, I think he said he was from Egypt. But the strange thing was what he said, I do not remember it very clearly, it all happened so fast. But I will try to write it down.

“Two large legs without a body on top of them, build from stone, were standing in the desert. Close to those two legs lay a damaged face, nearly buried by the sand. You could tell by the angry look, the creased lips and grin on its face that the sculptor knew what he was doing when he tried to give the statue its personality. The man defied his underlings in many ways and was very cruel to them, but he did take care of them in a way. On the support of the statue was the following written: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’ It was a great king a long time ago, but nothing of what he built is still standing, everything is gone, except for the few parts of his colossal statue. And a lot of sand.”

It was really weird when he suddenly said this, but I think I know what he was trying to say. That you shouldn’t focus too much achieving something that is temporary, because in time it will be gone and no one will remember. And bragging about something that is in your possession now is maybe cool at the moment, but in time it will only make people laugh, like they will laugh at this statue. It was once the statue of a great man, but everything he had is now gone and doesn’t impress anyone. Instead try to achieve something timeless, like an invention.

by Anonymous