the last ride together – robert browning

I.

I said—Then, dearest, since ’tis so,

Since now at length my fate I know,

Since nothing all my love avails,

Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,

Since this was written and needs must be—

My whole heart rises up to bless

Your name in pride and thankfulness!

Take back the hope you gave,—I claim

—Only a memory of the same,

—And this beside, if you will not blame,

Your leave for one more last ride with me.

II.

My mistress bent that brow of hers;

Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs

When pity would be softening through,

Fixed me, a breathing-while or two,

With life or death in the balance: right!

The blood replenished me again;

My last thought was at least not vain:

I and my mistress, side by side

Shall be together, breathe and ride,

So, one day more am I deified.

Who knows but the world may end tonight?

III.

Hush! if you saw some western cloud

All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed

By many benedictions—sun’s

And moon’s and evening-star’s at once—

And so, you, looking and loving best,

Conscious grew, your passion drew

Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,

Down on you, near and yet more near,

Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—

Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear!

Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

IV.

Then we began to ride. My soul

Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll

Freshening and fluttering in the wind.

Past hopes already lay behind.

What need to strive with a life awry?

Had I said that, had I done this,

So might I gain, so might I miss.

Might she have loved me? just as well

She might have hated, who can tell!

Where had I been now if the worst befell?

And here we are riding, she and I.

V.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?

Why, all men strive and who succeeds?

We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,

Saw other regions, cities new,

As the world rushed by on either side.

I thought,—All labour, yet no less

Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

Look at the end of work, contrast

The petty done, the undone vast,

This present of theirs with the hopeful past!

I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

VI.

What hand and brain went ever paired?

What heart alike conceived and dared?

What act proved all its thought had been?

What will but felt the fleshly screen?

We ride and I see her bosom heave.

There’s many a crown for who can reach,

Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!

The flag stuck on a heap of bones,

A soldier’s doing! what atones?

They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.

My riding is better, by their leave.

VII.

What does it all mean, poet? Well,

Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell

What we felt only; you expressed

You hold things beautiful the best,

And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.

‘Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then,

Have you yourself what’s best for men?

Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—

Nearer one whit your own sublime

Than we who never have turned a rhyme?

Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.

VIII.

And you, great sculptor—so, you gave

A score of years to Art, her slave,

And that’s your Venus, whence we turn

To yonder girl that fords the burn!

You acquiesce, and shall I repine?

What, man of music, you grown grey

With notes and nothing else to say,

Is this your sole praise from a friend,

“Greatly his opera’s strains intend,

“Put in music we know how fashions end!”

I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

IX.

Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fate

Proposed bliss here should sublimate

My being—had I signed the bond—

Still one must lead some life beyond,

Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.

This foot once planted on the goal,

This glory-garland round my soul,

Could I descry such? Try and test!

I sink back shuddering from the quest.

Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

X.

And yet—she has not spoke so long!

What if heaven be that, fair and strong

At life’s best, with our eyes upturned

Whither life’s flower is first discerned,

We, fixed so, ever should so abide?

What if we still ride on, we two

With life for ever old yet new,

Changed not in kind but in degree,

The instant made eternity,—

And heaven just prove that I and she

Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

expectation

There are days when i brim over, there’s a whole explosion of words waiting to break free and i want to scream and kill somebody, then shoot myself. But my mouth just stays partly open, no words come out, and i just recoil back to the roots. I hate these days. i long to cry but i cant. and the frustration only gets worse with everything.

I often wonder what happened when Pandora opened that box. If it all seeped out and killed her, like phenol injected into the heart. Or if they spread out far and wide, like arrows with poisoned tips, or bullets. . infected the world with misery in all shapes and color. Pandora perished for sure . . and the box and its contents left us to perish a day at a time, in silence. . forbearing silence.

One of those bullets that has killed me so often, i’m sure was a bullet out of That box. I know i’m not the only one. but then i do live what i live. its so simple to bottle up. . if only i could always keep them corked. . set them out to sail into the sea. . and start filling afresh into a new bottle. they would then be like those secret messages, that no one would find; and in code, so no one would understand.

sometimes i wish i could unlearn. sometimes i hate to wish i could finally reach the end soon enough.

do not stand at my grave and weep – anonymous

do not stand at my grave and weep

i am not there i do not sleep

i am the thousand winds that blow

i am the diamond glints on snow

i am the the sunlight on ripened grain

i am the gentle autumn rain

when you awaken in the morning’s hush

i am the swift uplifting rush

of quiet birds in circled flight

i am soft stars that shine at night

do not stand at my grave and cry

i am not there i did not die.

the lamb – william blake

Little Lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,

By the stream and o’er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing, woolly, bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

Little Lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee.

He is called by thy name,

For He calls Himself a Lamb.

He is meek, and He is mild;

He became a little child.

I a child, and thou a lamb,

We are called by His name.

Little Lamb, God bless thee!

Little Lamb, God bless thee!

daffodils – 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.

maud – alfred lord tennyson

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, “There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.”
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, “The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,” so I sware to the rose,
“For ever and ever, mine.”

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash’d in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh’d for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near;”
And the white rose weeps, “She is late;”
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;”
And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

how it began ~

In the past 2 years, a lot happened, that altered my perception and convictions in a way, that my whole life taken together couldnt have measured up to.

On one hand.. it has been beautiful, learning to trust again, finding my way back into Faith. . spending days of peace and happy adventure with sire, my very own royal charm.

And on the other hand, its been a living hell of painful hospital trips; learning-losing-learning-losing-patience with a bunch of strange, close-minded, orthodox, prickly, slave-driving, moronic people from the dark ages with bad-attitude; and morbid (mainly, academic) frustration.

I do understand it all began with my own choice of taking up this course. Dad had asked me (several times) to apply for higher learning in literature; despite my parents cribbing always that they dont understand me, they did understand afterall. . and well enough to know my area of (enormous love and) interest. . . but instead of listening to him (and to my better side of the brain) and applying at oxford, i came here, hugely wasted his savings, learned barely anything, earned a name in my (current) professors’ bad books, rebelled enough to earn an ER, acquired PD, oh and now pretty damn tired of all the confusion in my head. Just about every other day, sire inspires me  so well.. and so good of him to help me out every way he can. . and i think, oh yes ! i can do it ! and i guess i eventually, probably will. . but being human,  i do miss the life i nearly missed. i spend sleepless nights, and then zombied days wondering about when i’ll get a (proper) job, how long until then, what then, what if the professors avenge their grudges in the final trimester papers, what if sire were better off academically without me, future financial worry, old friends who’re professionally scooting fast ahead past me. sometimes a thought crosses my mind about, “what if!” . . i could go back to 2007, and undo some things, and instead of brooding over wasted friendships and virtual arseholes, would’ve studied ! and not failed the CAT. . (oh) some days, it kills me worse, to realize that in all the rush of the last year of college, i did jump into the potential trap-trench of MBA, following the mass exodus of all my friends who happily chose to dive in . . and are perhaps (hopefully, good for them) are rolling in pots of money as they hoped they would. . maybe they didnt after all sell their souls. I pretty much crib here every waking moment cause somehow i know sire and i cant live a day without our soul and heart in lieu with our mind… and we dream. atleast i do. still do. perhaps, i will always do. . that we will know happiness every morning while going to work. and we will know happiness every night when we return home to love.

but then after this whole roll of flashback and “what if” i think, its good enough. like sire says, “we would know when we connect the dots in future.” And then it strikes me already why i came here. And so far (for always) the best reason would be sire himself.

“And indeed there will be time

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions.

There will be time, there will be time

Time for you and time for me. . .”

- TS ELIOT

(Credits to weasel, for waking me up this morning to dear ol’ Mr Eliot)