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Forgiveness does not change the past but it does enlarge the future – Paul Boesse

Forgiveness does not change the past but it does enlarge the future – Paul Boesse



If your dreams don’t scare you, they aren’t big enough

If your dreams don’t scare you, they aren’t big enough


Great Legacy Poem – A Funeral Fantasie by Friedrich von Schiller

A Funeral Fantasie by Friedrich von Schiller
Pale, at its ghastly noon,
Pauses above the death-still wood–the moon;
The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs;
The clouds descend in rain;
Mourning, the wan stars wane,
Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres!
Haggard as spectres–vision-like and dumb,
Dark with the pomp of death, and moving slow,
Towards that sad lair the pale procession come
Where the grave closes on the night below.

With dim, deep-sunken eye,
Crutched on his staff, who trembles tottering by?
As wrung from out the shattered heart, one groan
Breaks the deep hush alone!
Crushed by the iron fate, he seems to gather
All life’s last strength to stagger to the bier,
And hearken–Do these cold lips murmur “Father?”
The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear,
Pierces the bones gnawed fleshless by despair,
And the heart’s horror stirs the silver hair.

Fresh bleed the fiery wounds
Through all that agonizing heart undone–
Still on the voiceless lips “my Father” sounds,
And still the childless Father murmurs “Son!”
Ice-cold–ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies–
Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanished there–
The sweet and golden name of “Father” dies
Into thy curse,–ice-cold–ice-cold–he lies!
Dead, what thy life’s delight and Eden were!

Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora,
While the air like Elysium is smiling above,
Steeped in rose-breathing odors, the darling of Flora
Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.
So gay, o’er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss,
The silver wave mirrored the smile of his face;
Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss,
And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase.

Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world,
As a deer to the mountain-top carelessly springs;
As an eagle whose plumes to the sun are unfurled,
Swept his hope round the heaven on its limitless wings.
Proud as a war-horse that chafes at the rein,
That, kingly, exults in the storm of the brave;
That throws to the wind the wild stream of its mane,
Strode he forth by the prince and the slave!

Life like a spring day, serene and divine,
In the star of the morning went by as a trance;
His murmurs he drowned in the gold of the wine,
And his sorrows were borne on the wave of the dance.

Worlds lay concealed in the hopes of his youth!–
When once he shall ripen to manhood and fame!
Fond father exult!–In the germs of his youth
What harvests are destined for manhood and fame!

Not to be was that manhood!–The death-bell is knelling,
The hinge of the death-vault creaks harsh on the ears–
How dismal, O Death, is the place of thy dwelling!
Not to be was that manhood!–Flow on, bitter tears!
Go, beloved, thy path to the sun,
Rise, world upon world, with the perfect to rest;
Go–quaff the delight which thy spirit has won,
And escape from our grief in the Halls of the Blest.

Again (in that thought what a healing is found!)
To meet in the Eden to which thou art fled!–
Hark, the coffin sinks down with a dull, sullen sound,
And the ropes rattle over the sleep of the dead.
And we cling to each other!–O Grave, he is thine!
The eye tells the woe that is mute to the ears–
And we dare to resent what we grudge to resign,
Till the heart’s sinful murmur is choked in its tears.
Pale at its ghastly noon,
Pauses above the death-still wood–the moon!
The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs:
The clouds descend in rain;
Mourning, the wan stars wane,
Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres.
The dull clods swell into the sullen mound;
Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave!
The grave locks up the treasure it has found;
Higher and higher swells the sullen mound–
Never gives back the grave!


Great Legacy Poem – Ode Written On The First Of January by Robert Southey

Ode Written On The First Of January by Robert Southey
Come melancholy Moralizer–come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now

Come Moralizer to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,
For well the funeral song
Befits this solemn hour.

But hark! even now the merry bells ring round
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,
This consecrated day,
To Mirth and Indolence.

Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,
Whilst her unclouded sun
Illumes thy summer day,

Canst thou rejoice–rejoice that Time flies fast?
That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?
That swift the stream of Years
Rolls to Eternity?

If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,
If Power be thine, remember what thou art–
Remember thou art Man,
And Death thine heritage!

Hast thou known Love? does Beauty’s better sun
Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,
Her eye all eloquence,
Her voice all harmony?

Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale
Moans deep and hollow o’er the leafless grove!
Winter is dark and cold–
Where now the charms of Spring?

Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene
In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol’d Maid
With stern and frowning front
Appals the shuddering soul?

And would’st thou bid me court her faery form
When, as she sports her in some happier mood,
Her many-colour’d robes
Dance varying to the Sun?

Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road
Leads o’er the barren mountain’s storm-vext height,
With anxious gaze survey
The fruitful far-off vale.

Oh there are those who love the pensive song
To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!
There are who at this hour
Will love to contemplate!

For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day
Is sunk again in night,
That one day more is gone.

And he who bears Affliction’s heavy load
With patient piety, well pleas’d he knows
The World a pilgrimage,
The Grave the inn of rest.


Great Legacy Poem – I Sing the Body Electric – by Walt Whitman

I Sing the Body Electric – by Walt Whitman

I SING the Body electric; 

The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them; 

They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, 

And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the Soul. 

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves;        

And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead? 

And if the body does not do as much as the Soul? And if the body were not the Soul, what is the Soul? 

The love of the Body of man or woman balks account—the body itself balks account; 

That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.  

The expression of the face balks account; 

But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face; 

It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists; 

It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees—dress does not hide him; 

The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel; 

To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more; 

You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side. 

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards, 

The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up, and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water, 

The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats—the horseman in his saddle, 

Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances, The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting, 

The female soothing a child—the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard, 

The young fellow hoeing corn—the sleigh-driver guiding his six horses through the crowd, 

The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown, after work, 

The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, 

The upper-hold and the under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes; 

The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps, 

The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert, 

The natural, perfect, varied attitudes—the bent head, the curv’d neck, and the counting; 

Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child, 

Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, and count. 

I know a man, a common farmer—the father of five sons; 

And in them were the fathers of sons—and in them were the fathers of sons. 

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person; 

The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, and the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes—the richness and breadth of his manners, 

These I used to go and visit him to see—he was wise also; 

He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old—his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome; 

They and his daughters loved him—all who saw him loved him; 

They did not love him by allowance—they loved him with personal love; 

He drank water only—the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face; 

He was a frequent gunner and fisher—he sail’d his boat himself—he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner—he had fowling-pieces, presented to him by men that loved him; 

When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang. 

You would wish long and long to be with him—you would wish to sit by him in the boat, that you and he might touch each other. 

I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough, 

To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough, 

To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough, 

To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment—what is this, then? 

I do not ask any more delight—I swim in it, as in a sea. 

There is something in staying close to men and women, and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well; 

All things please the soul—but these please the soul well. 

This is the female form; 

A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot; 

It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction! I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor—all falls aside but myself and it; 

Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, the atmosphere and the clouds, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed; 

Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it—the response likewise ungovernable; 

Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands, all diffused—mine too diffused; 

Ebb stung by the flow, and flow stung by the ebb—love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching; 

Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice; 

Bridegroom night of love, working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn; 

Undulating into the willing and yielding day, 

Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day. 

This is the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, the man is born of woman; 

This is the bath of birth—this is the merge of small and large, and the outlet again. 

Be not ashamed, women—your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest; 

You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul. 

The female contains all qualities, and tempers them—she is in her place, and moves with perfect balance; 

She is all things duly veil’d—she is both passive and active; 

She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters. 

As I see my soul reflected in nature; As I see through a mist, one with inexpressible completeness and beauty, See the bent head, and arms folded over the breast—the female I see. 

The male is not less the soul, nor more—he too is in his place;He too is all qualities—he is action and power; 

The flush of the known universe is in him; 

Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well; 

The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost, become him well—pride is for him; 

The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul; Knowledge becomes him—he likes it always—he brings everything to the test of himself; 

Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail, he strikes soundings at last only here; (Where else does he strike soundings, except here?) 

The man’s body is sacred, and the woman’s body is sacred; 

No matter who it is, it is sacred; Is it a slave? Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf? 

Each belongs here or anywhere, just as much as the well-off—just as much as you; 

Each has his or her place in the procession.  (All is a procession; The universe is a procession, with measured and beautiful motion.) 

Do you know so much yourself, that you call the slave or the dull-face ignorant? 

Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight? 

Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float—and the soil is on the surface, and water runs, and vegetation sprouts, 

For you only, and not for him and her? 

A man’s Body at auction; I help the auctioneer—the sloven does not half know his business. 

Gentlemen, look on this wonder! Whatever the bids of the bidders, they cannot be high enough for it; 

For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years, without one animal or plant;For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d. 

In this head the all-baffling brain;

In it and below it, the makings of heroes. 

Examine these limbs, red, black, or white—they are so cunning in tendon and nerve; They shall be stript, that you may see them. 

Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition, Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant back-bone and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs,

And wonders within there yet.  Within there runs blood, The same old blood! The same red-running blood! There swells and jets a heart—there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations;

Do you think they are not there because they are not express’d in parlors and lecture-rooms?  This is not only one man—this is the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns; In him the start of populous states and rich republics; 

Of him countless immortal lives, with countless embodiments and enjoyments.  How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries?

Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace back through the centuries? 

A woman’s Body at auction! She too is not only herself—she is the teeming mother of mothers; She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.  Have you ever loved the Body of a woman?Have you ever loved the Body of a man? 

Your father—where is your father? Your mother—is she living? have you been much with her? and has she been much with you? —Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all, in all nations and times, all over the earth? 

If any thing is sacred, the human body is sacred,

And the glory and sweet of a man, is the token of manhood untainted; And in man or woman, a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is beautiful as the most beautiful face.  Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body? For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves. 

O my Body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you;

I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the Soul, (and that they are the Soul ;)  I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems—and that they are poems, Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems; Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears, Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eye-brows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids,

Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges, Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition, Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue, Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest.  Upper-arm, arm-pit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones,

Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, fore-finger, finger-balls, finger-joints, finger-nails, Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side, Ribs, belly, back-bone, joints of the back-bone, Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, man-root, Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above,

Leg-fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under leg, Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel; All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body, or of any one’s body, male or female, The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean, The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame,

Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity, Womanhood, and all that is a woman—and the man that comes from woman, The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and risings, The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud, Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming,

Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening, The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes, The skin, the sun-burnt shade, freckles, hair, The curious sympathy one feels, when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body, The circling rivers, the breath, and breathing it in and out,

The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees, The thin red jellies within you, or within me—the bones, and the marrow in the bones, The exquisite realization of health; O I say, these are not the parts and poems of the Body only, but of the Soul, O I say now these are the Soul!

Whitman: Poetry and Prose (Library of America College Editions)