| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare: For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night:
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow changed to solace, solace mix'd with sorrow;
For why, she sigh'd and bade me come tomorrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
But now are minutes added to the hours;
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Ebb-Tide by Stevenson & Osbourne: colonnade, fresh painted, trim and dandy, and all silent as the
grave. Only, here and there in the crypt, there was a rustle and
scurry and some crowing of poultry; and from behind the house
with the verandahs, he saw smoke arise and heard the crackling
of a fire.
The stone houses were nearest him upon his right. The first
was locked; in the second, he could dimly perceive, through a
window, a certain accumulation of pearl-shell piled in the far
end; the third, which stood gaping open on the afternoon, seized
on the mind of Herrick with its multiplicity and disorder of
romantic things. Therein were cables, windlasses and blocks of
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Poems of William Blake by William Blake: Art thou a Worm? image of weakness. art thou but a Worm?
I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lillys leaf;
Ah weep not little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep:
Is this a Worm? I see they lay helpless & naked: weeping
And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mothers smiles.
The Clod of Clay heard the Worms voice & rais'd her pitying head:
She bowd over the weeping infant, and her life exhald
In milky fondness, then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes
O beauty of the vales of Har, we live not for ourselves,
Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed:
My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark,
Poems of William Blake |
