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Thread: Favorite poems and quotations.

  1. #481
    the Lycanthrope Remiel's Avatar
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    Nothing happened to me. I happened.

    Hannibal Lecter
    "The society that separates its scholars from its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting by fools." ― Thucydides

  2. #482
    the Lycanthrope Remiel's Avatar
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    The road your father and I walked together is soaked deeply with the blood of both friends and enemies.
    The war in which we fought is far from over. We live our lives in hiding. The galactic government considers us terrorists.
    It's unwise of me to share these details, but I've become inebriated. The guest list at this wedding includes 17 of the federation's most wanted.
    We have committed numerous atrocities in the name of freedom.. I should prepare for the ceremony.


    Birdperson, The Wedding Squanchers
    "The society that separates its scholars from its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting by fools." ― Thucydides

  3. #483
    Landlord of the Dog and Duck Subteigh's Avatar
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    Woe unto ye beetles of South America. ~ Charles Darwin
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  4. #484
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    The Iliad

    (Book XVIII, lines 558 – 720)

    *
    And first Hephaestus makes a great and massive shield,
    blazoning well-wrought emblems all across its surface,
    raising a rim around it, glittering, triple-ply
    with a silver shield-strap run from edge to edge
    and five layers of metal to build the shield itself,
    and across its vast expanse with all his craft and cunning
    the god creates a world of gorgeous immortal work.

    There he made the earth and there the sky and the sea
    and the inexhaustible blazing sun and the moon rounding full
    and there the constellations, all that crown the heavens,
    the Pleiades and the Hyades, Orion in all his power too
    and the Great Bear that mankind also calls the Wagon:
    she wheels on her axis always fixed, watching Orion,
    and she alone is denied a plunge in the Ocean's baths.

    And he forged on the shield two noble cities filled
    with mortal men. With weddings and wedding feasts in one
    and under glowing torches they brought forth the brides
    from the women's chambers, marching through the streets
    while choir on choir the wedding song rose high
    and the young men came dancing, whirling round in rings
    and among them the flutes and harps kept up their stirring call —
    women rushed to the doors and each stood moved with wonder.
    And the people massed, streaming into the marketplace
    where a quarrel had broken out and two men struggled
    over the blood-price for a kinsman just murdered.
    One declaimed in public, vowing payment in full—
    the other spurned him, he would not take a thing—
    so both men pressed for a judge to cut the knot.

    The crowd cheered on both, they took both sides,
    but heralds held them back as the city elders sat
    on polished stone benches, forming the sacred circle,
    grasping in hand the staffs of clear-voiced heralds,
    and each leapt to his feet to plead the case in turn.
    Two bars of solid gold shone on the ground before them,
    a prize for the judge who'd speak the straightest verdict.

    But circling the other city camped a divided army
    gleaming in battle-gear, and two plans split their ranks:
    to plunder the city or share the riches with its people,
    hoards the handsome citadel stored within its depths.
    But the people were not surrendering, not at all.
    They armed for a raid, hoping to break the siege—
    loving wives and innocent children standing guard
    on the ramparts, flanked by elders bent with age
    as men marched out to war. Ares and Pallas led them,
    both burnished gold, gold the attire they donned, and great,
    magnificent in their armor—gods for all the world,
    looming up in their brilliance, towering over troops.
    And once they reached the perfect spot for attack,
    a watering place where all the herds collected,
    there they crouched, wrapped in glowing bronze.
    Detached from the ranks, two scouts took up their posts,
    the eyes of the army waiting to spot a convoy,
    the enemy's flocks and crook-horned cattle coming…
    Come they did, quickly, two shepherds behind them,
    playing their hearts out on their pipes—treachery
    never crossed their minds. But the soldiers saw them,
    rushed them, cut off at a stroke the herds of oxen
    and sleek sheep-flocks glistening silver-gray
    and killed the herdsmen too. Now the besiegers,
    soon as they heard the uproar burst from the cattle
    as they debated, huddled in council, mounted at once
    behind their racing teams, rode hard to the rescue,
    arrived at once, and lining up for assault
    both armies battled it out along the river banks—
    they raked each other with hurtling bronze-tipped spears:

    And Strife and Havoc plunged in the fight, and violent Death—
    now seizing a man alive with fresh wounds, now one unhurt,
    now hauling a dead man through the slaughter by the heels,
    the cloak on her back stained red with human blood.
    So they clashed and fought like living, breathing men
    grappling each other's corpses, dragging off the dead.

    And he forged a fallow field, broad rich plowland
    tilled for the third time, and across it crews of plowmen
    wheeled their teams, driving them up and back and soon
    as they'd reach the end-strip, moving into the turn,
    a man would run up quickly
    and hand them a cup of honeyed, mellow wine
    as the crews would turn back down along the furrows,
    pressing again to reach the end of the deep fallow field
    and the earth churned black behind them, like earth churning,
    solid gold as it was—that was the wonder of Hephaestus' work.

    And he forged a king's estate where harvesters labored,
    reaping the ripe grain, swinging their whetted scythes.
    Some stalks fell in line with the reapers, row on row,
    and others the sheaf-binders girded round with ropes,
    three binders standing over the sheaves, behind them
    boys gathering up the cut swaths, filling their arms,
    supplying grain to the binders, endless bundles.
    And there in the midst the king,
    scepter in hand at the head of the reaping-rows,
    stood tall in silence, rejoicing in his heart.
    And off to the side, beneath a spreading oak,
    the heralds were setting out the harvest feast,
    they were dressing a great ox they had slaughtered,
    while attendant women poured out barley, generous,
    glistening handfuls strewn for the reapers' midday meal.

    And he forged a thriving vineyard loaded with clusters,
    bunches of lustrous grapes in gold, ripening deep purple
    and climbing vines shot up on silver-vine poles.
    And round it he cut a ditch in dark blue enamel
    and round the ditch he staked a fence in tin.
    And one lone footpath led toward the vineyard
    and down it the pickers ran
    whenever they went to strip the grapes at vintage—
    girls and boys, their hearts leaping in innocence,
    bearing away the sweet ripe fruit in wicker baskets.
    And there among them a young boy plucked his lyre,
    so clear it could break the heart with longing,
    and what he sang was a dirge for the dying year,
    lovely… his fine voice rising and falling low
    as the rest followed, all together, frisking, singing,
    shouting, their dancing footsteps beating out the time.

    And he forged on the shield a herd of longhorn cattle,
    working the bulls in beaten gold and tin, lowing loud
    and rumbling out of the farmyard dung to pasture
    along a rippling stream, along the swaying reeds.
    And the golden drovers kept the herd in line,
    Four in all with nine dos at their heels
    their paws flickering quickly—a savage roar!—
    a crashing attack—and a pair of ramping lions
    had seized a bull from the cattle's front ranks—
    he bellowed out as they dragged him off in agony.
    Packs of dogs and the young herdsmen rushed to help
    but the lions ripping open the hide of the huge bull
    were gulping down the guts and the black pooling blood
    while the herdsmen yelled the fast pack on—no use.
    The hounds shrank from sinking teeth in the lions,
    they balked, hunching close, barking, cringing away.

    And the famous crippled Smith forged a meadow
    deep in a shaded glen for shimmering flocks to graze,
    with shepherds' steadings, well-roofed huts and sheepfolds.

    And the crippled Smith brought all his art to bear
    on a dancing circle, broad as the circle Daedalus
    once laid out on Cnossos' spacious fields
    for Ariadne the girl with lustrous hair.
    Here young boys and girls, beauties courted
    with costly gifts of oxen, danced and danced,
    linking their arms, gripping each other's wrists.
    And the girls wore robes of linen light and flowing,
    the boys wore finespun tunics rubbed with a gloss of oil,
    the girls were crowned with a bloom of fresh garlands,
    the boys swung golden daggers hung on silver belts.
    And now they would run in rings on their skilled feet,
    nimbly, quick as a crouching potter spins his wheel,
    palming it smoothly, giving it practice twirls
    to see it run, and now they would run in rows,
    in rows crisscrossing rows—rapturous dancing.
    A breathless crowd stood round them struck with joy
    and through them a pair of tumblers dashed and sprang,
    whirling in leaping handsprings, leading out the dance.

    And he forged the Ocean River's mighty power girdling
    round the outmost rim of the welded indestructible shield.
    And once the god had made that great and massive shield
    he made Achilles a breastplate brighter than gleaming fire,
    he made him a sturdy helmet to fit the fighter's temples,
    beautiful, burnished work, and raised its golden crest
    and made him greaves of flexing, pliant tin.

    Now,
    when the famous crippled Smith had finished off
    that grand array of armor, lifting it in his arms
    he laid it all at the feet of Achilles' mother Thetis—
    and down she flashed like a hawk from snowy Mount Olympus
    bearing the brilliant gear, the god of fire's gift.

    —Homer

    (translated by Robert Fagles)
    .
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  5. #485
    Landlord of the Dog and Duck Subteigh's Avatar
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    A much happier Life to be an Admiral in England, than Czar in Russia. ~ Peter the Great
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  6. #486
    Normal... is an illusion ♡ Chae's Avatar
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    Love, the deadliest of all deadly things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don’t.

    — Lauren Oliver, Delirium

  7. #487
    Normal... is an illusion ♡ Chae's Avatar
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    She wears strength and darkness equally well,
    the girl has always been half goddess, half hell.

    — Nikita Gill


  8. #488
    Normal... is an illusion ♡ Chae's Avatar
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  9. #489
    Normal... is an illusion ♡ Chae's Avatar
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    Intimacy is the capacity to be rather weird with someone - and finding that that’s ok with them.
    — Alain de Botton



    Hearts are wild creatures /// That's why our ribs are cages

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