Head-dibs

 “Stars” by  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882) THE NIGHT is come, but not too soon;  And sinking silently,  All silently, the little moon  Drops down behind the sky.  There is no light in earth or heaven  But the cold light of stars;  And the first watch of night is given  To the red planet Mars.  Is it the tender star of love?  The star of love and dreams?  Oh no! from that blue tent above  A hero’s armor gleams.  And earnest thoughts within me rise,  When I behold afar,  Suspended in the evening skies,  The shield of that red star.  O star of strength! I see thee stand  And smile upon my pain;  Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,  And I am strong again.  Within my breast there is no light  But the cold light of stars;  I give the first watch of the night  To the red planet Mars.  The star of the unconquered will,  He rises in my breast,  Serene, and resolute, and still,  And calm, and self-possessed.  And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art,  That readest this brief psalm,  As one by

“Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,  You must be he I was seeking,  or she I was  seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)  I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,  All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid,  affectionate, chaste, matured,  You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a  girl with me,  I ate with you and slept with you, your body  has become not yours only nor left my  body mine only,  You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face,  flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard,  breast, hands, in return,  I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you  when I sit alone or wake at night alone,  I am to wait,  I do not doubt I am to meet you again,  I am to see to it that I do not lose you.” (From “Leaves of Grass” in The Harvard Classics)

 

  “The pleasure of loving without daring to tell it, has its pains, but it has its joys also. What transport do we not feel in moulding all our actions in view of pleasing the person whom we infinitely esteem! We study each day to find the means of revealing ourselves, and thus employ as much time as if we were holding converse with the one whom we love. The eyes kindle and grow dim at the same moment, and although we do not see plainly that the one who causes this disorder takes heed of it, we still have the satisfaction of feeling all these emotions for a person who deserves them so well. We would gladly have a hundred tongues to make it known; for as we cannot make use of words, we are obliged to confine ourselves to the eloquence of action.” — Blaise Pascal (1623–1662).  Minor Works.  Vol. 48, pp. 411-421 of The Harvard Classics

Eat food off of other peoples plates. It’s their calories, so they don’t count.

 

 

“Quintus Marcius, the Roman legate in the war against Perseus, King of Macedon, to gain time wherein to reinforce his army, set on foot some overtures of accommodation, with which the king being lulled asleep, concluded a truce for some days, by this means giving his enemy opportunity and leisure to recruit his forces, which was afterwards the occasion of the king's final ruin.  Yet the elder senators, mindful of their forefathers' manners, condemned this proceeding as degenerating from their ancient practice, which, they said, was to fight by valour, and not by artifice . . .  This was, indeed, a procedure truly Roman, and nothing allied to the Grecian subtlety, nor to the Punic cunning, where it was reputed a victory of less glory to overcome by force than by fraud. Deceit may serve for a need, but he only confesses himself overcome who knows he is neither subdued by policy nor misadventure, but by dint of valour, man to man, in a fair and just war.  It very well appears, by

By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,  I heard a man sing, tho his head it was grey,  And as he was singing, the tears doon came -  'There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!' 'The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars,  Delusion, oppressions, and murderous wars,  We dare na weel sayl but we ken wha's to blame  There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame! 'My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,  But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;  It brak the sweet heart o my faithfu auld dame -  There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame! 'Now life is a burden that bows me down,  Sin I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;  But till my last moments my words are the same -  There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!'

“MY LORD . . .  . . . Seven years, my Lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a Patron before . . .  . . . Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the Public should consi

“I don’t agree with those who plunge headlong into the middle of the flood and who, accepting a turbulent life, struggle daily in great spirit with difficult circumstances. The wise person will endure that, but won’t choose it—choosing to be at peace, rather than at war.” —SENECA (died 65 AD) “MORAL LETTERS”, 28.7  

“Trapped in a valley filled with huge diamonds guarded by venomous serpents, Sindibad devised a clever means of escaping with many of the glittering jewels.” Enjoy “The Second Voyage of Es-Sindibad of the Sea” from Stories from the Thousand and One Nights in Vol. 16 of The Harvard Classics

  “. . . unity, agreement is always silent, or soft-voiced; it is only discord that loudly proclaims itself. So long as the several elements of Life, all fitly adjusted, can pour forth their movement like harmonious tuned strings, it is a melody and unison . . . “  Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881).     “Characteristics” in The Harvard Classics.

“Today, when you find yourself getting anxious, ask yourself: Why are my insides twisted into knots? Am I in control here or is my anxiety? And most important: Is my anxiety doing me any good?” (Ryan Holiday)

 

  From “Ode to Winter” by Thomas Campbell (1777 - 1844) in Vol. 41, p. 772 of The Harvard Classics