Quote of the Day

Since the past 2000 years vile activities, criminal acts etc have crossed all limits. Powerful people have harassed the weaker section of society. This era can be called the Dark Age. Powerful people after joining hands have misused their capabilities. Those who were weak never thought of opposing this harassment. Man has an inherent capacity to fight hardships and this is his special quality. Man in reality has been molded in such a way that maybe he cannot defeat unwholesomeness but he can at least oppose it. Instead of allowing lack of ethics to go on merrily or instead of enduring it man can at least oppose it to uplift human glory.

YUGA RISHI SHRIRAM SHARMA


TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY

MS HEENA A. KAPADIA (M Sc, M Phil)

For Joplin, Missouri

Walkers With The Dawn

Being walkers with the dawn and morning,
Walkers with the sun and morning,
We are not afraid of night,
Nor days of gloom,
Nor darkness--
Being walkers with the sun and morning.

by Langston Hughes

Full Moon

"When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance."
— Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray)

"There are moments when one has to choose between living one's own life, fully, entirely, completely-or dragging out some false, shallow, degrading existence that the world in its hypocrisy demands."
— Oscar Wilde (Lady Windermere's Fan)


You see I cannot see—your lifetime

You see I cannot see—your lifetime—
I must guess—
How many times it ache for me—today—Confess—
How many times for my far sake
The brave eyes film—
But I guess guessing hurts—
Mine—got so dim!

Too vague—the face—
My own—so patient—covers—
Too far—the strength—
My timidness enfolds—
Haunting the Heart—
Like her translated faces—
Teasing the want—
It—only—can suffice!
Emily Dickinson


Nature is what we see

"Nature" is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

Emily Dickinson

To -- [The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see]

1

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds
Are lips - and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words -

2

Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin'd
Then desolately fall,
O! God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall -

3

Thy heart - _thy_ heart! - I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of truth that gold can never buy -
Of the trifles that it may.

Edgar Allan Poe

Oplysning

mel. Vi Sømænd gjør ei mange Ord.

Er Lyset for de Lærde blot
Til ret og galt at stave?
Nei, Himlen under Flere godt,
Og Lys er Himlens Gave,
Og Solen staaer med Bonden op,
Slet ikke med de Lærde,
Oplyser bedst fra Taa til Top,
Hvem der er mest paafærde.

Er Lyset i Planeter kun,
Som ei kan see og mæle?
Er ikke Ordet i vor Mund
Et Lys for alle Sjæle!
Det giver os for Aander Syn,
Som Solens skin for Kroppe,
Det slaaer i Sjælen ned som Lyn
Fra Skyerne histoppe.

Er Lys på visse Vilkaar blot
Saa halvveis at ophøie?
Giør det ei allevegne Godt!
Er Lys ei Livets Øie!
Skal for Misbrugens Skyld maaske
Paa Aandens Himmelbue
Vi heller Mulm og Mørke see
End Solens blanke Lue!

Nei, aldrig spørges det fra Nord,
Vi Lyset vil fordunkle!
Som Nordlys i fribaarne Ord
Det saaes på Himlen funkle,
Og sees det skal ved Nordens Pol,
Ei blot i Kroppens Rige:
Midsommerens den bolde Sol
Vil ei for Midnat vige!
Oplysning være skal vor Lyst,
Er det saa kun om Sivet,
Men først og sidst med Folkerøst

Oplysningen om Livet;
Den springer ud af Folkedaad
Og vokser, som den vugges,
Den straale i vort Folkeraad,
Til Aftenstjernen slukkes!



N. F. S. Grundtvig

Maine Spring

2011 has been a cold gray spring in this part of Maine. The wind has (howled) out of the North for the last four days; big clouds scudding southward.

The sun came out today. The black flies, normally thick this time of year, must have been swept down to Massachusetts. The increased airflow apparently hurried the mosquito hatch along-or they are last fall's survivors protected by our early and late snows and snow snow snows in between.

The usual white-knuckled icy glazed roads have turned beautiful. Everything is bursting. Emerald green fields blanketed in gold-dandelions. The eye-wrenching spring yellow is reinforced by the forsythias, in full color. White clouds of apple blossoms, pink ornamental cherries, brilliant fuschia-creeping phlox. More screaming yellow in beds and beds of daffodils. Red red red tulips.

The trees won't be denied. Bursting pink buds, drooping pollen-encrusted blossoms, light light green buds everywhere.

Eyes closed, the afternoon sun glows blood-orange through the back of the eyelids. The mosquitoes take their share.

Rain comes.

The Hanging Man

By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.
I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard's eyelid:
A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket.

A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.
If he were I, he would do what I did.

Sylvia Plath