Favorite Excerpts - Jan 2025

Single Verses

• Tis not too late to seek a newer world
• A death while mist slept over sand & sea
• We live in deeds not years, in thoughts not breaths - Bailey
• Can honor’s voice provoke the dust?
• Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings
• I know that all beneath the moon decays
• To the last syllable of recorded time
• checkerboard of nights & days
• where destiny plays with men as pieces
• that youth’s sweet scented manuscript should close
• When in the chronicle of wasted time
• If music be the food of love
• Much to cast down, much to build, much to restore
• How sweet the moonlight sleeps
• Eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise
• Only the actions of the dust, smell sweet & blossom in the dust
• What happened to the times where dreams still mattered?
• The fog held its breath, looking on the ruins
• Opportunity knocked, but short for time gave up & left
• trembling shadows running from the hungry dawn
• Dreams are made of you
• If music be the food of love
• This act is as an ancient tale new told,
• When workmen strive to do better than well,
• O mistress mine, where art thou roaming?
• The sad eyed justice
• He jests at scars, that never felt a wound
• Is this a dagger which I see before me?
• Then long eternity shall greet our bliss
• Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings
• Where day never shuts his eye
• With leaden foot time creeps along
• Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire
• Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest
• And read their history in a nation’s eyes
• And shut the gates of mercy on mankind
• Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife
• Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved
• And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove
• By unperceived degrees he wears away
• Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing!
• For how do I hold thee, but by thy granting?
• Nor shall death brag thou wanderst in his shade
• When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
• Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow
• By sucking books the wise like bees grow
• Oh my soul, be prepared for the coming of the Stranger…

Were I so tall to reach the pole, Or grasp the ocean with my span I must be measured by my soul, the mind’s the standard of a man.