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What are you waiting for?
Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
'Tis nature's prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E'en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?
............................................................................John Clare
Love lives beyond the tomb,
And earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
Love lives in sleep:
'Tis happiness of healthy dreams:
Eve's dews may weep,
But love delightful seems.
'Tis seen in flowers,
And in the morning's pearly dew;
In earth's green hours,
And in the heaven's eternal blue.
'Tis heard in Spring
When light and sunbeams, warm and kind,
On angel's wing
Bring love and music to the mind.
And where's the voice,
So young, so beautiful, and sweet
As Nature's choice,
Where Spring and lovers meet?
Love lives beyond the tomb,
And earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
................................................John Clare
'Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.
The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love's name.
The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.
For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.
...................................................................................................John Clare
Go rate this pic. You do not need further information. DO IT!
Ummm.... so you know Histrionics were pretty much thrown out of most psychiatric treatments around the 60's. What you are probably referring to is Borderline Personality Disorder. This is a painful and devastating illness that is catastrophic to those that suffer from it and those that care for them. Your taunting of a psychiatric disability is just cruel and, frankly bigoted. What would you have done to her? Strap her down, give her shock therapy? medicate her til she was a fucking zombie? Seriously. Your cattiness might indicate that you too suffer from BPD. Maybe you should look THAT up. You're a joke. You cling to propriety on fuBar like it was some legitimate form of celebrity. I suffer from mental illness (schizotypal personality and ADHD if you were wondering) so you mocking someone just shows the quality of your character and the lack of your virtue.
And BTW, saw your porn. was so disgusted I could even finish it. And I enjoy hentai. Thats fucking saying something.
EDIT: This blog and some comments have been edited/removed to prevent my banhammering. The contents are archived, tho.
She darts and dives
'twixt briar and thorn
Her perturbed persuers
show naught but scorn
She laughs and cackles
while they grunt and growl
She deftly springs and bounds
And they stomp through muck most foul
This creature is a clever prey
Praised for her ingenuity
She runs like wind and set
her traps, but only harms dignity
The fox is small, this is true
Her teeth not vicious, claws but few
But a wit and eyes, both so sharp
Are her weapons, and always strike true
~Ode from the Toad
The badger grunting on his woodland track
With shaggy hide and sharp nose scrowed with black
Roots in the bushes and the woods, and makes
A great high burrow in the ferns and brakes.
With nose on ground he runs an awkward pace,
And anything will beat him in the race.
The shepherd's dog will run him to his den
Followed and hooted by the dogs and men.
The woodman when the hunting comes about
Goes round at night to stop the foxes out
And hurrying through the bushes to the chin
Breaks the old holes, and tumbles headlong in.
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes bye.
He comes and hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox hears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes bye.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where e'er they go;
When badgers fight, then every one's a foe.
The dogs are clapt and urged to join the fray;
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for bones and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels.
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, an awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and cackles, groans, and dies.
Some keep a baited badger tame as hog
And tame him till he follows like the dog.
They urge him on like dogs and show fair play.
He beats and scarcely wounded goes away.
Lapt up as if asleep, he scorns to fly
And seizes any dog that ventures nigh.
Clapt like a dog, he never bites the men
But worries dogs and hurries to his den.
They let him out and turn a harrow down
And there he fights the host of all the town.
He licks the patting hand, and tries to play
And never tries to bite or run away,
And runs away from the noise in hollow trees
Burnt by the boys to get a swarm of bees.
………………………………………………—John Clare
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
…My friends forsake me like a memory lost:—
I am the self-consumer of my woes;—
…They rise and vanish in oblivion's host,
Like shadows in love's frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tost
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,—
…Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
…But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest, that I love the best,
Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes, where man hath never trod,
…A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God;
…And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
………………………………………………—John Clare
