burtonyin

A Psalm of Life

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real!  Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is

Keep reading

Poem

I stood next to the ocean at midnight letting the Atlantic whisper in an unknown language to my soul.

With each crashing wave a message to my unconscious was sent, an urning was made only to be satisfied by hearing the sweet sounds of a dark void that calls to me.

Sure you can hear the voice coming from a conk shell but you can’t listen, a conk shell doesn’t talk to your soul it just relays the message.

written by: Burtonyin

youtube

Interesting look at the first color photography

Invictus - William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.