Unusual poetry life

Poems of an identical imagination

Before My Wedding: A Play

The Dance

Gitanjali

The Art of the StoryTeller

Royal Doulton Shaving Mugs

In the Scene: Jane Campion

A Second Book of Operas

Handel

Szép Versek 2012

Architecture of the Lower Rio Grande Valley: An Introduction

My Island Story

All the Wolves You Were: A Play in Three Acts

Just a Book of Limericks

Mourning becomes Electra is a play cycle written by American playwright Eugene O'Neill. The play premiered on Broadway at the Guild Theatre on 26 October 1931 where it ran for 150 performances before closing in March 1932. In May 1932, it was revived at the Alvin Theatre, and in 1972 at the Circle in the Square Theatre.

Moral Emblems and Other Poems

Idylls of the King

ESCAPECOME, shall we go, my comrade, from this denWhere falsehood reigns and we have dallied long?Exchange the curious vanities of menFor roads of freedom and for ships of song? We came as strangers, came to learn and look,To hear their music, drink the wine they gave.Now let us hence again; the happy brookShall quench our thirst, our music be the wave. Come! they are feasting, let us steal away.Beyond the doors the night awaits us, sweet.To-morrow we shall see the break of day,And goat-herds’ pipes shall lead our roaming feet. TO EVE IN TEARSYOU laughed, and all the fountains of the EastLeapt up to Heaven with their diamond rainTo hang in light, and when your laughter ceasedDropped shivered arrows to the ground again. You laughed, and from the belfries of the earthThe music rippled like a shaken pool;And listless banners at the breeze of mirthWere stirred in harbours suddenly made cool. You wept, and all the music of the air—As when a hand is laid upon a bell—Was stilled, and Dryads of the tossing hairCrept back abashed within the secret dell. MARIANA IN THE NORTHALL her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn,Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her homeNo longer know her step on the upland tracks forlornWhere she was wont to roam. All her hounds are dead, her beautiful hounds are dead,That paced beside the hoofs of her high and nimble horse,Or streaked in lean pursuit of the tawny hare that fledOut of the yellow gorse. All her lovers have passed, her beautiful lovers have passed,The young and eager men that fought for her arrogant hand,And the only voice which endures to mourn for her at the lastIs the voice of the lonely land. SORROW OF DEPARTURE. For D.HE sat among the shadows lost,And heard the careless voice speak onOf life when he was gone from home,Of days that he had made his own,Familiar schemes that he had known,And dates that he had cherished mostAs star-points in the year to come,And he was suddenly alone,Thinking (not bitterly,But with a grave regret) that heWas in that room a ghost. He sat among the shades apart,The careless voice he scarcely heard.In that arrested hour there stirredShy birds of beauty in his heart. The clouds of March he would not seeAcross the sky race royally,Nor yet the drift of daffodilHe planted with so glad a hand,Nor yet the loveliness he plannedFor summer’s sequence to fulfil,Nor trace upon the hillThe annual waking of the land,Nor meditative standTo watch the turning of the mill. He would not pause above the WealdWith twilight falling dim,And mark the chequer-board of field,The water gleaming like a shield,The oast-house in the elms concealed,Nor see, from heaven’s chalice-rim,The vintaged sunset brim,Nor yet the high, suspended starHanging eternally afar. These things would be, but not for him. At summer noon he would not lieOne with his cutter’s rise and dip,Free with the wind and sea and sky,And watch the dappled waves go by,The sea-gulls scream and slip;White sails, white birds, white clouds, white foam,White cliffs that curled the love of homeAround him like a whip....He would not see that summer noonFade into dusk from light,While he on shifting waters brightSailed idly on, beneath the moonClimbing the dome of night. This was his dream of happy thingsThat he had loved through many springs, And never more might know.But man must pass the shrouded gateCompanioned by his secret fate,And he must lonely go,And none can help or understand,For other men may touch his hand,But none the soul below.

AT the east end of the choir aisle of the Cathedral there is a portion of the wall which is possibly the oldest piece of masonry in Oxford, for it is thought to be a part of the original Church of St. Frideswyde, on whose site the Cathedral Church of Christ (to give its full title) now stands. Even so it is not possible to speak with historical certainty of the saint or of the date of her Church, which was built for her by her father, so the legend says, when she took the veil; though the year 740 may be provisionally accepted as the last year of her life. St. Frideswyde's was a conventual Church, with a Priory attached, and both were burnt down in 1002, but rebuilt by Ethelred. How much of his handiwork survives in the present structure it is not easy to de-termine; but the Norman builders of the twelfth century effected, at any rate, such a transformation that no suggestion of Saxon architecture is obtruded. Their work went on for some twenty years, under the supervision of the then Prior, Robert of Cricklade, and the Church was consecrated anew in 1180. The main features of the interior—the massive pillars and arches—are substantially the same to-day as the builders left them then. THIS BOOK, is not intended to compete with any existing guides to Oxford: it is not a guide-book in any formal or exhaustive sense. Its purpose is to shew forth the chief beauties of the University and City, as they have ap-peared to several artists; with such a running commentary as may explain the pictures, and may indicate whatever is most interesting in connection with the scenes which they represent. Slight as the notes are, there has been no sacrifice, it is believed, of accuracy. The principal facts have been derived from Alexander Chalmers' History of the Colleges, Halls, and Public Buildings of the University of Oxford, from Mr. Lang's Oxford, and from the Oxford and its Colleges of Mr. J. Wells. The illustrations, with the exception of six only, which are derived from Ackermann's Oxford, are reproduced from the paintings of living artists, mostly by Mr. W. Matthison, the others by Mrs. C. R. Walton, Walter S. S. Tyrwhitt, Mr. Bayzant, and Miss E. S. Cheesewright.

Cartea t?n?rului universitar Mihai-Bogdan Marian consacrat? analizei conflictelor interna?ionale este o invita?ie la luciditate, la reflec?ie autonom?, dezinhibat?, la cercetare aplicat?, f?r? prejudec??i ?i partizanate apriorice. Autorul este un analist pentru care exerci?iul ?n sine al disec?rii cauzelor ?i ?mprejur?rilor ce favorizeaz? apari?ia ?i acutizarea conflictelor interna?ionale nu este unul fortuit sau gratuit. Ideea sa tutelar? este c? orice astfel de conflict poate fi pre?nt?mpinat. Iar dac?, fatalmente, el s-a declan?at ?i s-a dezvoltat, sc?p?nd poate de sub control, poate fi dezamorsat, factorii angrena?i ?n acest proces av?nd la ?ndem?n? algoritmi ?i proceduri standard care nu trebuie s? fac? obiectul unei ac?iuni in extremis, care s? justifice de fapt prin e?ec escaladarea ?n continuare a conflictului ca atare. (Mihai Milca)