Unconquerable Souls

ByJasminka

 

 
Seven Ages of Man
 
 
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice
In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part.
 

William Shakespeare

Alone

 
 
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were, I have not seen
As others saw, I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.
Then, in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life, was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by 
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
 
Edgar Allan Poe
 
 
 
After Great Pain

 

 
After great pain, a formal feeling comes,
The nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs,
The stiff Heart questions was it he, that bore,
And yesterday, or centuries before?
 
The Feet, mechanical, go round,
Of ground, or air, or ought,
A wooden way,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone
 
This is the hour of lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons, recollect the snow
First, chill, then stupor, then the letting go
 
Emily Dickinson
  

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