Vladimir Nabokov
To Russia

Let me go; set me free of my shackles!
In the dark, when commotion subsides,
I'm dying; I'm drained by the battles
Within dreams of you, flowing like tides.

Let the ones who at will have abandoned
Their motherland wail and complain,
They're on top; I've already descended —
Don't you dare approach me again.

I'll abandon the books I revere;
I'm ready to live in a cave;
So that you from my dreams disappear,
Every dream I'm ready to waive.

And degrade my own self to damnation,
Drop my name and be stripped to the bone,
For the dialect of any nation
Trade my tongue — the last asset I own.

For this sacrifice, Russia, through tears
through the grass on my parents' tombs,
through the memories of my young years,
through the catkins of birch trees in bloom,

Don't you look at me; I beg for mercy;
In this pit all is burnt to the core,
It is void; your blind search is unworthy.
Don't you try my past life to restore!

It's too late; years, ages have vanished,
For the shame and the grief in my soul,
For its torment — no one will be punished,
And no one will be ever absolved.

Vladimir Nabokov
To Russia

Let me go; set me free of my shackles!
In the dark, when commotion subsides,
I'm dying; I'm drained by the battles
Within dreams of you, flowing like tides.

Let the ones who at will have abandoned
Their motherland wail and complain,
They're on top; I've already descended —
Don't you dare approach me again.

I'll abandon the books I revere;
I'm ready to live in a cave;
So that you from my dreams disappear,
Every dream I'm ready to waive.

And degrade my own self to damnation,
Drop my name and be stripped to the bone,
For the dialect of any nation
Trade my tongue — the last asset I own.

For this sacrifice, Russia, through tears
through the grass on my parents' tombs,
through the memories of my young years,
through the catkins of birch trees in bloom,

Don't you look at me; I beg for mercy;
In this pit all is burnt to the core,
It is void; your blind search is unworthy.
Don't you try my past life to restore!

It's too late; years, ages have vanished,
For the shame and the grief in my soul,
For its torment — no one will be punished,
And no one will be ever absolved.

Vladimir Nabokov
To Russia

Let me go; set me free of my shackles!
In the dark, when commotion subsides,
I'm dying; I'm drained by the battles
Within dreams of you, flowing like tides.

Let the ones who at will have abandoned
Their motherland wail and complain,
They're on top; I've already descended —
Don't you dare approach me again.

I'll abandon the books I revere;
I'm ready to live in a cave;
So that you from my dreams disappear,
Every dream I'm ready to waive.

And degrade my own self to damnation,
Drop my name and be stripped to the bone,
For the dialect of any nation
Trade my tongue — the last asset I own.

For this sacrifice, Russia, through tears
through the grass on my parents' tombs,
through the memories of my young years,
through the catkins of birch trees in bloom,

Don't you look at me; I beg for mercy;
In this pit all is burnt to the core,
It is void; your blind search is unworthy.
Don't you try my past life to restore!

It's too late; years, ages have vanished,
For the shame and the grief in my soul,
For its torment — no one will be punished,
And no one will be ever absolved.

Vladimir Nabokov
To Russia

Let me go; set me free of my shackles!
In the dark, when commotion subsides,
I'm dying; I'm drained by the battles
Within dreams of you, flowing like tides.

Let the ones who at will have abandoned
Their motherland wail and complain,
They're on top; I've already descended —
Don't you dare approach me again.

I'll abandon the books I revere;
I'm ready to live in a cave;
So that you from my dreams disappear,
Every dream I'm ready to waive.

And degrade my own self to damnation,
Drop my name and be stripped to the bone,
For the dialect of any nation
Trade my tongue — the last asset I own.

For this sacrifice, Russia, through tears
through the grass on my parents' tombs,
through the memories of my young years,
through the catkins of birch trees in bloom,

Don't you look at me; I beg for mercy;
In this pit all is burnt to the core,
It is void; your blind search is unworthy.
Don't you try my past life to restore!

It's too late; years, ages have vanished,
For the shame and the grief in my soul,
For its torment — no one will be punished,
And no one will be ever absolved.

The Encounter by Nabokov

 

The Encounter

Longing, and mystery, and delight…
as if from the swaying blackness
of some slow-motion masquerade
onto the dim bridge you came.

And night flowed, and silent there floated
into its satin streams
that black mask’s wolf-like profile
and those tender lips of yours.

And under the chestnuts, along the canal
you passed, luring me askance.
What did my heart discern in you,
how did you move me so?

In your momentary tenderness,
or in the changing contour of your shoulders,
did I experience a dim sketch
of other — irrevocable — encounters?

Perhaps romantic pity
led you to understand
what had set trembling that arrow
now piercing through my verse?

I know nothing. Strangely
the verse vibrates, and in it, an arrow…
Perhaps you, still nameless, were
the genuine, the awaited one?

But sorrow not yet quite cried out
perturbed our starry hour.
Into the night returned the double fissure
of your eyes, eyes not yet illumed.

For long? For ever? Far off
I wander, and strain to hear
the movement of the stars above our encounter
and what if you are to be my fate…

Longing, and mystery, and delight,
and like a distant supplication….
My heart must travel on.
But if you are to be my fate…

Unlike today's relationships, the days of yore promised a love that arrived to stay. Nabokov, the great literary master, wrote this poem for a woman who was instantly won over and became his wife for more than 50 years, till death. © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes   

 

The Prayer Of Agassiz

John Greenleaf Whittier1807 (Haverhill) – 1892 (Hampton Falls)

• Childhood
• Friendship
• Life
• Love
• Melancholy
• Nature
• Religion

---

---

On the isle of Penikese,
Ringed about by sapphire seas,
Fanned by breezes salt and cool,
Stood the Master with his school.
Over sails that not in vain
Wooed the west-wind's steady strain,
Line of coast that low and far
Stretched its undulating bar,
Wings aslant along the rim
Of the waves they stooped to skim,
Rock and isle and glistening bay,
Fell the beautiful white day.

Said the Master to the youth
'We have come in search of truth,
Trying with uncertain key
Door by door of mystery;
We are reaching, through His laws,
To the garment-hem of Cause,
Him, the endless, unbegun,
The Unnamable, the One
Light of all our light the Source,
Life of life, and Force of force.
As with fingers of the blind,
We are groping here to find
What the hieroglyphics mean
Of the Unseen in the seen,
What the Thought which underlies
Nature's masking and disguise,
What it is that hides beneath
Blight and bloom and birth and death.
By past efforts unavailing,
Doubt and error, loss and failing,
Of our weakness made aware,
On the threshold of our task
Let us light and guidance ask,
Let us pause in silent prayer!'

Then the Master in his place
Bowed his head a little space,
And the leaves by soft airs stirred,
Lapse of wave and cry of bird,
Left the solemn hush unbroken
Of that wordless prayer unspoken,
While its wish, on earth unsaid,
Rose to heaven interpreted.
As, in life's best hours, we hear
By the spirit's finer ear
His low voice within us, thus
The All-Father heareth us;
And His holy ear we pain
With our noisy words and vain.
Not for Him our violence
Storming at the gates of sense,
His the primal language, His
The eternal silences!

Even the careless heart was moved,
And the doubting gave assent,
With a gesture reverent,
To the Master well-beloved.
As thin mists are glorified
By the light they cannot hide,
All who gazed upon him saw,
Through its veil of tender awe,
How his face was still uplit
By the old sweet look of it.
Hopeful, trustful, full of cheer,
And the love that casts out fear.
Who the secret may declare
Of that brief, unuttered prayer?
Did the shade before him come
Of th' inevitable doom,
Of the end of earth so near,
And Eternity's new year?

In the lap of sheltering seas
Rests the isle of Penikese;
But the lord of the domain
Comes not to his own again
Where the eyes that follow fail,
On a vaster sea his sail
Drifts beyond our beck and hail.
Other lips within its bound
Shall the laws of life expound;
Other eyes from rock and shell
Read the world's old riddles well
But when breezes light and bland
Blow from Summer's blossomed land,
When the air is glad with wings,
And the blithe song-sparrow sings,
Many an eye with his still face
Shall the living ones displace,
Many an ear the word shall seek
He alone could fitly speak.
And one name forevermore
Shall be uttered o'er and o'er
By the waves that kiss the shore,
By the curlew's whistle sent
Down the cool, sea-scented air;
In all voices known to her,
Nature owns her worshipper,
Half in triumph, half lament.
Thither Love shall tearful turn,
Friendship pause uncovered there,
And the wisest reverence learn
From the Master's silent prayer.

Geometry dash

 

Geometry dasH

 

Ruler Of Everything”

 

Juno was mad

He knew he'd been had

So he shot at the sun with a gun

Shot at the sun with a gun

Shot at his wily one only friend

In the gallows or the ghetto

In the town or the meadow

In the pillows even over the sun

Every end of the time is another begun

You understand

Mechanical hands

Are the ruler of everything (ahh)

Ruler of everything (ahh)

I'm the ruler of everything

In the end

Do you like how I dance?

I've got zirconium pants!

Consequential enough

To slip you into a trance

Do you like how I walk?

Do you like how I talk?

Do you like how my face

Disintegrates into chalk?

I have a wonderful wife

I have a powerful job

She criticizes me for being egocentric

You practice your mannerisms

Into the wall

If this mirror were clearer

I'd be standing so tall

I saw you slobber over clovers on the side of the hill

I was observing the birds

Circle in for the kill

I've been you

I know you

Your facade is a scam

You know you're making me cry

This is the way that I am

I've been living a lie

A metamorphical scheme

Detective undercover brotherhood

Objective: obscene

Oh no, no

Oh yeah

Do you hear the flibbity jibbity jibber jabber

With an oh my god I've got to get out of here or I'll

have another

Word to sell

Another story to tell

Another time piece ringing the bell

Do you hear the clock stop when you reach the end

No

You know it must be never ending

Comprehend if you can

But when you try to pretend to understand

You resemble a fool

Although you're only a man

So give it up and

Smile

Do you hear the flibbity jibbity jibber jabber

With an oh my god I've got to get out of here or I'll

have another

Word to sell

Another story to tell

Another time piece ringing the bell

Do you hear the clock stop when you reach the end

No

You know it must be never ending

Comprehend if you can

But when you try to pretend to understand

You resemble a fool

Although you're only a man

So give it up and

Smile

You understand

Mechanical hands

Are the ruler of everything (aah)

Ruler of everything (aah)

I'm the ruler of everything

In the end

Without looking down

Gliding around

Like a bumbling dragon I fly

Scraping my face on the sky

Oh no, no

Oh yeah

„~ Trollface singing the lyrics of Tally Hall’s “Ruler Of Everything”.

M&m

 

The Magical Snack

 The Magical Snack

Once upon a time, in a bright and bustling village named Hairy Hollow, lived a little girl named Lily. Lily had the most enchanting hair you could ever imagine! Her golden curls sparkled like sunlight, and they danced like fireflies on a warm summer night.

One sunny afternoon, while playing in her garden filled with colorful flowers and singing birds, Lily decided she was feeling a bit adventurous. "What if I could have a snack just as special as my hair?" she thought. Inspired by this whim, she plucked a few of her curly locks and—without a second thought—took a tiny bite.

To her surprise, as soon as the hair touched her tongue, a magical tingle spread through her body! "Wow!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. Suddenly, the garden around her began to shimmer and swirl, transforming into a magnificent land full of shimmering fields and sparkling rivers.

As she munched on her hair, strange and wonderful things began to happen. Out popped the Hairy Hollow creatures! There were the Twirly Tuffs—fluffy little beasts with hair of all colors, who giggled and twirled around her. Then came the Beaming Bunnies with their fluffy tails that gleamed under the sun, hopping joyfully from one rainbow to another.

Each bite gifted her amazing new experiences! The Twirly Tuffs took her by the hand, guiding her through a rainbow forest where every tree was made of candy canes.

“Would you like to join our picnic?” squeaked a cheerful Twirly Tuff with pink tufts of hair. Lily nodded eagerly, her magical snack making her stomach rumble happily.

The picnic was unlike anything she had ever seen! The tables were lined with gingerbread, while marshmallows floated like clouds above them. There were delicious lemonade waterfalls and cupcakes that spun around like merry-go-rounds!

Every bite she took of her hair revealed sparkling, tasty treasures around her. As the sun began to set and the chocolate stars twinkled in the sky, Lily felt a warmth in her heart that she had never felt before.

After a fun-filled day, as Lily finished her last curly snack, she realized that the magic was fading away—the Twirly Tuffs started to twirl slowly, and the Bunnies began to hop slower and slower until they vanished into tiny specks of glitter.

With a final twinkling laugh, they shouted, “Remember, dear Lily, the magic of friendship is the best snack of all!”

Suddenly, she found herself back in her garden, the sun setting gently behind her. She looked down in her lap, and to her delight, there was one sparkling cupcake left—the sweetest treasure from her adventure.

From that day on, Lily never ate her hair again, but she always remembered the yummy day when her curls took her on a magical journey, teaching her that true magic lies in the friends we make and the joy we share.

"Southerners. They're always so slow, like molasses in January

 "You know what I can't stand?" began Tom, his voice echoing through the quiet office. "Southerners. They're always so slow, like molasses in January."

Pamela Harris looked up from her computer, her eyes narrowing at the sound of Tom's voice. She had been lost in thought, scrolling through the endless emails that had accumulated in her inbox over the weekend. Born and raised in the bustling city of New York, she had always found Southerners to be an enigma—their laid-back charm and lilting accents a stark contrast to the fast-paced, no-nonsense world she was accustomed to.

"What's got you all riled up, Tom?" she asked, her voice dripping with feigned innocence as she swiveled her chair to face him.

Tom leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the armrest. "It's just, you know, they move at their own pace, say 'yes ma'am' and 'no sir' like it's going out of style, and expect everyone else to do the same."

Pamela felt a spark of annoyance flare up in her chest. She had heard this rant from Tom before. His prejudices were as predictable as the seasons, and just as unwelcome. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" she said calmly. "I've met some pretty sharp Southern folks in my time. Besides, isn't it just about respect?"

Tom snorted. "Respect? They're just playing a game, Harris. You can't trust someone who's that polite all the time."

Pamela's jaw tightened. She knew her colleagues found her bluntness refreshing—or so they claimed—but she couldn't stand the way Tom generalized about an entire group of people. She had visited the South once, on a work trip, and found it to be full of rich culture, warm hearts, and a sense of community she hadn't felt in her concrete jungle. She decided it was time to set him straight. "You know what, Tom? Maybe you should actually get to know some Southerners before you start spouting off stereotypes."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Harris. You're just too sensitive."

But the conversation had piqued the interest of the office's new intern, Becky, who had just moved from a small town in Georgia. She had been quietly working at her desk, trying to blend into the background of the fast-talking Northerners. She cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. "Excuse me," she said, her voice thick with the sweetness of a Southern drawl. "But I'm from the South, and I can promise you, not everyone down there is slow and polite just for show."

Tom turned to her with a smirk. "Oh really? Tell us, Becky, what's it like down in the land of the slow-talking, banjo-picking, moonshine-swilling good ol' boys?"

Becky's eyes flashed with a hint of fire. She had heard enough of Tom's nonsense. She took a deep breath, drawing in the tension of the room. "Well, Tom, I can tell you this much," she said, her voice steady. "We do have moonshine. And let me tell you, it's a heck of a lot stronger than anything you've probably ever had."

With that, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small mason jar filled with a clear, potent liquid. The room fell silent as she unscrewed the lid and took a swig. The sharp burn of the moonshine filled her mouth, but she didn't flinch. She swallowed it down and set the jar on her desk with a thud. "You see, where I come from, we don't just drink moonshine to be 'quirky' or 'rustic'. It's a part of our heritage. It's what kept our families warm and our spirits high during tough times. So before you go judging an entire region based on a couple of TV shows and movies, maybe you should try a little bit of what you're talking about."

Tom's smirk faltered. "Alright, alright," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll bite. But only if you join me."

This is halloween

 

Happy Halloween