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Updated: June 4, 2025
She had saved some, avenged others. It should be stated, that her notion of saving was the saving of them from the public: she had thrown up a screen. The saving of them from themselves was another matter hopeless, to her thinking. How preach at a creature on the bend of passion's rapids! One might as well read a chapter from the Bible to delirious patients.
Whittier's poem "Ichabod" seemed to have been aimed at him, especially in its third stanza: "Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night." Amid the lurid gleams and heat of such a disappointment, men cannot see clearly. They impute wrong motives, base motives, to the backslider.
"Since none will lend my love a helping hand, * And I by passion's bale in death low-lain, I bear a flaming fire within my heart * By day and night nor place of rest attain, How cease to hope in thee, my wishes' term? * Or with my longings to be glad and fain?
Cecil who was not passion's slave had small sympathy with the man who could lose a sovereignty for the sake of Agnes Mansfeld. "'Tis a very goodly gentleman," said he, "well fashioned, and of good speech, for which I must rather praise him than for loving a wife better than so great a fortune as he lost by her occasion."
"Invent resorts that can take hold of me," says Boileau. By what means were they to "invent resorts?" "So that in all your speeches passion's dart May penetrate, and warm, and move the heart." How were they to "warm the heart?" Rules, therefore, were not sufficient; there was need, in addition, for genius. And genius is not sufficient either.
Her legs and arms were round me in a moment, and at it we went hammer and tongs, until we quickly spent with cries of delight, and sank in momentary oblivion, soon to recover our full sensations, and dash again on passion's furious course, this time aunt pouring down her hot boiling discharge before me, and again when she felt the torrent of my sperm shooting up to the top of her womb.
Nay, tax not me with passion's wasting fire; When the swift message set my spirit free, Blind, helpless, lone, I left my gray-haired sire; My friends were many, he had none save me. I left him, orphaned, in the starless night; Alas, for him no cheerful morning's dawn! I wear the ransomed spirit's robe of white, Yet still I hear him moaning, She is gone! Ye know me not, sweet sisters?
'Tell me what thou wouldst with him, and I will fetch him to thee. 'With all my heart, answered the King; 'but the case calls for privacy. I have no helper but my tears; yet, when from out mine eyes They flow, they lighten my despair and ease my drearihood. Sore is my longing; yea, it hath no like and my affair In love and passion's marvellous, beyond all likelihood.
We will not forget that inner ardency the virgin unfolding to the sun born of some great passion that seemed poised between earth and heaven and expectant of its own great passion's maturity. I went back to the little plant, called the children to it and all who would come. It was grey and neutral like the ground. I think a low song of content came from it.
Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale, Then Passion's half-coiled adders spring, And, smitten through their leprous mail, Strike right and left in hope to sting. If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath, Thy feet on earth, thy heart above, Canst walk in peace thy kingly path, Unchanged in trust, unchilled in love,
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