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Music, language of the mortal soul.
The face of twilight,
The mouth of bitterness made lyrical,
Eyes closed on poignant joys that might have been!
A profile turned to life, and yet beyond …
Reborn, transfigured; penetrating sense
To gather an acute expressiveness
Vibrant within itself: all our lost lives!
—We must play gently to the living dead—
Fingers outstretched, by that responsive lid
Where Angel harps lie buried at full length,
Yet still in touch and resonant—Arise
To laying on of hands—
Invisible, a phantom of pure sound
Voices the spirit sitting there, awakes
The sighing, and the soaring and the beat
(O dispossessed and silenced King: my heart!)
Until we too are echos of that tide,
Where winds and waves become articulate,
Our being tossed so high, beyond itself,
Winged by the elements!
Our human weight of woe no longer felt
Until we meet
—By some familiar fall of minor chords—
The inner God of Sorrow face to face.



The predominacy of custom is every where visible, it sounds as a man would wonder to hear man profess, protest, engage, give great words, and then do just as they have done before, as though they were dead images and moved only by the wheels of custom.

Francis BACON.

My Hopes white-plumed, in valiant mail,
Have beaten at her heart grown pale
—Have failed, as all proud hopes must fail—
Lower the mast, fold up the sail.
In vain we faced the high-winged gale
And laughed as those whom Gods assail.
The reefs near port now crush our bark,
The jealous hounds of habit bark
On land. As children in the dark
My Lady shudders in the veil
Of her meek hair—shall naught prevail?
And only fears their echo find
Within her torn and timid mind?

Helplessly, my courage tears
To free her of the doubts she wears
Closer than Life…. Yet Time prepares
The end of all things…. Melt, my tears!
And flow as bitter as the sea
Over my drowning Love and me!



Rash games of chess do hateful lovers play,
Their towers, queens and kings all thrown away
In wild offensives, desperate retreats.
To that sick inner-sounding drum that beats
In terror of some tender thing just killed!
New warriors on the battle-field, unskilled
In prudent war-fare: friends of yesterday
What they most cherished seem most keen to slay.
More treacherous than Prussians in command,
Entrenched and feigning not to understand,
They plan how best to poison, maim and mar!
Masked in bad silence, turned against their star.
Through what black forces are so changed to foes
Those fed on our high hearts, yes, even those!



A Trip Around the World with DWIGHT L. ELMENDORF, Lecturer and Traveler.

Close beside the cathedral of St. Mark stands the square Campanile, the most prominent feature in all Venetian views. Standing 325 feet high, the Campanile always dominated the picturesque low stretch of Venice’s skyline and gave a peculiar distinction to the whole scene. It seemed indeed to many Venetians and to lovers of Venice all over the world that the city had lost its crowning feature when, in 1902, the Campanile collapsed. It was originally erected in 900 and rebuilt in 1329. After it had fallen Venice seemed maimed, and the hearts of thousands felt the depression until the tower was rebuilt and the city could once again hold up its beautiful head. A new tower was built by Piacentini (pee´-ah-chen-tee´-nee) during the years 1905 to 1911, and on completion it was consecrated with most impressive ceremonies.


The Doge’s Palace was originally founded about 800; but was destroyed by fire five times, and each time rebuilt on a grander scale. The older part of the present edifice was built in 1309; while the west wing, facing on the piazzetta, was built between 1424 and 1438 by the celebrated architects Buon, father and son.

In gazing at the Doge’s Palace the eye is first caught by the upper arcade. From there the sentences of the “Council of Ten” were pronounced—listened to by the assembled people in silence and in awe.


These horses are among the finest of ancient bronzes. They probably once adorned the triumphal arch of Nero, emperor of Rome.

The columns of this arcade are most beautiful, and have been pointed to with pride for years. Ruskin describes the detail of the sculptured columns, and declares that they are the finest of their kind in Europe. The interior of the Doge’s Palace is wonderful. Tintoretto’s painting of “Paradise” is there, a marvel in size and in detail. The residence of the Doges and the apartment in which the authorities held their meetings are there, revealing still much of their ancient glory. The palace is virtually a museum, and it shows a great display of fine paintings, containing, among others, notably works of Tintoretto, Paul Veronese, (vay-ro-nay´-seh) and Palma Giovane (jo-vah´-neh). Days could be spent profitably wandering through these halls, studying the treasures of art and history to be found there.


The Doge’s Palace is said to have been founded beside the church of St. Theodore about 800 for the first Doge of Venice. It has been rebuilt and altered many times.


The Stairway of the Giants, so called from the colossal statues of Mars and Neptune at the top, leads to the Palace of the Doges. On the highest landing of these steps, in the later days of the Republic, the Doges were crowned.



A Trip Around the World with DWIGHT L. ELMENDORF, Lecturer and Traveler.

It is not the physical conditions alone that make Venice unique. In the beauty and interest of its domestic architecture it ranks before any city in the world. The mosaics of Venice have been famous for centuries, and are today the marvel of all who see them. The spot where Venice has massed the gems of her beauty is St. Mark’s Place.


One of the smaller and narrower canals of Venice.


The remains of St. Mark, the tutelary saint of Venice, are said to have been brought from Alexandria in 829, and to have been buried here.

The view of Venice most familiar to stay-at-home bodies is the one to be had from across the water looking at St. Mark’s Place, and including, besides the cathedral of St. Mark, the Doge’s (doje) Palace and Campanile (cam-pa-nee´-le) Tower, and in some cases a glimpse of the Bridge of Sighs. The Piazza of St. Mark is called the “Heart of Venice.” All the life of the city surges there at certain times, then sweeps from there through its various channels. It is gayest on summer evenings, when the population turns out to enjoy the fresh air and listen to the military band. At that time the piazza is brilliant with fashionable people. Go there on a moonlight night, and you will find it a dream of beauty. You must see, of course, the pigeons of St. Mark’s. Flocks of them circle about the square or gather in groups on the pavement, wherever food is to be found. The pigeons of St. Mark’s used to be fed at public expense. It is not necessary now: there are always plenty of travelers that will pay them this pleasant toll for the sake of being photographed in their company. St. Mark’s Place is 191 yards in length, and in width 61 yards on one side and 90 on the other. The beautiful effect of it can hardly be expressed. It is paved with trachyte and marble, and surrounded by buildings that are not only important historically but most interesting architecturally.


The Church of St. Mark, now a cathedral, was begun in 830. The year before that the bones of St. Mark, the saint of Venice, were brought from Alexandria, and they now lie buried in the church. This marvelous building is Romanesque in style. During the eleventh and twelfth centuries it was remodeled and decorated with most lavish magnificence. In the fifteenth century it received some Gothic additions which enhanced its effect. In such short space as this it is impossible to do justice to the beauty of St. Mark’s. It is best by far to rest on what Ruskin has said in his “Stones of Venice”:

“The effects of St. Mark’s depend not only upon the most delicate sculpture in every part, but eminently on its color also, and that the most subtle, variable, inexpressible color in the world,—the color of glass, of transparent alabaster, of polished marble, and lustrous gold.”


The building is in the form of a Greek cross, with mosaics covering more than 4,500 square feet. Over the upper entrance are four horses in gilded bronze, counted among the finest of ancient bronzes. They may have adorned the triumphal arch of Nero or that of Trajan in Rome. The Emperor Constantine sent them to Constantinople, and from there they were brought by the Doge Dandolo to Venice in 1204. These horses were taken to Paris by Napoleon in 1797, and for awhile crowned a triumphal arch in that city. After Napoleon’s downfall, in 1815, the bronzes were restored to their original place at Venice.



A Trip Around the World with DWIGHT L. ELMENDORF, Lecturer and Traveler.

“The Pearl of the Adriatic,” she has been called. “Queen of the Sea” is another of the poetic terms applied to her. If all the expressions that have been used by admirers to pay tribute to the beauty of Venice were gathered together, they would make a glossary of eulogy of considerable size. It was inevitable from the beginning that Venice should receive such homage; for she has a beauty that distinguishes her from all other cities. She is absolutely unique in picturesque attraction and in romantic interest. There are many cities that draw the admiration of the traveler: there is but one Venice, and anyone who has been there and felt her spell cannot wonder at the worshipful admiration that she has received from the time of her birth in the sea.

The fascination of Venice for the traveler is such that ordinary terms of appreciation are insufficient. The city takes complete possession of one, and visitors who have surrendered to her charms are referred to as having the “Venice fever.” All who love beauty have had more or less violent attacks—the artist is most susceptible to it.


This is the main artery of traffic in Venice. It is nearly two miles long, and varies from 100 to 200 feet in width. It is adorned with about two hundred magnificent old patrician palaces.


Your broken promises speak about you, but they do not hurt me



Now a day, we meet, we talk, I offer, you promise, and I listen.

Then, I wait, wait and wait, AND you do not perform or deliver.

You do not show up again because you got busy and forgot.

So, I will not go back and review your promises; I will move on.


Your promises were valuable for me, because I believed you care,

And now, I know that I am not on your mind any more.

Your broken promises speak about you.

Your broken promises speak about your commitments.

Your broken promises say “you are interested but not committed”.

But, I am committed and not interested,

So, I have to focus on only committed but not interested,

But I promise that once I am interested, ….

…. I will call you to share our interests with no commitment.


The way you do anything is the way you do everything…

And, I am committed and you are just interested, So,

….  we can not have a business together.







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