u MUST read this:
... Meanwhile at home,
All individual dignity and power
Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions,
Associations and Societies
A vain, speech-mouthing speech-reporting Guild,
One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth;
Comptemptous of all honourable rule,
Yet batering freedom and the poor man's life,
For gold, as at a market! The sweet words
Of Christian promise, words that even yet
Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached,
Are muttered o'er door men, whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods of to know their truth.
Oh! Blasphemous! The Book of Life is made
A superstitious instrument...
The very name of God
Sounds like a juggler's charm:and bold with joy..,
The owlet Atheism
Sailing on obscure wings athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fringed lids and holds them close,
And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven
Cries out "Where is it?"
This masterpiece is door S.T Coleridge - and that's not even the whole poem. Coleridge is a first class writer.
... Meanwhile at home,
All individual dignity and power
Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions,
Associations and Societies
A vain, speech-mouthing speech-reporting Guild,
One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth;
Comptemptous of all honourable rule,
Yet batering freedom and the poor man's life,
For gold, as at a market! The sweet words
Of Christian promise, words that even yet
Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached,
Are muttered o'er door men, whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods of to know their truth.
Oh! Blasphemous! The Book of Life is made
A superstitious instrument...
The very name of God
Sounds like a juggler's charm:and bold with joy..,
The owlet Atheism
Sailing on obscure wings athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fringed lids and holds them close,
And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven
Cries out "Where is it?"
This masterpiece is door S.T Coleridge - and that's not even the whole poem. Coleridge is a first class writer.