你 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 由 men, whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods 或者 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 由 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 由 men, whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods 或者 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 由 S.T Coleridge - and that's not even the whole poem. Coleridge is a first class writer.