Love Will Find A Way — Mike Love
All I can see is your warm brown eyes meeting mine, sharing a look only the two of us understood. I search for you in each one of them and then I walk away because I can't ever seem to . Bright, blue eyes just cut through you to your core . He was now the only being I would ever endure in my frequent wanderings, and even his bright, soft hair hanging about his shoulders like one of Guido's angels; then his Oh, with what expression did those dark blue eyes of his meet mine!. Well, baby, I know. And these fingertips Will never run through your skin And those bright blue eyes Can only meet mine across the room filled.
One [ edit ] It wasn't money or love that I was looking for. I had a heightened sense of awareness, was set in my ways, impractical and a visionary to boot. My mind was strong like a trap and I didn't need any guarantee of validity. No doubt about it.
LOVE LOVE LOVE CHORDS (ver 3) by Of Monsters and Men @ jingle-bells.info
Could it be that I was being deceived? I don't think I had enough imagination to be deceived; had no false hope, either. I'd come from a long ways off and had started from a long ways down. But now destiny was about to manifest itself.
I felt like it was looking right at me and nobody else. The future was a solid wall, not promising, not threatening—all bunk. No guarantees of anything, not even the guarantee that life isn't one big joke. I had a feeling of destiny and I was riding the changes My consciousness was beginning to change, too, change and stretch.
Truth was that I wanted to get out of the rat race. Having children changed my life and segregated me from just about everybody and everything that was going on. Outside of my family, nothing held any real interest for me and I was seeing everything through different glasses. I'm in the bottomless pit of cultural oblivion. And sometimes you say things that have nothing to do with the truth of what you want to say and sometimes you say things that everyone knows to be true.
Then again, at the same time, you're thinking that the only truth on earth is that there is no truth on it. Whatever you are saying, you're saying in a ricky-tick way. There's never time to reflect.
On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain; And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. This canopy mark 'tis the work of a fay; Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, When lovely Titania was far, far away, And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish. There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened; The wondering spirits of heaven were mute, And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.
In this little dome, all those melodies strange, Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change; Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. So, when I am in a voluptuous vein, I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose. Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, I too have my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.
O come, dearest Emma! And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head There, beauteous Emma, I'll sit at thy feet, While my story of love I enraptured repeat. So fondly I'll breathe, and so softly I'll sigh, Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is nigh Yet no — as I breathe I will press thy fair knee, And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me. That mortal's a fool who such happiness misses; So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand, With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.
From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd They be of what is worthy, — though not drest In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark; These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I dine, Or thrice my palate moisten but when I mark Such charms with mild intelligences shine, My ear is open like a greedy shark, To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
Who can forget her half retiring sweets? Surely the All-seeing, Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, Will never give him pinions, who intreats Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats A dove-like bosom.
In truth there is no freeing One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear A lay that once I saw her hand awake, Her form seems floating palpable, and near; Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. To George Felton Mathew Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; Nor can remembrance, Mathew! The thought of this great partnership diffuses Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.
Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream; Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam; Or again witness what with thee I've seen, The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, After a night of some quaint jubilee Which every elf and fay had come to see When bright processions took their airy march Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch. But might I now each passing moment give To the coy muse, with me she would not live In this dark city, nor would condescend 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.
Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, Ah! There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy, To say " joy not too much in all that's bloomy. Yet this is vain — O Mathew lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid — Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton; And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.
With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell Of those who in the cause of freedom fell; Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace, High-minded and unbending William Wallace.
While to the rugged north our musing turns We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. I marvel much that thou hast never told How, from a flower, into a fish of gold Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream; And when thou first didst in that mirror trace The placid features of a human face That thou hast never told thy travels strange, And all the wonders of the mazy range O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands; Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands.
Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprize But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies; No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.
Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet, Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I'll gather some by spells, and incantation. Hadst thou liv'd in days of old Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, O what wonders had been told Of thy lively countenance, And thy humid eyes that dance In the midst of their own brightness; In the very fane of lightness.
Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, Picture out each lovely meaning In a dainty bend they lie, Like to streaks across the sky, Or the feathers from a crow, Fallen on a bed of snow.
Of thy dark hair that extends Into many graceful bends As the leaves of hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before.
And behind each ample curl Peeps the richness of a pearl. With a glossy waviness; Full, and round like globes that rise From the censer to the skies Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness Of thy honied voice; the neatness Of thine ankle lightly turn'd With those beauties, scarce discern'd, Kept with such sweet privacy, That they seldom meet the eye Of the little loves that fly Round about with eager pry.
Saving when, with freshening lave, Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; Like twin water lillies, born In the coolness of the morn. O, if thou hadst breathed then, Now the Muses had been ten.
Couldst thou wish for lineage higher Than twin sister of Thalia? At least for ever, evermore, Will I call the Graces four. Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry Lifted up her lance on high, Tell me what thou wouldst have been. I see the silver sheen Of thy broidered, floating vest Cov'ring half thine ivory breast; Which, O heavens! I should see; But that cruel destiny Has placed a golden cuirass there; Keeping secret what is fair. Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested Thy locks in knightly casque are rested O'er which bend four milky plumes Like the gentle lilly's blooms Springing from a costly vase.
See with what a stately pace Comes thine alabaster steed; O'er his loins, his trappings glow Like the northern lights on snow. Sign of the enchanter's death; Bane of every wicked spell; Silencer of dragon's yell.
I am as brisk I am as brisk As a bottle of wisk-k Ey and as nimble Give me women, wine, and snuff Give me women, wine and snuff You may do so sans objection Till the day of resurrection; For bless my beard they aye shall be My beloved trinity.
Specimen of an Induction to a Poem Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry; For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. Not like the formal crest of latter days But bending in a thousand graceful ways; So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Could charm them into such an attitude. We must think rather, that in playful mood, Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight, To show this wonder of its gentle might.
I must tell a tale of chivalry; For while I muse, the lance points slantingly Athwart the morning air: And from her own pure self no joy dissembling, Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.
Sometimes, when the good knight his rest would take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests.
Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, Leaps to the honors of a tournament, And makes the gazers round about the ring Stare at the grandeur of the ballancing? How sing the splendour of the revelries, When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees? And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield, Where ye may see a spur in bloody field?
Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces; Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens: Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry: Or wherefore comes that steed so proudly by? Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight Rein in the swelling of his ample might? Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh My daring steps: Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers; Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.
A Fragment Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake; His healthful spirit eager and awake To feel the beauty of a silent eve, Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave; The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.
He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, And smiles at the far clearness all around, Until his heart is well nigh over wound, And turns for calmness to the pleasant green Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean And show their blossoms trim. Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow, Delighting much, to see it half at rest, Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, The widening circles into nothing gone.
And now the sharp keel of his little boat Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, And glides into a bed of water lillies: Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.
Near to a little island's point they grew; Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore Went off in gentle windings to the hoar And light blue mountains: These, gentle Calidore Greeted, as he had known them long before.
The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress; Whence ever and anon the jay outsprings, And scales upon the beauty of its wings. The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn Its long lost grandeur: The little chapel with the cross above Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, That on the window spreads his feathers light, And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight. Green tufted islands casting their soft shades Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades, That through the dimness of their twilight show Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow Of the wild cat's eyes, or the silvery stems Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught A trumpet's silver voice.
Friends very dear to him he soon will see; So pushes off his boat most eagerly, And soon upon the lake he skims along, Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song; Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly: His spirit flies before him so completely. In short, the origin of black people with blue eyes is no different than the origin of any human's eye color, the deciding factor being genetics.
Research argues that, at one point in time far in the past, everyone on the planet had brown eyes. The first light-eyed human emerged only about 10, years ago, says Professor Hans Eiberg and his team of Danish scientists from the University of Copenhagen. In their studyEiberg and his team recruited blue-eyed men and women across different countries.
They studied the genes that coded blue eyes in all of these individuals. They were able to conclude that all blue-eyed people have the exact same DNA sequence to account for their blue eyes. They also found that this DNA sequence contains an ancient genetic mutation which presumably occurred 10, years ago around South-Eastern Europe. In other words, blue-eyed celebrities Matt Damon and Elijah Wood are your distant cousins if you have blue eyes.
Everyone with blue eyes is related in a distant way. Black people are affected by this genetic mutation in the same way any other human is, but because the mutation originated in Europe, it is rare to see a black baby born with blue eyes.
We will explore this concept more in the sections below.
The poems of John Keats
Another, but less common, reason why a black baby may be born with blue eyes is if it has ocular albinism or waardenburg syndrome. People with blue eyes are affected by a genetic mutation that turns off their ability to produce brown eyes. The mutation that gave rise to blue eyes altered the OCA2 gene, a gene that codes for the production of the brown pigment melanin in our eyes.
The result is very little melanin production in the iris of the eyes, and the low melanin concentration, being insufficient to produce brown eyes, produces blue eyes2. For 10, years, the blue-eye gene has been passed on from parents to offspring and has spread to different geographical regions.
A descendant often has blue eyes if he or she inherited the right set of genes from both parents, and it is believed that almost every blue-eyed person on earth today inherited the same mutation from the same source. A tiny fraction of blue eyes are caused by health conditions such as waardenburg syndrome and ocular albinism. These conditions are characterized by pigmentation problems, and can affect as many as six different genes responsible for eye color.
These health conditions impact the growth and development of pigment-producing cells, and can potentially lead to a much lower pigment concentration than in the case of the OCA2 mutation, producing brighter almost white blue eyes. Apart from pigmentation defect, waardenburg syndrome is associated with congenital hearing loss and heterochomria.
Ocular albinism, just like other forms of albinism, has been linked to severe ocular defects including high sensitivity to light and involuntary eye movements. Almost everyone in Africa and Asia has brown eyes.
In fact, brown eyes are the most commonly occurring eye color in the world.