Ty al'Djinn
Last Activity:
Mar 30, 2020 at 9:04 PM
Jul 8, 2012
Likes Received:
May 19, 1990 (Age: 29)
The Garden State
Home Depot Supervisor. Full time student.

Ty al'Djinn

Mod for Life, Male, 29, from The Garden State

Gaidin Forum Moderator

"The wages of sin are death, but by the time taxes are taken out, it's just sort of a tired feeling." ~Paula Poundstone Jul 20, 2017

Ty al'Djinn was last seen:
Mar 30, 2020 at 9:04 PM
    1. Ty al'Djinn
      Ty al'Djinn
      "The wages of sin are death, but by the time taxes are taken out, it's just sort of a tired feeling." ~Paula Poundstone
    2. Mychael Ritoryn
      Mychael Ritoryn
      Happy birthday, Ty!! Hope it is wonderful and super enjoyable :D
    3. Ahmyra al'Ruley
      Ahmyra al'Ruley
      Happy birthday!!!!!
    4. Luna Morn
      Luna Morn
      Happy birthday, new Gaidin! :D
    5. Alora Sionn
      Alora Sionn
      Happy birthday!!! :dance :swordy :hug
    6. Aleyna Kay'merin
      Aleyna Kay'merin
      Why thank you Ty. It's certainly one of my favorites and that line in particular has been a mantra of strength for me for the past few years. I've got nothing else really worth highlighting in my signature, so I figured that wouldn't hurt anyone or anything. ;)
    7. Ty al'Djinn
      Ty al'Djinn
      That's perfectly alright, I understand!

      I hope you get it fixed soon.
    8. Roheryn ni Galghandhrei t'al'Djinn
      Roheryn ni Galghandhrei t'al'Djinn
      Hey, sorry about last night, our router hiccuped and never came back. Kicked everyone in the house off-line and wouldn't connect again.
      After fiddling with it today, we think it's kicked the bucket...
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  • About

    May 19, 1990 (Age: 29)
    The Garden State
    Home Depot Supervisor. Full time student.
    Gaidin of San d'ma Shadar
    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
    The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
    And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

    Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
    And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
    And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
    The moping owl does to the moon complain
    Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,
    Molest her ancient solitary reign.

    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
    Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
    Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
    The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

    The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
    The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
    The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
    No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

    For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
    Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
    No children run to lisp their sire's return,
    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

    Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
    How jocund did they drive their team afield!
    How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

    Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
    Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
    The short and simple annals of the poor.

    The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
    Awaits alike the inevitable hour.
    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

    Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault,
    If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
    Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
    The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

    Can storied urn or animated bust
    Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
    Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
    Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

    Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
    Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
    Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
    Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

    But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
    Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
    Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
    And froze the genial current of the soul.

    Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
    The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
    Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

    Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
    The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
    Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
    Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

    The applause of listening senates to command,
    The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
    To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
    And read their history in a nation's eyes,

    Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
    Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
    And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

    The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
    To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
    Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
    With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

    Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
    Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
    Along the cool sequestered vale of life
    They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

    Yet even these bones from insult to protect
    Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
    With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
    Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

    Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,
    The place of fame and elegy supply:
    And many a holy text around she strews,
    That teach the rustic moralist to die.

    For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
    This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
    Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
    Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

    On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
    Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
    Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
    Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

    For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead
    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
    If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
    Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

    Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
    'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
    'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
    'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

    There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
    His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

    Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
    Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,
    Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
    Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

    One morn I missed him on the customed hill,
    Along the heath and near his favourite tree;
    Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

    The next with dirges due in sad array
    Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
    Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay,
    Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

    The Epitaph

    Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
    A youth to fortune and to fame unknown.
    Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
    And Melancholy marked him for her own.

    Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
    Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
    He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
    He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

    No farther seek his merits to disclose,
    Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
    (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
    The bosom of his Father and his God.


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    "A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects." - Lazarus Long​