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Augustus Edwin John OM RA (4 January 1878 – 31 October 1961) was a Welsh painter, draughtsman, and etcher. For a time he was considered the most important artist at work in Britain: Virginia Woolf remarked that by 1908 the era of John Singer Sargent and Charles Wellington Furse "was over. The age of Augustus John was dawning."[1] He was the younger brother of the painter Gwen John.
Painting: Augustus The Mumpers, 1912
John Walker (18 March 1732, in Colney Hatch, Middlesex – 1 August 1807, in London) was an English stage actor, philologist and lexicographer.
22- he/him=John ?
Jack Sheppard (4 March 1702 – 16 November 1724), or "Honest Jack", was a notorious English thief and prison escapee of early 18th-century London. Born into a poor family, he was apprenticed as a carpenter but took to theft and burglary in 1723, with little more than a year of his training to complete
This time, Sheppard was placed in the Middle Stone Room, in the centre of Newgate next to the "Castle", where he could be observed at all times. He was also loaded with 300 pounds of iron weights. He was so celebrated that the gaolers charged high society visitors four shillings to see him, and the King's painter James Thornhill painted his portrait.
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Perhaps the most prominent play based on Sheppard's life is John Gay's The Beggar's Opera (1728).
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John Gay (30 June 1685 – 4 December 1732) was an English poet and dramatist and member of the Scriblerus Club. He is best remembered for The Beggar's Opera (1728)
An automaton (plural: automata or automatons) is a relatively self-operating machine, or control mechanism designed to automatically follow a sequence of operations, or respond to predetermined instructions.
Potsdam Day, also known as the Tag von Potsdam or Potsdam Celebration, was a ceremony for the re-opening of the Reichstag following the Reichstag fire, held on 21 March 1933, shortly after that month's German federal election.
La Belle Alliance is an inn situated a few miles south of Brussels in Belgium, chiefly remembered for its significance in the aftermath of the Battle of Waterloo (18 June 1815).
The Affair of the Diamond Necklace (French: Affaire du collier de la reine, "Affair of the Queen's Necklace") was an incident from 1784 to 1785 at the court of King Louis XVI of France that involved his wife, Queen Marie Antoinette.
A sensational trial resulted in the acquittal of the Cardinal, Leguay and Cagliostro on 31 May 1786
George Combe (21 October 1788 – 14 August 1858) was a trained Scottish lawyer and a spokesman of the phrenological movement for over 20 years. He founded the Edinburgh Phrenological Society in 1820 and wrote a noted study, The Constitution of Man (1828). After marriage in 1833, Combe took in later years to promoting phrenology internationally.
Thomas Gainsborough RA FRSA (14 May 1727 (baptised) – 2 August 1788) was an English portrait and landscape painter, draughtsman, and printmaker. Along with his rival Sir Joshua Reynolds,he is considered one of the most important British artists of the second half of the 18th century. He painted quickly, and the works of his maturity are characterised by a light palette and easy strokes. Despite being a prolific portrait painter, Gainsborough gained greater satisfaction from his landscapes. He is credited (with Richard Wilson) as the originator of the 18th-century British landscape school. Gainsborough was a founding member of the Royal Academy.
Hyacinth of Poland
Hyacinth as a Polish Dominican priest and missionary who worked to reform women's monasteries in his native Poland. He was a Doctor of Sacred Studies, educated in Paris and Bologna.
Hyacinth was canonized on 17 April 1594 by Pope Clement VIII, and his memorial day is celebrated on 17 August. In 1686 Pope Innocent XI named him a patron of Lithuania. He is the patron saint of those in danger of drowning.
Arthur Elphinstone, 6th Lord Balmerino[a] and 5th Lord Cupar (1688 – 18 August 1746) was a Scottish nobleman and Jacobite, or supporter of the claim of the exiled House of Stuart to the British throne.
He was found guilty, attainted and beheaded on the same day as the Earl of Kilmarnock.
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William Boyd, 4th Earl of Kilmarnock (12 May 1705 – 18 August 1746), was a Scottish peer who joined the 1745 Jacobite Rising, was captured at Culloden and subsequently executed for treason on Tower Hill.
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Guido Reni died 18 August 1642 in Bologna. Born in the same city on 4 November 1575, Reni became one of the leading figures of Italian Baroque painting.
Ruth (/ruːθ/; Hebrew: רוּת, Modern: Rūt, Tiberian: Rūṯ) is the person after whom the Book of Ruth is named. She was a Moabite woman who married an Israelite. After the death of all the male members of her family (her husband, her father-in-law, and her brother-in-law), she stays with her mother-in-law, Naomi, and moves to Judah with her, where Ruth wins the love and protection of a wealthy relative, Boaz, through her kindness.
Naomi (Classically /neɪˈoʊmaɪ, ˈneɪ.oʊmaɪ/,[1] colloquially /neɪˈoʊmi, ˈneɪ.oʊmi/; Hebrew: נָעֳמִי, Modern: Naʻomī, Tiberian: Nā‘omī) is Ruth's mother-in-law in the Hebrew Bible in the Book of Ruth. The etymology of her name is not certain, but it is possible that it means "good, pleasant, lovely, winsome."
The Old Testament Gleaning Law in Action
We can read in the Book of Ruth how this law was able to support those who had been widowed in Ruth 2:1-2 “Naomi had a relative of her husband’s, a worthy man of the clan of Elimelech, whose name was Boaz. And Ruth the Moabite said to Naomi, “Let me go to the field and glean among the ears of grain after him in whose sight I shall find favor.” And she said to her, “Go, my daughter.” Since Ruth was a Moabite, she would have been allowed to glean parts of the leftover harvest since she was also a sojourner or stranger (Deut 24:19-22). So Ruth “set out and went and gleaned in the field after the reapers, and she happened to come to the part of the field belonging to Boaz, who was of the clan of Elimelech. And behold, Boaz came from Bethlehem. And he said to the reapers, “The Lord be with you!” And they answered, “The Lord bless you” (Ruth 2:2-4). Boaz noticed this young woman and asked who she was (Ruth 2:5) and Boaz’ servant said “She is the young Moabite woman, who came back with Naomi from the country of Moab. She said, ‘Please let me glean and gather among the sheaves after the reapers.’ So she came, and she has continued from early morning until now, except for a short rest” (Ruth 2:6-7). Boaz made sure she had more than enough and so “Boaz instructed his young men, saying, “Let her glean even among the sheaves, and do not reproach her. And also pull out some from the bundles for her and leave it for her to glean, and do not rebuke her” (Ruth 2:15-16).
The Banks O' Doon
Third Version
1791
Type: Poem
Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o' care!
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Aft hae I rov'd by Bonie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine:
And ilka bird sang o' its Luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine;
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!
And may fause Luver staw my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.
Noo soul did hear her lips complaïn,
An’ she’s a-gone vrom all her païn,
An’ others’ loss to her is gaïn
For she do live in heaven’s love;
Vull many a longsome day an’ week
She bore her aïlèn, still, an’ meek;
A-workèn while her strangth held on,
An’ guidèn housework, when ’twer gone.
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
Oh! there be souls to murn.
The last time I’d a-cast my zight
Upon her feäce, a-feäded white,
Wer in a zummer’s mornèn light
In hall avore the smwold’rèn vier,
The while the childern beät the vloor,
In plaÿ, wi’ tiny shoes they wore,
An’ call’d their mother’s eyes to view
The feät’s their little limbs could do.
Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
They childern now mus’ murn.
Then woone, a-stoppèn vrom his reäce,
Went up, an’ on her knee did pleäce
His hand, a-lookèn in her feäce,
An’ wi’ a smilèn mouth so small,
He zaid, “You promised us to goo
To Shroton feäir, an’ teäke us two!”
She heärd it wi’ her two white ears,
An’ in her eyes there sprung two tears,
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
Did veel that they mus’ murn.
September come, wi’ Shroton feäir,
But Ellen Brine wer never there!
A heavy heart wer on the meäre
Their father rod his hwomeward road.
’Tis true he brought zome feärèns back,
Vor them two childern all in black;
But they had now, wi’ plaÿthings new,
Noo mother vor to shew em to,
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
Would never mwore return.
IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.
[Arthur Hugh Hallam]
OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII.
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
.....
XC.
He tasted love with half his mind,
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling
This bitter seed among mankind;
That could the dead, whose dying eyes
Were closed with wail, resume their life,
They would but find in child and wife
An iron welcome when they rise:
'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine,
To pledge them with a kindly tear,
To talk them o'er, to wish them here,
To count their memories half divine;
....
Lady Clara Vere de Vere
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)
LADY Clara Vere de Vere,
Of me you shall not win renown:
You thought to break a country heart
For pastime, ere you went to town.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
I saw the snare, and I retired:
The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desired.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
I know you proud to bear your name,
Your pride is yet no mate for mine,
Too proud to care from whence I came.
Nor would I break for your sweet sake
A heart that dotes on truer charms.
A simple maiden in her flower
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
Some meeker pupil you must find,
For were you queen of all that is,
I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply.
The lion on your old stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
You put strange memories in my head.
Not thrice your branching limes have blown
Since I beheld young Laurence dead.
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies:
A great enchantress you may be;
But there was that across his throat
Which you had hardly cared to see.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
When thus he met his mother’s view,
She had the passions of her kind,
She spake some certain truths of you.
Indeed I heard one bitter word
That scarce is fit for you to hear;
Her manners had not that repose
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
There stands a spectre in your hall:
The guilt of blood is at your door:
You changed a wholesome heart to gall.
You held your course without remorse,
To make him trust his modest worth,
And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,
And slew him with your noble birth.
Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From yon blue heavens above us bent,
The gardener Adam and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent.
Howe’er it be, it seems to me,
’Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
I know you, Clara Vere de Vere;
You pine among your halls and towers:
The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,
You needs must play such pranks as these.
Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,
If Time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate,
Nor any poor about your lands?
Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,
Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,
Pray Heaven for a human heart,
And let the foolish yeoman go.
QUOTE: I Heard No Longer The Snowy-banded, Dilettante, Delicate-handed Priest Intone.
Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson
Ulysses by ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
...
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
60- No more by thee my steps shall be for ever and for ever.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
A Farewell
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver;
No more by thee my steps shall be,
Forever and forever.
Flow, softly flow by lawn and lea,
A rivulet then a river;
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,
Forever and forever.
But here will sigh thine alder tree
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
Forever and forever.
A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
Forever and forever.
Children
Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
Children
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,--
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
93- Anyway their hour had come and was now over
The Children's Hour
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - 1807-1882
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
Daniel Defoe (/dɪˈfoʊ/; born Daniel Foe; c. 1660 – 24 April 1731) was an English writer, trader, journalist, pamphleteer and spy. He is most famous for his novel Robinson Crusoe, published in 1719, which is claimed to be second only to the Bible in its number of translations
The last word of Journal of the Plague Year is ‘alive’:
A dreadful plague in London was
In the year sixty-five,
Which swept an hundred thousand souls
Away; yet I alive!
H. F.
2- And again they continued this wretched course three or four days: but they were every one of them carried into the great pit before it was quite filled up.
Title: A Journal of the Plague Year
Author: Daniel Defoe
They continued this wretched course three or four days after this, continually mocking and jeering at all that showed themselves religious or serious, or that were any way touched with the sense of the terrible judgement of God upon us; and I was informed they flouted in the same manner at the good people who, notwithstanding the contagion, met at the church, fasted, and prayed to God to remove His hand from them.
I say, they continued this dreadful course three or four days—I think it was no more—when one of them, particularly he who asked the poor gentleman what he did out of his grave, was struck from Heaven with the plague, and died in a most deplorable manner; and, in a word, they were every one of them carried into the great pit which I have mentioned above, before it was quite filled up, which was not above a fortnight or thereabout.
.......
I went all the first part of the time freely about the streets, though not so freely as to run myself into apparent danger, except when they dug the great pit in the churchyard of our parish of Aldgate. A terrible pit it was, and I could not resist my curiosity to go and see it. As near as I may judge, it was about forty feet in length, and about fifteen or sixteen feet broad, and at the time I first looked at it, about nine feet deep; but it was said they dug it near twenty feet deep afterwards in one part of it, till they could go no deeper for the water; for they had, it seems, dug several large pits before this. For though the plague was long a-coming to our parish, yet, when it did come, there was no parish in or about London where it raged with such violence as in the two parishes of Aldgate and Whitechappel.
I say they had dug several pits in another ground, when the distemper began to spread in our parish, and especially when the dead-carts began to go about, which was not, in our parish, till the beginning of August. Into these pits they had put perhaps fifty or sixty bodies each; then they made larger holes wherein they buried all that the cart brought in a week, which, by the middle to the end of August, came to from 200 to 400 a week; and they could not well dig them larger, because of the order of the magistrates confining them to leave no bodies within six feet of the surface; and the water coming on at about seventeen or eighteen feet, they could not well, I say, put more in one pit. But now, at the beginning of September, the plague raging in a dreadful manner, and the number of burials in our parish increasing to more than was ever buried in any parish about London of no larger extent, they ordered this dreadful gulf to be dug—for such it was, rather than a pit.
Francis Thompson (16 December 1859 – 13 November 1907) was an English poet and Catholic mystic. At the behest of his father, a doctor, he entered medical school at the age of 18, but at 26 left home to pursue his talent as a writer and poet. He spent three years on the streets of London, supporting himself with menial labour, becoming addicted to opium which he took to relieve a nervous problem.
In 1888 Wilfrid and Alice Meynell read his poetry and took the opium-addicted and homeless writer into their home for a time, later publishing his first volume, Poems, in 1893. In 1897, he began writing prose, drawing inspiration from life in the countryside, Wales and Storrington. His health, always fragile, continued to deteriorate and he died of tuberculosis in 1907. By that time he had published three books of poetry, along with other works and essays.
An Anthem Of Earth
by Francis Thompson
.....
The cumbered gutters of humanity;
Nothing, of nothing king, with front uncrowned,
Whose hand holds crownets; playmate swart o' the strong;
Tenebrous moon that flux and refluence draws
Of the high-tided man; skull-hous-ed asp
That stings the heel of kings; true Fount of Youth,
Where he that dips is deathless; being's drone-pipe;
Whose nostril turns to blight the shrivelled stars,
And thicks the lusty breathing of the sun;
Pontifical Death, that doth the crevasse bridge
To the steep and trifid God; one mortal birth
That broker is of immortality.
Under this dreadful brother uterine,
This kinsman feared, Tellus, behold me come,
Thy son stern-nursed; who mortal-motherlike,
To turn thy weanlings' mouth averse, embitter'st
Thine over-childed breast. Now, mortal-sonlike,
I thou hast suckled, Mother, I at last
Shall sustenant be to thee. Here I untrammel,
Here I pluck loose the body's cerementing,
And break the tomb of life; here I shake off
The bur o' the world, man's congregation shun,
And to the antique order of the dead
I take the tongueless vows: my cell is set
Here in thy bosom; my little trouble is ended
In a little peace.
Dream-Tryst
Francis Thompson (1859–1907)
THE BREATHS of kissing night and day
Were mingled in the eastern Heaven:
Throbbing with unheard melody
Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven:
When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy,
And dawn’s gray eyes were troubled gray;
And souls went palely up the sky,
And mine to Lucidé.
There was no change in her sweet eyes
Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;
There was no change in her deep heart
Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope’s,
Wherein did ever come and go
The sparkle of the fountain-drops
From her sweet soul below.
The chambers in the house of dreams
Are fed with so divine an air
That Time’s hoar wings grow young therein,
And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her,
Who with the Past meet girt about:
Where our last kiss still warms the air,
Nor can her eyes go out.
110 TYPHOON
Dr. Tokeramo, the last crime on this earth
will be when some one drops a bomb amongst
a group of vivisectors. He will have exploded
Hell. Then we'll all dance together men,
women, dogs and cats all kick up our heels
together on the day of the last Bastille. . . .
Tokeramo, I'll tell you a joke the best joke
you have ever heard. It's flashed upon me
these last few nights. I, Charles Victor Hugo
Renard-Beinsky, half Pole, half Frenchman,
drunken mongrel, lazy waster, and the rest of it I am a Christian ! Rather a damaged specimen, but I am one of Christ's Christians according to the gospel of St. Tolstoi. I love all nations ;
Typhoon is a short novel by Joseph Conrad, begun in 1899 and serialized in Pall Mall Magazine in January–March 1902. Its first book publication was in New York by Putnam in 1902; it was also published in Britain in Typhoon and Other Stories by Heinemann in 1903.
Captain MacWhirr sails the SS Nan-Shan, a British-built steamer running under the Siamese flag, into a typhoon—a mature tropical cyclone of the northwestern part of the Pacific Ocean. Other characters include the young Jukes - most probably an alter ego of Conrad from the time he had sailed under captain John McWhirr - and Solomon Rout, the chief engineer. While Macwhirr, who, according to Conrad, "never walked on this Earth" - is emotionally estranged from his family and crew, and though he refuses to consider an alternative course to skirt the typhoon, his indomitable will in the face of a superior natural force elicits grudging admiration.
Alexander Pope (21 May 1688 – 30 May 1744) was an English poet, translator, and satirist of the Augustan period and one of its greatest artistic exponents.Considered the foremost English poet of the early 18th century and a master of the heroic couplet, he is best known for satirical and discursive poetry, including The Rape of the Lock, The Dunciad, and An Essay on Criticism, and for his translation of Homer. After Shakespeare, he is the second-most quoted author in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, some of his verses having entered common parlance (e.g. "damning with faint praise" or "to err is human; to forgive, divine").
A Tragic Tale of a Lightning Romance of John Hewit and Sarah Drew as told by England's greatest poet - Alexander Pope
On the 31st of July 1718, John Hewit and Sarah Drew were working in a farm field near the village of Stanton Harcourt in Oxfordshire Cotswolds.
They were rustic lovers; he about twenty-five years of age, and she an attractive maiden a little younger. They were betrothed, and had, on that very morning, obtained the consent of the parents on both sides to their marriage, which was to take place on the following week. The poet, Alexander Pope, was a guest at Stanton Harcourt Manor (in the tower) at the time; and he recorded the tragic incident of the day in the following words:
"Between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, the clouds grew black, and such a storm of thunder and lightning ensued that all the labourers made the best of their way to what shelter the trees and hedges afforded.
Sarah was frightened, and fell down in a swoon on a heap of barley; John, who never separated from her, having raked together two or three heaps the better to secure her from the storm. Immediately after was heard so loud a crash as if the heavens had split asunder.
Every one was now solicitous for his neighbour, and they called to one another throughout the field. No answer being returned to those who called to the lovers, they stepped to the place where they lay. They perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then spied the faithful pair; John with one arm about Sarah’s neck, and the other held over her, as if to screen her from the lightning.
They were struck dead, and stiffened in this tender posture. Sarah’s left eye was injured, and there appeared a black spot on her breast. Her lover was blackened all over; not the least sign of life was found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, they were conveyed to the town, and next day were interred in Stanton Harcourt churchyard."
Thomas Hardy OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. A Victorian realist in the tradition of George Eliot, he was influenced both in his novels and in his poetry by Romanticism, including the poetry of William Wordsworth. He was highly critical of much in Victorian society, especially on the declining status of rural people in Britain, such as those from his native South West England.
While Hardy wrote poetry throughout his life and regarded himself primarily as a poet, his first collection was not published until 1898. Initially, he gained fame as the author of novels such as Far from the Madding Crowd (1874), The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886), Tess of the d'Urbervilles (1891), and Jude the Obscure (1895). During his lifetime, Hardy's poetry was acclaimed by younger poets (particularly the Georgians) who viewed him as a mentor. After his death his poems were lauded by Ezra Pound, W. H. Auden and Philip Larkin.
Many of his novels concern tragic characters struggling against their passions and social circumstances, and they are often set in the semi-fictional region of Wessex; initially based on the medieval Anglo-Saxon kingdom, Hardy's Wessex eventually came to include the counties of Dorset, Wiltshire, Somerset, Devon, Hampshire and much of Berkshire, in southwest and south central England. Two of his novels, Tess of the d'Urbervilles and Far from the Madding Crowd, were listed in the top 50 on the BBC's survey The Big Read.
“Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave,” Thomas Hardy Critical Analysis
“Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave,” is a poem written by Thomas Hardy. The central
theme of this poem is death, which is also seen in several different forms throughout
the works of Thomas Hardy. There is a great deal of disappointment expressed in this poem. The Oxford Reader’s Companion to Hardy deems it, “a satire of circumstance” (Page 378). Thus, death and the afterlife are things of tragedy in this particular work. The point that Hardy makes is that no love or hate outlasts death. An important aspect to the poem’s structure is that it is written sequentially in order to prepare the reader for an unsettling ending. Hardy takes us on a downward spiral through, as The Pattern of Hardy’s Poetry puts it, a “series of steps from appearance to reality” (Hynes 53). The dead woman believes that someone she loved is there at her grave. This, however, she finds out is untrue through a devastating sequence of disappointments. The woman originally suspects that the person at her grave is her husband, but sadly it is not. In reality, her husband is off with his new love, and feels that since she is dead it, “cannot hurt her now” (p.48; l.5). Consequently, the woman guesses again, thinking this time it is her closest of kin. She is, yet again, disappointed. She finds out that they do not care to think of her anymore. This feeling of neglect is seen in the line, “What good will planting flowers produce?” (p.48; l.10). In other words, the family of the woman would rather not think of her than hurt themselves by doing so. Their reason for not going to see her is that nothing can bring her back from, “Death’s gin” (p.48; l.12). At this point, Hardy has still not revealed the digger’s identity. He continues to do this, according to A Critical Introduction to the Poems of Thomas Hardy, to show that, “the eager hopefulness of the dead woman is mercilessly quenched” (Johnson 138). Next, we come upon a slightly different subject. In the third stanza, the woman sees now that not only has she been forgotten by her most beloved, but also by her worst enemy. She is told that her enemy, “cares not where you lie” (p.48; l.18). Similarly, as with her loved ones, her enemy simply thinks the woman no more worth her time to worry about. In the next stanza, the woman has exhausted all of the possibilities, so she gives up and asks who is there. She now finds out that it is her dog. Hardy himself loved animals and it is not a surprise that he would use a dog as the digger. As seen in Victorian Poetry, Hardy, “always championed kindness to animals” (9: 465). He, however, creates a surprising twist, at the end of the poem. Earlier on, in the fifth stanza, the woman praises the noble dog, stating how no human can rival, “A dog’s fidelity” (p.49; l.12). In the last stanza of this rather depressing poem, comes the final blow to the woman. The dog has not remembered her either and has, in fact, mistakenly trodden upon her grave. In the words of The Pattern of Hardy’s Poetry, the dog believes that her grave is, “a place to bury bones, not affections” (Hynes 53). So, even her faithful dog does not care to remember her. “Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave,” is a very tragic and sad poem. It is written in Victorian Studies that, “Hardy recognized that personal relations provide no sure refuge from tragic experience” (36: 176). This plainly means that, as far as death is concerned, few are truly remembered, if any, after they are dead and gone. The most important parts of the woman’s life were, indeed, the people that she knew. From her husband and her
Henry King (1592 – 30 September 1669) was an English poet who served as Bishop of Chichester.
HENRY KING, BISHOP OF CHICHESTER
A Renunciation
WE, that did nothing study but the way
To love each other, with which thoughts the day
Rose with delight to us and with them set,
Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.
We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give
Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live
Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must,
As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.
Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,
Witness the chaste desires that never brake
Into unruly heats; witness that breast
Which in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest—
'Tis no default in us: I dare acquite
Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white
As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy
Us to each other, and Heaven did untie
Faster than vows could bind. Oh, that the stars,
When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars!
Since then some higher Destinies command,
Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand
What is past help. The longest date of grief
Can never yield a hope of our relief:
Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves,
That must new fortunes try, like turtle-doves
Dislodged from their haunts. We must in tears
Unwind a love knit up in many years.
In this last kiss I here surrender thee
Back to thyself.—So, thou again art free:
Thou in another, sad as that, resend
The truest heart that lover e'er did lend.
Now turn from each: so fare our sever'd hearts
As the divorced soul from her body parts.
They are all Gone into the World of Light
BY HENRY VAUGHAN
They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling’ring here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
After the sun’s remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy Hope! and high Humility,
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have show’d them me
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest, may know
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes
And into glory peep.
If a star were confin’d into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lock’d her up, gives room,
She’ll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass,
Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.
Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H.
BY BEN JONSON
Wouldst thou hear what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die;
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
Th' other let it sleep with death:
Fitter, where it died to tell,
Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.
Oscar Wilde: I wish I had said that.
James McNeill Whistler: You will, Oscar, you will.
(they were friends)
-----------------
James Abbott McNeill Whistler (July 11, 1834 – July 17, 1903) was an American painter active during the American Gilded Age and based primarily in the United Kingdom. He eschewed sentimentality and moral allusion in painting and was a leading proponent of the credo "art for art's sake". His signature for his paintings took the shape of a stylized butterfly possessing a long stinger for a tail.
Poems by Oscar Wilde
Requiescat
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
Oscar Wilde: The Importance of Being Earnest
2. SECOND ACT (continued)
CHASUBLE. With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far as the schools and back.
MISS PRISM. That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your Political Economy in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic problems have their melodramatic side.
[Goes down the garden with DR. CHASUBLE.]
CECILY. [Picks up books and throws them back on table.]
Horrid Political Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!
[Enter MERRIMAN with a card on a salver.]
MERRIMAN. Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He has brought his luggage with him.
CECILY. [Takes the card and reads it.] 'Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany, W.' Uncle Jack's brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town?
MERRIMAN. Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that you and Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you privately for a moment.
CECILY. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to the housekeeper about a room for him.
MERRIMAN. Yes, Miss.
[MERRIMAN goes off.]
CECILY. I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.
[Enter ALGERNON, very gay and debonnair.] He does!
ALGERNON. [Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I'm sure.
CECILY. You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact, I believe I am more than usually tall for my age.
[ALGERNON is rather taken aback.]
But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card, are Uncle Jack's brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.
The green river
I know a green grass path that leaves the field,
And like a running river, winds along
Into a leafy wood where is no throng
Of birds at noon-day, and no soft throats yield
Their music to the moon. The place is sealed,
An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,
And all the unravished silences belong
To some sweet singer lost or unrevealed.
So is my soul become a silent place.
Oh, may I wake from this uneasy night
To find a voice of music manifold.
Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,
Or Love that swoons on sleep, or else delight
That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.
May's Reading group: Leave It To Psmith by PG Wodehouse
"At the open window of the great library of Blandings Castle, drooping like a wet sock, as was his habit when he had nothing to prop his spine against, the Earl of Emsworth, that amiable and boneheaded peer, stood gazing out over his domain."
Luís Vaz de Camões
sometimes rendered in English as Camoens or Camoëns, is considered Portugal's and the Portuguese language's greatest poet. His mastery of verse has been compared to that of Shakespeare, Vondel, Homer, Virgil and Dante. He wrote a considerable amount of lyrical poetry and drama but is best remembered for his epic work Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads). His collection of poetry The Parnasum of Luís de Camões was lost during his life. The influence of his masterpiece Os Lusíadas is so profound that Portuguese is sometimes called the "language of Camões".
Gilbert Keith Chesterton (29 May 1874 – 14 June 1936) was an English writer,philosopher, lay theologian, and literary and art critic. He has been referred to as the "prince of paradox".Time magazine observed of his writing style: "Whenever possible Chesterton made his points with popular sayings, proverbs, allegories—first carefully turning them inside out."
Mary Roberts Rinehart (August 12, 1876 – September 22, 1958) was an American writer, often called the American Agatha Christie. Rinehart published her first mystery novel The Circular Staircase in 1908, which introduced the "had I but known" narrative style. Rinehart is also considered the source of "the butler did it" plot device in her novel The Door (1930), although the exact phrase does not appear in her work.
Edward Phillips Oppenheim (Londen, 22 oktober 1866 - 3 februari 1946) was een Engels prozaschrijver wiens werk, met name tijdens zijn leven, een grote populariteit kende. Hij was een veelschrijver en vervaardigde meer dan 100 romans en talloze korte verhalen
Dr. Richard Austin Freeman MRCS LSA (11 April 1862 – 28 September 1943) was a British writer of detective stories, mostly featuring the medico-legal forensic investigator Dr. Thorndyke.
Many of the Dr. Thorndyke stories involve genuine, but sometimes arcane, points of scientific knowledge, from areas such as tropical medicine, metallurgy and toxicology.
He was living at 94, Windmill Street, Gravesend, Kent when he died on 28 September 1943.
Walter Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892) was an American poet, essayist and journalist.
A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential pots in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was controversial in its time, particularly his 1855 poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sensuality. Whitman's owne life came under scrunity for his presumed homosexuality.
Song of Myself, 7
Walt Whitman - 1819-1892
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.
86- What is removed drops horribly in a pail.
Song of Myself, 15
Walt Whitman - 1819-1892
The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,
The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,
The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other,
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain,
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,
The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne her first child,
The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill,
The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead flies swiftly over the notebook, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold,
The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,
The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,
The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,
The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the white sails sparkle!)
The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,
The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the odd cent;)
The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly,
The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips,
The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck,
The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other,
(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)
The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries,
On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms,
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,
The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,
As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change,
The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar,
In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;
Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!)
Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface,
The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe,
Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees,
Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas,
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grand-sons around them,
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport,
The city sleeps and the country sleeps,
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,
The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;
And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
Lovely and Soothing Death
Another poem which provided the inspiration for Hannah Frank’s work ‘Come Lovely and Soothing Death’ is this poem by Walt Whitman.
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.
Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,
51- I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers. The echoes ring with our indecent calls, I pick out some low person for my dearest friend.
NATIVE MOMENTS.
NATIVE moments! when you come upon me—Ah you
are here now!
Give me now libidinous joys only!
Give me the drench of my passions! Give me life
coarse and rank!
To-day, I go consort with nature's darlings—to-night too;
I am for those who believe in loose delights—I share
the midnight orgies of young men;
I dance with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers;
The echoes ring with our indecent calls;
I take for my love some prostitute—I pick out some
low person for my dearest friend,
He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate—he shall be one
condemn'd by others for deeds done;
I will play a part no longer—Why should I exile my-
self from my companions?
O you shunn'd persons! I at least do not shun you,
I come forthwith in your midst—I will be your poet,
I will be more to you than to any of the rest.
Song of the Open Road
BY WALT WHITMAN
1
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
To Think of Time
Walt Whitman - 1819-1892
1
To think of time—of all that retrospection!
To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward!
Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue?
Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?
Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you?
Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing?
If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing.
To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women
were flexible, real, alive! that everything was alive!
To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our
part!
To think that we are now here, and bear our part!
2
....
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, a staff cut from the woods
by Walt Whitman
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
3- O my mother was loath to have her go away, all the week she thought of her, she watched for her many a month.
THE SLEEPERS.
by walt whitman
....
6
Now what my mother told me one day as we sat at dinner
together,
Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parents
on the old homestead.
A red squaw came one breakfast-time to the old homestead,
On her back she carried a bundle of rushes for rush-bottoming
chairs,
Her hair, straight, shiny, coarse, black, profuse, half-envelop'd her
face,
Her step was free and elastic, and her voice sounded exquisitely
as she spoke.
My mother look'd in delight and amazement at the stranger,
She look'd at the freshness of her tall-borne face and full and
pliant limbs,
The more she look'd upon her she loved her,
Never before had she seen such wonderful beauty and purity,
She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace, she
cook'd food for her,
She had no work to give her, but she gave her remembrance and
fondness.
The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle of
the afternoon she went away,
O my mother was loth to have her go away,
All the week she thought of her, she watch'd for her many a
month,
She remember'd her many a winter and many a summer,
But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there again.
The sedulous ape perspective, artfully written in 1887 by Robert Louis Stevenson in an article published in A College Magazine,
Stevenson occasionally critiqued himself along these same lines, claiming that as a writer he was merely "a sedulous ape" who did no more than mimic the styles of the writers who came before him.
Robert Louis Stevenson
poem: Henry James
From Underwoods
Who comes to-night? We open the doors in vain.
Who comes? My bursting walls, can you contain
The presences that now together throng
Your narrow entry, as with flowers and song,
As with the air of life, the breath of talk?
Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk
Behind their jacund maker; and we see
Slighted De Mauves, and that far different she,
Gressie, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast
Daisy and Barb and Chancellor (she not least!)
With all their silken, all their airy kin,
Do like unbidden angels enter in.
But he, attended by these shining names,
Comes (best of all) himself -- our welcome James.
30- We uncommiserate pass into the night from the loud banquet. Sorry.
Robert Louis Stevenson
Poem: "We Uncommiserate Pass Into..."
From Songs of Travel
We uncommiserate pass into the night
From the loud banquet, and departing leave
A tremor in men's memories, faint and sweet
And frail as music. Features of our face,
The tones of the voice, the touch of the loved hand,
Perish and vanish, one by one, from earth:
Meanwhile, in the hall of song, the multitude
Applauds the new performer. One, perchance,
One ultimate survivor lingers on,
And smiles, and to his ancient heart recalls
The long forgotten. Ere the morrow die,
He too, returning, through the curtain comes,
And the new age forgets us and goes on.
TUSITALA = story-teller.
It is a word in the Samoan language which means 'writer of stories'.
Tusitala was the name used by the Samoan people for Robert Louis Stevenson, who lived the last four years of his life in Samoa and is buried on Mount Vaea.
The Whaups
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–94)
To S. R. C.
“BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!
“Gray, recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant, red-wine moor,
Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races
And winds austere and pure!
“Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and I hear again the call
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the pee-wees crying, And hear no more at all.”
...
II
"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with His dew
On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue
Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat
Were now raging to torture the desert!"
III
Then I, as was meet,
...
HASSAN'S SERENADE
by: James Elroy Flecker (1884-1919)
OW splendid in the morning glows
the lily; with what grace he throws
His supplication to the rose:
do roses nod the head, Yasmin?
But when the silver dove descends
I find the little flower of friends
Whose very name that sweetly ends
I say when I have said, 'Yasmin'.
The morning light is clear and cold,
I dare not in that light behold
A deeper light, a deeper gold
a glory too far shed, Yasmin.
But when the deep red eye of day
is level with the lone highway,
And some to Mecca turn to pray,
and I toward thy bed, Yasmin,
Or when the wind beneath the moon
is dazzling like a soul aswoon,
And harping planets talk love's tune
with milky wings outspread, Yasmin,
Shine down thy love, O burning bright!
for one night or the other night
Will come the Gardener in white,
and gather'd flowers are dead, Yasmin!
Admiral Death Poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
Boys, are ye calling a toast to-night?
(Hear what the sea-wind saith)
Fill for a bumper strong and bright,
And here's to Admiral Death!
He's sailed in a hundred builds o' boat,
He's fought in a thousand kinds o' coat,
He's the senior flag of all that float,
And his name's Admiral Death!
-------------------------------------------------------
HAMLET, Shakespeare
Heaven make thee free of it. I follow thee.—
I am dead, Horatio.—Wretched queen, adieu!—
You that look pale and tremble at this chance,
That are but mutes or audience to this act,
Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death,
Is strict in his arrest), O, I could tell you—
But let it be.—Horatio, I am dead.
Thou livest. Report me and my cause aright
To the unsatisfied.
Death/De'Ath
The Life of King Henry the Fifth. Shakespeare | Henry V | Act 2, Scene 3
SCENE III. London. Before a tavern.
Enter PISTOL, Hostess, NYM, BARDOLPH, and Boy
Hostess
Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.
PISTOL
No; for my manly heart doth yearn.
Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins:
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
And we must yearn therefore.
BARDOLPH
Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in
heaven or in hell!
HostessNay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in Arthur's
bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. A' made
a finer end and went away an it had been any
christom child; a' parted even just between twelve
and one, even at the turning o' the tide: for after
I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with
flowers and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew
there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as
a pen, and a' babbled of green fields. 'How now,
sir John!' quoth I 'what, man! be o' good
cheer.' So a' cried out 'God, God, God!' three or
four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a'
should not think of God; I hoped there was no need
to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So
a' bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my
hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as
cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and
they were as cold as any stone, and so upward and
upward, and all was as cold as any stone.
About Henry Or John?
William Shakespeare wrote in his last will and testament, dated March 25, 1616, “Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed with the furniture” (furniture is used to refer to the curtains and bedcover which formed part of the complete bed).
This was not an unusual bequest, nor was it likely to have been intended as a snub. The best bed was usually regarded as an heirloom piece, to be passed to the heir rather than the spouse. It is also probable that the best bed would have been reserved for guests, meaning the “second best” was the bed that William and Anne shared.
A side-by-side translation of Act 4, Scene 5 of Troilus and Cressida from the original Shakespeare
ACHILLES
I’ll take that winter from your lips, fair lady.
Achilles bids you welcome.
He kisses her.
Venerable: accorded a great deal of respect, especially because of age, wisdom, or character.
6- Electric febrifuge may be ; but bad for life’s fitful fever.
The Tragedy of Macbeth
Shakespeare | Macbeth | Act 3, Scene 2
...
MACBETH
We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it:
She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the
worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams
That shake us nightly: better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.
...
by Arthur Conan Doyle (Edinburgh, 22 mei 1859 – Crowborough (Sussex), 7 juli 1930)
6- I used to of course to have nightmares of the Speckled Band, and awfully scream down the house.
93- Had not the singer of Wimpole Street said that they were binding up their hearts away from breaking with a cerement of the grave?
The Barretts of Wimpole Street is a 1930 play by the Dutch/English dramatist Rudolf Besier, based on the romance between Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett, and her father's unwillingness to allow them to marry.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
The Cry of the Children
...
Alas, the wretched children ! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have !
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city —
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do —
Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through !
But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine ?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!
....
Home-Thoughts, from Abroad
Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
It symbolises springtime
In a Gondola
Robert Browning (1812–89)
...
she replies, musing
Dip your arm o’er the boat side, elbow-deep,
As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,
Caught this way? Death ’s to fear from flame or steel,
Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel!
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!
Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon grass
To plait in where the foolish jewel was,
I flung away: since you have prais’d my hair,
’T is proper to be choice in what I wear.
...
Pippa Passes is a verse drama by Robert Browning. It was first published in 1841 as the first volume of his Bells and Pomegranates series, in a low-priced two-column edition for sixpence, and next republished in his collected Poems of 1848, where it received much more critical attention.
5- Evelyn Hope was dead
I.
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass;
Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.
II.
Sixteen years old, when she died!
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;
It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,---
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
III.
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew---
And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside?
IV.
No, indeed! for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn, much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.
V.
But the time will come,---at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red---
And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one's stead.
VI.
I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!
VII.
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while.
My heart seemed full as it could hold?
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.
So, hush,---I will give you this leaf to keep:
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
You will wake, and remember, and understand.
5- I always used Bisto myself, and anyway ... It was really the way he took it for granted that I would rather hear him talking about Cerebos and Cerebos and Cerebos or something than to attend to poor Henry that irritated me beyond endurance.
Caliban upon Setebos
"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself."
(David, Psalms 50.21)
['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire,
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin.
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,
And feels about his spine small eft-things course,
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh:
And while above his head a pompion-plant,
Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,
Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard,
And now a flower drops with a bee inside,
And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,—
He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross
And recross till they weave a spider-web
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times)
And talks to his own self, howe'er he please,
Touching that other, whom his dam called God.
Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha,
Could He but know! and time to vex is now,
When talk is safer than in winter-time.
Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep
In confidence he drudges at their task,
And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe,
Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.]
Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!
'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon.
-------------------------------
The Cerebos salt company invented 'Bisto' gravy powder product (a mixture of salt, flavourings and colourings), at its salt factory in Middlewich, Cheshire in the United Kingdom. It was acquired by RHM in 1968, which later sold its stake in Cerebos South Africa in the 1980s and Cerebos Pacific to Suntory in 1990.
A Toccata of Galuppi's
I
Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;
But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!
II
Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.
What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,
Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?
III
Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by . . . what you call
. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival:
I was never out of England—it's as if I saw it all.
IV
Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?
V
Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,—
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,
O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?
VI
Well, and it was graceful of them—they'd break talk off and afford
—She, to bite her mask's black velvet—he, to finger on his sword,
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?
VII
What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—"Must we die?"
Those commiserating sevenths—"Life might last! we can but try!
VIII
"Were you happy?" —"Yes."—"And are you still as happy?"—"Yes. And you?"
—"Then, more kisses!"—"Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?"
Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!
IX
So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!
"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!
"I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"
X
Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.
XI
But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,
While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,
In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every nerve.
XII
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:
"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.
"The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned.
XIII
"Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology,
"Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;
"Butterflies may dread extinction,—you'll not die, it cannot be!
XIV
"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,
"Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:
"What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
XV
"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what's become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
Saul (1855)
...
II
"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with His dew
On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue
Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat
Were now raging to torture the desert!"
III
Then I, as was meet,
...
42 (top)- Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild beat Were now raging to torture the desert! Then I, as was meet...
92 (bottom)- Yet now my hearts leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue
Hilda Doolittle was born in 1886 in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and grew up in Upper Darby. Writing under the pen name H.D., her work as a writer spanned five decades of the 20th century (1911-1961), and incorporates work in a variety of genres. She is known primarily as a poet, but she also wrote novels, memoirs, and essays and did a number of translations from the Greek.
She befriended Sigmund Freud during the 1930s, and became his patient in order to understand and express her bisexuality, her residual war trauma, her writing, and her spiritual experiences. H.D. married once, and undertook a number of relationships with both men and women. She was unapologetic about her sexuality, and thus became an icon for both the LGBT rights and feminist movements when her poems, plays, letters and essays were rediscovered during the 1970s and 1980s.
Epigram by H.D.
The golden one is gone from the banquets;
She, beloved of Atimetus,
The swallow, the bright Homonoea:
Gone the dear chatterer;
Death succeeds Atimetus.
50 (top)- The swallow, the bright Homonoea
12 (bottom)- The golden one is gone from banquets, She, beloved of Atimetus,
Thy Servant Dog (1930)
by Rudyard Kiling
The dogs meet a hound puppy named Ravager and all misbehave, chasing various animals and killing a rat during the unexplained absence of their owners who eventually return with a baby (his name is Digby, p. 87) which is pleased to see the dogs.
Thy Servant Dog (1930)
by Rudyard Kiling
Boots
The story is told by Boots, a black Aberdeen terrier very similar to those owned by Kipling over the years which obviously inspired his verse “The Power of the Dog”.
93 (top)- And pipes for closets all over, and cutting the frames too light, But M'Cullough he died in the sixties, and-well, I'm dying to-night...
41 (bottom)- But M'Cullough 'e wanted cabins with marble and maple and all And Brussels an' Utrecht velvet, and bath and a Social Hall
41- Then I remembered Henry's favorite quatation:
Although the requirements of Poet Laureate had changed, and those in the office were rarely required to write verse for special occasions, Masefield took his appointment seriously and produced a large quantity of verse. Poems composed in his official capacity were sent to The Times. Masefield's humility was shown by his inclusion of a stamped envelope with each submission so that his composition could be returned if it were found unacceptable for publication.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One of the Bo'Sun's Yarns
by John Masefield
L OAFIN ' around in Sailor Town, a-bluin' o' my advance,
I met a derelict donkeyman who led me a merry dance,
Till he landed me 'n' bleached me fair in the bar of a rum-saloon,
'N' there he spun me a juice of a yarn to this-yer brand of tune.
" It 's a solemn gospel, mate, " he says, " but a man as ships aboard
A steamer-tramp, he gets his whack of the wonders of the Lord —
Such as roaches crawlin' over his bunk, 'n' snakes inside his bread,
And work by night and work by day enough to strike him dead.
" But that there 's by the way, " says he; " the yarn I'm goin' to spin
Is about myself 'n' the life I led in the last ship I was in,
The Esmeralda , casual tramp, from Hull towards the Hook,
Wi' one o' the brand o' Cain for mate 'n' a human mistake for cook.
" We'd a week or so of dippin' around in a wind from outer hell,
With a fathom or more of broken sea at large in the forrard well,
Till our boats were bashed and bust and broke and gone to Davy Jones,
'N' then come white Atlantic fog as chilled us to the bones.
" We slowed her down and started the horn and watch and watch about,
We froze the marrow in all our bones a-keepin' a good look-out,
'N' the ninth night out, in the middle watch, I woke from a pleasant dream,
With the smash of a steamer ramming our plates a point abaft the beam.
" 'Twas cold and dark when I fetched the deck, dirty 'n' cold 'n' thick,
'N' there was a feel in the way she rode as fairly turned me sick; —
She was settlin', listin' quickly down, 'n' I heard the mates a-cursin',
'N' I heard the wash 'n' the grumble-grunt of a steamer's screws reversin'.
" She was leavin' us, mate, to sink or swim, 'n' the words we took 'n' said
They turned the port-light grassy-green 'n' the starboard rosy-red.
We give her a hot perpetual taste of the singeing curse of Cain,
As we heard her back 'n' clear the wreck 'n' off to her course again.
" Then the mate came dancin' on to the scene, 'n' he says, " Now quit yer chin,
Or I'll smash yer skulls, so help me James, 'n' let some wisdom in.
Ye dodderin' scum o' the slums,' he says, " are ye drunk or blazin" daft?
If ye wish to save yer sickly hides, ye'd best contrive a raft.'
" So he spoke us fair and turned us to, 'n' we wrought wi' tooth and nail
Wi' scantling, casks, 'n' coops 'n' ropes, 'n' boiler-plates 'n' sail,
'N' all the while it were dark 'n' cold 'n' dirty as it could be,
'N' she was soggy 'n' settlin' down to a berth beneath the sea.
" Soggy she grew, 'n' she didn't lift, 'n' she listed more 'n' more,
Till her bell struck 'n' her boiler-pipes began to wheeze 'n' snore;
She settled, settled, listed, heeled, 'n' then may I be cust,
If her sneezin', wheezin' boiler-pipes did not begin to bust!
" 'N' then the stars began to shine, 'n' the birds began to sing,
'N' the next I knowed I was bandaged up 'n' my arm were in a sling,
'N' a swab in uniform were there, 'n' " Well," says he, " 'n' how
Are yer arms, 'n' legs, 'n' liver, 'n' lungs, 'n' bones a-feelin' now?"
" " Where am I?" says I, 'n' he says, says he, a-cantin' to the roll,
" You're aboard the R.M.S. Marie in the after Glory-Hole,
'N' you've had a shave, if you wish to know, from the port o' Kingdom Come.
Drink this," he says, 'n' I takes 'n' drinks, 'n' s'elp me, it was rum!
" Seven survivors seen 'n' saved of the Esmeralda's crowd,
Taken aboard the sweet Marie 'n' bunked 'n' treated proud,
'N' D.B.S.'d to Mersey Docks ('n' a joyful trip we made),
'N' there the skipper were given a purse by a grateful Board of Trade.
" That 's the end o' the yarn, " he says, 'n' he takes 'n' wipes his lips,
" Them 's the works o' the Lord you sees in steam 'n' sailin' ships, —
Rocks 'n' fogs 'n' shatterin' seas 'n' breakers right ahead,
'N' work o' nights 'n' work o' days enough to strike you dead. "
Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white,
And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight:
But rum alone’s the tipple, and the heart’s delight
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French,
And some’ll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench;
But I’m for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose,
But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows;
For it’s that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung,
And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue;
But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice,
And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses’ eyes;
But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize
To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some that’s good and godly ones they hold that it’s a sin
To troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin;
But I’m for toleration and for drinking at an inn,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits,
And there’s a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes;
So I’m for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots,
Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
87 (top)- Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
23 (bottom)- But rum alone’s the tipple, and the heart’s delight
Europe a Prophecy is a 1794 prophetic book by the British poet and illustrator William Blake. It is engraved on 18 plates, and survives in just nine known copies. It followed America a Prophecy of 1793.
13 (top)- Rintrah, where hast thou hid bride? Weeps she in desert shades? Alas! my Rintrah, bring the lovely jealous Ocalythron.
49 (bottom)- Bring Palamabron , horned priest, skipping upon the mountains, And silent Elynittria, the silver-bowed queen,
Leda and the Swan
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939
There where the racecourse is
Delight makes all of the one mind
The riders upon the swift horses
The field that closes in behind.
We too had good attendance once,
Hearers, hearteners of the work,
Aye, horsemen for companions
Before the merchant and the clerk
Breathed on the world with timid breath;
But some day and at some new moon
We’ll learn that sleeping is not death
Hearing the whole earth change its tune,
Flesh being wild again, and it again
Crying aloud as the racecourse is;
And find hearteners among men
That ride upon horses.
The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand,
Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;
Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,
But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knocknarea,
And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.
Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;
But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,
For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;
Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;
But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood
Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
24 (top)- Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan
86 (bottom)- But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet
35- (eind pagina?) For the time being, Henry was drawing towards a close. I was not sorry. The police were after him in no uncertain manner, and it seemed impossible for him to ultimately escape them. … If he who so tragically killed his King, ever reached here at all, which is historically more than doubtful … it was certainly not in such ease or such good time as I. I collected myself and mine, and went out to sniff the new air.
[86 - 24]
[23 - 87]
[49 - 13]
[12 - 50]
[41 - 93]
[92 - 42]
-----------------------------------
[73-67]
[66-74]
73- I remembered the place of my initiation behind the old Port at Marseille, the furtive plush, the little airless secret rooms hung roud with...
74- ... photographs of young and laughing atheletes, lads who had profited and gone on, and ringing with those words of the Head, as we called him, that one by one the touch of life has turned to truths.
66- I remembered the place of my initiation into so much that was glowing and slendid; I remembered the clanging fives courts, and the solemn old Hall, hung round with...
67- ... the darker works of Beardsley and Felicien Rops, and ringing with the gloat curses of the Head, as we called him, lubriciously gasping in the grip of ether.
45- Absinth makes the heart grow fonder - abscent makes the heart grow fonder
11- Grundy Sapphic - Sunday Graphic
Orange pekoe, also spelled pecco, or OP is a term used in the Western tea trade to describe a particular genre of black teas (orange pekoe grading).
Lapsang souchong is a black tea consisting of Camellia sinensis leaves that are smoke-dried over a pinewood fire. This smoking is accomplished either as a cold smoke of the raw leaves as they are processed or as a hot smoke of previously processed (withered and oxidized) leaves
17- I almost wish I had tried the Lapsang. I remember I once received seven pounds of Lapsang from Grace.
Henry Wilfred "Bunny" Austin (26 August 1906 – 26 August 2000) was an English tennis player. For 74 years he was the last Briton to reach the final of the men's singles at Wimbledon,
Frederick John Perry (18 May 1909 – 2 February 1995) was a British tennis and table tennis player and former World No. 1 from England who won 10 Majors including eight Grand Slam tournaments and two Pro Slams single titles, as well as six Major doubles titles. Perry won three consecutive Wimbledon Championships from 1934 to 1936 and was World Amateur number one tennis player during those three years. Prior to Andy Murray in 2013, Perry was the last British player to win the men's Wimbledon championship, in 1936,[4] and the last British player to win a men's singles Grand Slam title, until Andy Murray won the 2012 US Open.
97- I had too soon - perhaps I did not want to go even so quickly as my ordered slowness - exchanged a tennis venue for a rowing one.
Bellerophon ( Βελλεροφόντης, Βελλεροφόντης ) ("bearing darts") was a hero from Greek mythology whose greatest feat was to kill the Chimera, a monster usually depicted as with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent-tail.
An alternate version of the beginning of the quest is that Bellerophon wandered into Proteus, who grew intensely jealous of him. Proteus was the son-in-law of Iobates, King of Lycia, and sent Bellerophon to him with a sealed message that asked to kill Bellerophon, this is the origin of the expression a "bellerophonic letter". Lycia at the time was in the middle of a horrific plague and Iobates didn't want to strain the population with a war, which would surely be the result if he murdered Bellerophon. Instead, he sent him on an impossible quest: to kill the Chimera.
ek parergou (Gr.), as a by-work.
Ephphatha is an Aramaic (or Syriac) word found only once in the New Testament, in Mark 7:34. Mark also gives the meaning of the word: “be opened.”
Epea pteroenta
BETEKENIS & DEFINITIE
(Gr.), gevleugelde woorden. Ontleend .aan de Ilias en de Odyssee, waarin deze vaste verbinding herhaaldelijk voorkomt.
furor loquendi= rage for speaking/passion for talking
mirabile dictu
/ Latin (mɪˈræbɪleɪ ˈdɪktuː) /
MEANING
wonderful to relate; amazing to say
Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor
MEANING
I see a better way and approve it, but I follow the worst way.
Ouvre ton âme et ton oreille au son de ma mandoline: pour toi j'ai fait, pour toi, cette chanson cruelle at caline.
Open your soul and your ear to the sound of my mandolin: for you I made, for you, this cruel and cuddly song.
A mandolin (Italian: mandolino pronounced [mandoˈliːno]; literally "small mandola") is a stringed musical instrument in the lute family and is generally plucked with a plectrum.
Definition of frisson
: a brief moment of emotional excitement : SHUDDER, THRILL
Definition of soigné
1
: WELL-GROOMED, SLEEK
2
: elegantly maintained or designed
mal de mer= seasickness
O triste, triste était mon âme
MEANING
O sad, sad was my soul
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à cause, à cause d'une femme
MEANING
because, because of a woman
le couchant dardait ses rayons supremes et le vent bercait les nénuphars blemes; les grands nénuphars entres les roseaux tristement luisaient sur les calmes eaux.
Meaning:
the sunset darted its supreme rays and the wind cradled the pale water lilies; the tall water lilies between the reeds gleamed sadly on the calm waters.
petit-déjeuner= breakfast
Charles Baudelaire
La Chevelure
Ô toison, moutonnant jusque sur l'encolure!
Ô boucles! Ô parfum chargé de nonchaloir!
Extase! Pour peupler ce soir l'alcôve obscure
Des souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure,
Je la veux agiter dans l'air comme un mouchoir!
MEANING
NL: O vacht, wollig tot aan de nek!
O krullen! O geur beladen met nonchalance!
Extase! Om vanavond de donkere alkoof te bevolken
Herinneringen die in dit haar slapen,
Ik wil ermee in de lucht zwaaien als een zakdoek!
ENG: O fleecy hair, falling in curls to the shoulders!
O black locks! O perfume laden with nonchalance!
Ecstasy! To people the dark alcove tonight
With memories sleeping in that thick head of hair.
I would like to shake it in the air like a scarf!
vis-à-vis
MEANING (noun)
a person or group occupying a corresponding position to that of another in a different sphere; a counterpart.
Pigeonholing is a process that attempts to classify disparate entities into a limited number of categories (usually, mutually exclusive ones).
The term usually carries connotations of criticism, implying that the classification scheme referred to inadequately reflects the entities being sorted, or that it is based on stereotypes.
Sir Henry Tate, 1st Baronet (11 March 1819 – 5 December 1899) was an English sugar merchant and philanthropist, noted for establishing the Tate Gallery in London.
Tate is an institution that houses, in a network of four art galleries, the United Kingdom's national collection of British art, and international modern and contemporary art. It is not a government institution,
Google: Horticulture is the science and art of the development, sustainable production, marketing and use of high-value, intensively cultivated food and ornamental plants.
Tuinbouw
Pieris rapae is a small- to medium-sized butterfly species of the whites-and-yellows family Pieridae. It is known in Europe as the small white, in North America as the cabbage white or cabbage butterfly, on several continents as the small cabbage white, and in New Zealand as the white butterfly.
The caterpillar of this species, often referred to as the "imported cabbageworm", is a pest to crucifer crops such as cabbage, kale, bok choy and broccoli. Pieris rapae is widespread in Europe and Asia; it is believed to have originated in the Eastern Mediterranean region of Europe, and to have spread across Eurasia thanks to the diversification of brassicaceous crops and the development of human trade routes. Over the past two centuries, it spread to North Africa, North America, New Zealand, and Australia, as a result of accidental introductions.
A greenstick fracture occurs when a bone bends and cracks, instead of breaking completely into separate pieces. The fracture looks similar to what happens when you try to break a small, "green" branch on a tree. Most greenstick fractures occur in children younger than 10 years of age
A billhook or bill hook is a versatile cutting tool used widely in agriculture and forestry for cutting woody material such as shrubs, small trees and branches. It is distinct from the sickle. It was commonly used in Europe with an important variety of traditional local patterns. Elsewhere, it was also developed locally such as in the Indian subcontinent,[1] or introduced regionally as in the Americas, South Africa and Oceania by European settlers.
Ruta graveolens [L. strong smelling rue], commonly known as rue, common rue or herb-of-grace, is a species of Ruta grown as an ornamental plant and herb. It is native to the Balkan Peninsula. It is now grown throughout the world in gardens, especially for its bluish leaves, and sometimes for its tolerance of hot and dry soil conditions. It is also cultivated as a medicinal herb (famous in Ethiopia, where its local name "Tena adam"/Health for Adam), as a condiment, and to a lesser extent as an insect repellent.
Gardenia jasminoides, commonly known as gardenia, is an evergreen flowering plant in the coffee family Rubiaceae. It is native to parts of South-East Asia.
The common names cape jasmine and cape jessamine derive from the earlier belief that the flower originated in Cape of Good Hope, South Africa. Other common names include danh-danh and jasmin.
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Clematis florida var. flore-pleno is a vigorous evergreen climber, bearing small, glossy dark green leaves which become bronze in winter. In summer graceful, double cream-white flowers appear, followed by silky seedheads in autumn. It’s well suited to growing up a fence or trellis, or trained to scramble through shrubs.
For best results grow Clematis florida var. flore-pleno in moist but well-drained soil in full sun to partial shade. Mulch annually with well-rotted compost or manure. Falling into Pruning Group One, simply remove spent flowers and dead or damaged foliage after flowering.
Laurus nobilis is an aromatic evergreen tree or large shrub with green, glabrous smooth leaves, in the flowering plant family Lauraceae. It is native to the Mediterranean region and is used as bay leaf for seasoning in cooking. Its common names include bay tree (esp. United Kingdom), bay laurel, sweet bay, true laurel, Grecian laurel, or simply laurel. Laurus nobilis figures prominently in classical Greco-Roman culture.
Gelsemium sempervirens is a twining vine in the family Gelsemiaceae, native to subtropical and tropical America: Honduras, Guatemala, Belize, Mexico (Chiapas, Oaxaca, Veracruz, Puebla, Hidalgo), and southeastern and south-central United States (from Texas to Virginia).[4] It has a number of common names including yellow jessamine or jasmine, Carolina jasmine or jessamine,evening trumpetflower, gelsemium and woodbine.
Yellow jessamine is the state flower of South Carolina.[8]
Despite its common name, the species is not a "true jasmine" and not of the genus Jasminum.
All parts of this plant contain the toxic strychnine-related alkaloids gelsemine and gelseminine and should not be consumed. The sap may cause skin irritation in sensitive individuals.
The plant can be lethal to livestock
24- This was an infernal nuisance ; a Chinese confrère of mine might even have called it a hellebore.
Commonly known as hellebores , the Eurasian genus Helleborus consists of approximately 20 species of herbaceous or evergreen perennial flowering plants in the family Ranunculaceae, within which it gave its name to the tribe of Helleboreae. Despite names such as "winter rose", "Christmas rose" and "Lenten rose", hellebores are not closely related to the rose family (Rosaceae). Many hellebore species are poisonous.
86- Surely such a confirmed old tub-thumper would not have had the wit to think out the Mithradates inoculation for himself, and put it into practise?
6-
Flemming’s tincture of aconite = 1861 mistaken for sherry. The person died.
91- The Blue Rocket was still going down next day; in fact, I knew too much to let it go up.
Aconitum also known as aconite, monkshood, wolf's-bane, leopard's bane, mousebane, women's bane, devil's helmet, queen of poisons, or blue rocket, is a genus of over 250 species of flowering plants belonging to the family Ranunculaceae. These herbaceous perennial plants are chiefly native to the mountainous parts of the Northern Hemisphere in North America, Europe, and Asia; growing in the moisture-retentive but well-draining soils of mountain meadows.
Most Aconitum species are extremely poisonous and must be handled very carefully. Several Aconitum hybrids, such as the Arendsii form of Aconitum carmichaelii, have won gardening awards—such as the Royal Horticultural Society's Award of Garden Merit. Some are used by florists.
Caladenia major, commonly known as the waxlip orchid, parson-in-the-pulpit, or purple cockatoo is a plant in the orchid family Orchidaceae, and is endemic to Australia. It is a ground orchid with a single hairy leaf and one or two purple to mauve flowers. It has been known as Glossodia major since its description by the prolific Scottish botanist Robert Brown in 1810, but recent discoveries suggest its inclusion in the genus Caladenia.
Bane= something, especially poison, that causes death.
Physostigma venenosum, the Calabar bean or ordeal bean, is a leguminous plant, Endemic to tropical Africa, with a seed poisonous to humans. It derives the first part of its scientific name from a curious beak-like appendage at the end of the stigma, in the centre of the flower; this appendage, though solid, was supposed to be hollow (hence the name from φῦσα, a bladder, and stigma).
29- I trusted they would not taste of Flora and country-green.
29- I led the old mineralogist up the garden, if I may be permitted the expression, and introduced him to my lobelia and to my pretty lords and ladies.
Lobelia is a genus of flowering plants comprising 415 species,with a subcosmopolitan distribution primarily in tropical to warm temperate regions of the world, a few species extending into cooler temperate regions. They are known generally as lobelias.
Many members of the genus are considered poisonous, with some containing the toxic principle lobeline. Because of lobeline's similarity to nicotine, the internal use of lobelia may be dangerous to susceptible populations, including children, pregnant women, and individuals with cardiac disease. Excessive use will cause nausea and vomiting. It is not recommended for use by pregnant women and is best administered by a practitioner qualified in its use. It also has a chemical known as lobellicyonycin, which may cause dizziness.
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Arum maculatum is a woodland flowering plant species in the family Araceae. It is native across most of Europe, as well as Turkey and the Caucasus. It is known by an abundance of common names including Adam and Eve, adder's meat, adder's root, arum, wild arum, arum lily, bobbins, cows and bulls, cuckoopint, cuckoo-plant, devils and angels, friar's cowl, jack in the pulpit, lamb-in-a-pulpit, lords-and-ladies, naked boys, snakeshead, starch-root, and wake-robin. Many names refer to the plant's appearance; "lords-and-ladies" and many other names liken the plant to male and female genitalia symbolising copulation.[9] Starch-root is a simple description – the plant's root was used to make laundry starch.
Lords and ladies is a very common plant and not considered at threat.
All parts of the plant can produce allergic reactions in many people and the plant should be handled with care.
The attractive berries are extremely poisonous to many animals, including humans, but harmless to birds, which eat them and propagate the seeds. They contain oxalates of saponins which have needle-shaped crystals that irritate the skin, mouth, tongue, and throat, and result in swelling of throat, difficulty breathing, burning pain, and upset stomach. However, their acrid taste, coupled with the almost immediate tingling sensation in the mouth when consumed, means that large amounts are rarely taken and serious harm is unusual. It is one of the most common causes of accidental plant poisoning based on attendance at hospital emergency departments.
There is no known antidote to A. maculatum poisoning. Airway management may reduce the mortality, and aggressive fluid administration may prevent renal injury
36- Distinctly awkward: for, knowing ther were bound to be bad, I spent an hour I could ill afford in finding her an equivalent in wormy raspberries
Digitalis is a genus of about 20 species of herbaceous perennial plants, shrubs, and biennials, commonly called foxgloves.
The best-known species is the common foxglove, Digitalis purpurea.
4- I started my fellow garden enthusiast on the foxgloves. He would appreciate that if he knew.
Strychnine poisoning can be fatal to humans and other animals and can occur by inhalation, swallowing or absorption through eyes or mouth. It produces some of the most dramatic and painful symptoms of any known toxic reaction, making it quite noticeable and a common choice for assassinations and poison attacks. For this reason, strychnine poisoning is often portrayed in literature and film, such as the murder mysteries written by Agatha Christie.
Ten to twenty minutes after exposure, the body's muscles begin to spasm, starting with the head and neck in the form of trismus and risus sardonicus. The spasms then spread to every muscle in the body, with nearly continuous convulsions, and get worse at the slightest stimulus. The convulsions progress, increasing in intensity and frequency until the backbone arches continually. Convulsions lead to lactic acidosis, hyperthermia and rhabdomyolysis. These are followed by postictal depression. Death comes from asphyxiation caused by paralysis of the neural pathways that control breathing, or by exhaustion from the convulsions.The subject usually dies within 2–3 hours after exposure.
40- The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden. He certainly could put that sort of thing over, the dear old bean.
36- Strange that old Calabar, as I called him, should fail me; yet on the morning after I had introduced him to the person most concerned, I felt certain that I could not rely on him. I would give him another day, and then...
29- If the West African ordeal beans had proved a disappointment, at least the broad ones were giving satisfaction.
21- Afterwards, I brought in my rough old friend Calabar Bean to help me
20th August
Cornelis de Witt (Dordrecht, 15 juni 1623 – Den Haag, 20 augustus 1672
Johan de Witt (Dordrecht, 24 september 1625[noot 1] – Den Haag, 20 augustus 1672),
Johan werd met zijn broer Cornelis door orangisten vermoord en op gruwelijke wijze verminkt. De moord geldt als een van de meest gedenkwaardige en beschamende gebeurtenissen in de Nederlandse geschiedenis.
I.
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass;
Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.
II.
Sixteen years old, when she died!
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;
It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,---
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
III.
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew---
And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside?
IV.
No, indeed! for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn, much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.
V.
But the time will come,---at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red---
And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one's stead.
VI.
I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!
VII.
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while.
My heart seemed full as it could hold?
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.
So, hush,---I will give you this leaf to keep:
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
You will wake, and remember, and understand.
Google- botulism: life threatening condition caused by toxins. These toxins attack the
nervous
system and cause paralysis.
Symptoms: drooping eyelids, blurred double vision, facial muscle weakness, difficulty swallowing, slurred speech, breahting difficulties
Lieutenant-Colonel Anthony William Durnford (24 May 1830 – 22 January 1879) was an Irish career British Army officer of the Royal Engineers who served in the Anglo-Zulu War. Breveted colonel, Durnford is mainly known for his defeat by the Zulus at the Battle of Isandlwana, which was a disaster for the British Army.
burried at: St George's Garrison Church, Fort Napier, Pietermaritzburg, South Africa (en)
Major Sir William Newenham Montague Orpen, KBE, RA, RHA (27 November 1878 – 29 September 1931) was an Irish artist who worked mainly in London. Orpen was a fine draughtsman and a popular, commercially successful painter of portraits for the well-to-do in Edwardian society, though many of his most striking paintings are self-portraits.
Painting: The Café Royal, London, 1912
9- The sound of the bell, ... The bell again
24- I had always thought that to carry the name of fourteen popes and two anti-popes meant nothing to me either way. To share it with Giulio de Medici might sound more sinister to the instructed.
Pope Clement VII (1478-1534) aka Guilio de Medici
24- Puffing at Gianaclis and blowing at myself for a fool, I tried to consider my competence, or lack of it.
Gianaclis (Arabic: جناكليس) is a neighbourhood in Alexandria, Egypt. It is named after the Greek-Egyptian businessman Nestor Gianaclis who established the Gianaclis Vineyards in Alexandria and, along with the Kyriazi Freres, founded the Egyptian cigarette industry.
37- I looked across the table to great brimming bowl of yellow jasmine. … It was terrible to sit there with only the table in front of me, and to know that murder had been committed.
13- Henry was now stooping over the other body, whisteling between its teeth.
Scotisch rase?
99- Suddenly I felt that I had put my foot in it. Still I had three more left.
64- But that was too big for me. … To give all - as I had given all to him - was vey bone of my bone.
57- It seemed from what I heard that Felton’s meat had been delivered at Brookesley for the first time that day. I wondered if it was good and plentiful.
56- … when I was technically a mixed infant…
48-
46-
44-
39- That was he. She showed us some delicate undercoats, all raw liver colour, very lovely, and proved it. But she had, too, a passion for getting new things, and I was sorry for his sake. After all, in all my life, I had only had one coat, and that an inherited one. True, it was long and graceful. and fitted beautifully, which was more than could be said for some of hers.
35-
33- Happily I was behind the armchair.
27- He had hushed my brat for me when he was only six, one morning on which I had wanted to go out for a walk.
22- And just as I was feeling how much I loved him, he put on funny clothes and went away. I lowered myself and made love to Flora. It was quite late when he came back with her. He had always told me that I was absurdely sensitive.
19- Surprisingly, that is, to anyone who did not know that my people came from the same place as the McCrimmons, that famous race of hereditary music makers.
McCrimmons, bagpipers, from Scotland.
11-
10- They went back two days and formulated their bet, till I could have howled.
9-Th sound of the bell, as of a boding gnat, just came to me. The finger causing it was, I knew, the index of a most skilful hand, one I had comanded, one that would pluck me from embarrassment, and yet one I vaguely distrusted.
8- I investigated the body before me with the aid of a powerful glass. At least I always thought if it as powerful, because I never could quite understand how it worked. ...
8- ... Later she was wearing the same bow - I loathed bows myself - and that time he found them and trimmed the left end.
8- Then he turned what he was holding a bit; so that it pushed its way right through. Then he twiddled the black knobby thing, and Mr. hall burst in upon us. The knobby thing was black and red.
