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Heather

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  1. Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die. William Shakespeare - 'Orpheus with his lute '
  2. Yonder is the knowe; and whan thistles are upon it Auld Jamie stands there wi' flooers for a bonnet. Jamie has a cronie; Jamie has three - The laverock, the corbie, and the sma' hinny-bee. The laverock trocks wi' heaven, the corbie wi' hell; The hinny-bee flees on atween and disna fash itsel' Jamie whistled at the plew; Jamie won his queyn; Jamie was a strappan lad - but that was lang-syne. William Soutar - 'Jamie'
  3. My father’s sister started when she caught My soul agaze in my eyes. She could not say I had no business with a sort of soul, But plainly she objected,–and demurred, That souls were dangerous things to carry straight Through all the spilt saltpetre of the world. She said sometimes, ‘Aurora, have you done Your task this morning?–have you read that book? And are you ready for the crochet here?’– As if she said, ‘I know there’s something wrong, I know I have not ground you down enough To flatten and bake you to a wholesome crust For household uses and proprieties, Before the rain has got into my barn And set the grains a-sprouting. What, you’re green With out-door impudence? you almost grow?’ Elizabeth Barrett Browning - from 'Aurora Leigh'
  4. Great choice of link word! Now the bright morning-star, Day’s harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing; Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. John Milton - 'Song on May Morning'
  5. The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away, The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers. Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May. There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot, One season ruined of your little store. May will be fine next year as like as not: But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four. We for a certainty are not the first Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed Whatever brute and blackguard made the world. It is in truth iniquity on high To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave, And mar the merriment as you and I Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave. Iniquity it is; but pass the can. My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore; Our only portion is the estate of man: We want the moon, but we shall get no more. If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours To-morrow it will hie on far behests; The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts. The troubles of our proud and angry dust Are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale. A.E. Housman - 'The chestnut casts his flambeaux'
  6. “next to of course god america i love you land of the pilgrims’ and so forth oh say can you see by the dawn’s early my country ’tis of centuries come and go and are no more what of it we should worry in every language even deafanddumb thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry by jingo by gee by gosh by gum why talk of beauty what could be more beaut- iful than these heroic happy dead who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter they did not stop to think they died instead then shall the voice of liberty be mute?” He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water e.e. cummings - 'next to of course god america i'
  7. Done is a battell on the dragon blak, Our campioun Chryst confoundit hes his force, champion The yettis of hell ar brokin with a crak, gates The signe trivmphall rasit is of the croce. raised The diuillis trymmillis with hiddous voce, devils tremble The saulis ar borrowit and to the blis can go. souls are rescued Chryst with his blud our ransonis dois indoce: ransoms does endorse Surrexit dominus de sepulchro. The Lord has risen from the grave From William Dunbar - 'Done is a battell on the dragon blak' Sorry, I couldn't resist. If any of the other words aren't clear, try reading it aloud. I suggest linking to the English equivalents of the words.
  8. On the seventh day God rested in the darkness of the tomb; Having finished on the sixth day all his work of joy and doom. Now the Word had fallen silent, and the water had run dry, The bread had all been scattered, and the light had left the sky. The flock had lost its shepherd, and the seed was sadly sown, The courtiers had betrayed their king, and nailed him to his throne. O Sabbath rest by Calvary, O calm of tomb below, Where the grave-clothes and the spices cradle him we do not know! Rest you well, beloved Jesus, Caesar’s Lord and Israel’s King, In the brooding of the Spirit, in the darkness of the spring. N.T. Wright - 'On the seventh day God rested'
  9. The huge pale sun behind the Braid Hills rising glints on the city in wands of slanting light The threadbare half-moon hangs above Corstorphine where winter branches stretch and silhouette With sunrise in her hair the girl Queen Mary rode to dying Darnley out at Kirk o' Field On such a frosty forenoon Cockburn left the lawcourts experienced the New Town, memorised the Old Singing a cold cadence Fergusson the poet shivered down the Canongate with rhythm in his feet And citizens of Edinburgh on this very morning set to partners, join hands and skip down the street Anonymous - Winter sunrise in Edinburgh Note: Cockburn is pronounced to rhyme with go-burn
  10. And I couldn’t escape the waking dream of infected fleas in the warp and weft of soggy cloth by the tailor’s hearth in ye olde Eyam. Then couldn’t un-see the Boundary Stone, that cock-eyed dice with its six dark holes, thimbles brimming with vinegar wine purging the plagued coins. Which brought to mind the sorry story of Emmott Syddall and Rowland Torre, star-crossed lovers on either side of the quarantine line whose wordless courtship spanned the river till she came no longer. But slept again, and dreamt this time of the exiled yaksha sending word to his lost wife on a passing cloud, a cloud that followed an earthly map of camel trails and cattle tracks, streams like necklaces, fan-tailed peacocks, painted elephants, embroidered bedspreads of meadows and hedges, bamboo forests and snow-hatted peaks, waterfalls, creeks, the hieroglyphs of wide-winged cranes and the glistening lotus flower after rain, the air hypnotically see-through, rare, the journey a ponderous one at times, long and slow but necessarily so. Simon Armitage - 'Lockdown' There is an explanation of this poem on the Guardian website. Eyam is probounced 'Eem'.
  11. Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. A.E. Housman - 'Loveliest of Trees'
  12. The advantage of watching the TV series is that you see the Swedish scenery. This is true in the Branagh series as well as the Swedish one. However, the Branagh series was infuriating in the way both Kurt's father and his daughter picked on him. Kurt's father is horrible to him, then complains he doesn't visit. 'The Man Who Smiled' starts with Kurt having a breakdown after killing a man, and going off to sped time alone. When he returns, Linda's reaction is to attack him: "What kind of man does that?" He should have stayed with his family and let them cheer him up. Never mind what he needed, he should have done that so that she would feel better. There is no scene like that in the book.
  13. Thanks: I was planning to ask that very thing. The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. William Wordsworth - 'The world is too much with us'
  14. "O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" — "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she. — "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" — "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she. — "At home in the barton you said thee' and thou,' And thik oon,' and theäs oon,' and t'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" — "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she. — "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" — "We never do work when we're ruined," said she. — "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" — "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she. — "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" — "My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she. Thomas Hardy - 'The Ruined Maid'
  15. The snow is gone from cottage tops The thatch moss glows in brighter green And eves in quick succession drops Where grinning ides once hath been Pit patting wi’ a pleasant noise In tubs set by the cottage door And ducks and geese wi’ happy joys Douse in the yard pond brimming o’er The sun peeps thro the window pane Which childern mark wi’ laughing eye And in the wet street steal again To tell each other spring is nigh And as young hope the past recalls In playing groups will often draw Building beside the sunny walls Their spring play-huts of sticks or straw And oft in pleasures dreams they hie Round homesteads by the village side Scratting the hedgerow mosses bye Where painted pooty shells abide Mistaking oft the ivy spray For leaves that come wi’ budding spring And wondering in their search for play Why birds delay to build and sing The milkmaid singing leaves her bed As glad as happy thoughts can be While magpies chatter o’er her head As jocund in the change as she Her cows around the closes stray Nor lingering wait the foddering boy Tossing the molehills in their play And staring round in frolic joy Ploughmen go whistling to their toils And yoke again the rested plough And mingling o’er the mellow soils Boys’ shouts and whips are noising now The shepherd now is often seen By warm banks o’er his work to bend Or o’er a gate or stile to lean Chattering to a passing friend Odd hive bees fancying winter o’er And dreaming in their combs of spring Creeps on the slab beside their door And strokes its legs upon its wing While wild ones half asleep are humming Round snowdrop bells a feeble note And pigions coo of summer coming Picking their feathers on the cote Thus nature of the spring will dream While south winds thaw but soon again Frost breaths upon the stiffening stream And numbs it into ice—the plain Soon wears its merry garb of white And icicles that fret at noon Will eke their icy tails at night Beneath the chilly stars and moon Nature soon sickens of her joys And all is sad and dumb again Save merry shouts of sliding boys About the frozen furrowd plain The foddering boy forgets his song And silent goes wi’ folded arms And croodling shepherds bend along Crouching to the whizzing storms. John Clare - 'February'
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