Heather Posted July 24, 2020 Report Share Posted July 24, 2020 That Whitsun, I was late getting away: Not till about One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out, All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense Of being in a hurry gone. We ran Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence The river’s level drifting breadth began, Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet. All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept For miles inland, A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept. Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and Canals with floatings of industrial froth; A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped And rose: and now and then a smell of grass Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth Until the next town, new and nondescript, Approached with acres of dismantled cars. At first, I didn’t notice what a noise The weddings made Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys The interest of what’s happening in the shade, And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls I took for porters larking with the mails, And went on reading. Once we started, though, We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls In parodies of fashion, heels and veils, All posed irresolutely, watching us go, As if out on the end of an event Waving goodbye To something that survived it. Struck, I leant More promptly out next time, more curiously, And saw it all again in different terms: The fathers with broad belts under their suits And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat; An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms, The nylon gloves and jewellery-substitutes, The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochres that Marked off the girls unreally from the rest. Yes, from cafés And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days Were coming to an end. All down the line Fresh couples climbed aboard: the rest stood round; The last confetti and advice were thrown, And, as we moved, each face seemed to define Just what it saw departing: children frowned At something dull; fathers had never known Success so huge and wholly farcical; The women shared The secret like a happy funeral; While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared At a religious wounding. Free at last, And loaded with the sum of all they saw, We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam. Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast Long shadows over major roads, and for Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem Just long enough to settle hats and say I nearly died, A dozen marriages got under way. They watched the landscape, sitting side by side —An Odeon went past, a cooling tower, And someone running up to bowl—and none Thought of the others they would never meet Or how their lives would all contain this hour. I thought of London spread out in the sun, Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat: There we were aimed. And as we raced across Bright knots of rail Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail Travelling coincidence; and what it held Stood ready to be loosed with all the power That being changed can give. We slowed again, And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain. Philip Larkin 'The Whitsun Weddings' Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted August 2, 2020 Report Share Posted August 2, 2020 Whitsuntide fast approaches, Another Bank holiday beckons. Time for a long week-end in the pub Or sitting in the garden whose grass Needs cutting with dandelions like Saucers. This is the new Pentecost, People mooching around the shops Looking for that something that they Didn’t realise they wanted only to find They had one when they got home. People enjoying the Bank holiday Not realizing what the holiday means. Of family day trips to the seaside with Children eating ice cream that spread Around their face and noses. A day to escape the daily grind. Whitsun, David Wood Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted August 14, 2020 Report Share Posted August 14, 2020 Thus, thus begin the yearly rites Are due to Pan on these bright nights; His morn now riseth and invites To sports, to dances, and delights: All envious and profane, away! This is the shepherds’ holiday. Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground With every flower, yet not confound; The primrose drop, the spring’s own spouse, Bright day’s-eyes, and the lips of cows, The garden-star, the queen of May, The rose, to crown the holiday. Drop, drop you violets, change your hues Now red, now pale, as lovers use, And in your death go out as well, As when you lived unto the smell: That from your odour all may say, This is the shepherds’ holiday. Ben Jonson - 'The Shepherd's Holiday' Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted August 22, 2020 Report Share Posted August 22, 2020 Keep these verbs you may require them to bend a steel of wrath- sharp weapons from behind grow flashy: into wounds they strike certainty of destruction. Be sure, that I may not come- not even my surreal shadows from this portion of your soft yellow light. These nouns that once acted hopefully like a complacent boatman to steer our way of love- floated us down in the divine stream- washed our nights and days, our burning suns and cloyed moons- with surfs and salts of life, see whirl of doom. When you prefer to run down north south must be left behind- and fade unknown... when brooding flowers will fill your hands trees'll gape empty and suffer neglect of our eyes... Love the rhyme and vision of north, keep the flowers' hues on your eyes- but before that you have to prove others futile- Take these verbs, those throttling nouns to mend your weapon speech They will perish your old choices under new sun. Be rife with arguments like old Roman friend, Brutus. Verbs And Nouns Of Love by Rites Ghosh Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted August 27, 2020 Report Share Posted August 27, 2020 Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye. What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high, And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher, Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire. Because piebald ponies, led bears, caged lions, make but poor shows, Because children demand Daddy-long-legs upon his timber toes, Because women in the upper storeys demand a face at the pane That patching old heels they may shriek, I take to chisel and plane. Malachi Stilt-Jack am I, whatever I learned has run wild, From collar to collar, from stilt to stilt, from father to child. All metaphor, Malachi, stilts and all. A barnacle goose Far up in the stretches of night; night splits and the dawn breaks loose; I, through the terrible novelty of light, stalk on, stalk on; Those great sea-horses bare their teeth and laugh at the dawn. W.B. Yeats - 'High Talk' Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted September 6, 2020 Report Share Posted September 6, 2020 Seventy years ago I made a pair of stilts from six-foot two-by-twos, with blocks to stand on nailed a foot from the bottom. If I was to learn to walk on stilts I wanted them red and I had to wait almost forever for the paint to dry, laid over the arms of a saggy, ancient Adirondack chair no longer good for much but holding hoes and rakes and stakes rolled up in twine, and at last I couldn’t wait a minute longer and took the stilts into my hands and stepped between them, stepped up and stepped out, tilted far forward, clopping fast and away down the walk, a foot above my neighborhood, the summer in my hair, my new red stilts stuck to my fingers, not knowing how far I’d be able to get, and now, in what seems just a few yards down the block, I’m there. Red Stilts by Ted Kooser Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted September 28, 2020 Report Share Posted September 28, 2020 Look, stranger, on this island now The leaping light for your delight discovers, Stand stable here And silent be, That through the channels of the ear May wander like a river The swaying sound of the sea. Here at a small field's ending pause Where the chalk wall falls to the foam and its tall ledges Oppose the pluck And knock of the tide, And the shingle scrambles after the suck- -ing surf, A moment on its sheer side. Far off like floating seeds the ships Diverge on urgent voluntary errands, And this full view Indeed may enter And move in memory as now these clouds do, That pass the harbour mirror And all the summer through the water saunter. W.H. Auden - 'Look, Stranger' Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted October 3, 2020 Report Share Posted October 3, 2020 (edited) Winter has shown peeks in chill's reprises As though summer winds follow sultry roads Melting dreams use desperate devices To hold onto lush lands for their abode Where will the lovely lilting lilies go When their stretch to heaven gets impeded By softest saunter of first season's snow Perhaps their petals rest, neatly pleaded I wonder If I too shall find my rest When heated moments turn to peaceful psalm And God's crystalline account comes to impress With snowflakes of truth, twirling love's sweet balm When the songbird sings, all stop and want her As if saving grace flies forth through her wings I caress these thoughts, in softest saunter Honing hope in her song to return spring Softest Saunter, Cherie Leigh Edited October 3, 2020 by lunababymoonchild layout problems Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted October 12, 2020 Report Share Posted October 12, 2020 There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies grow; A heav'nly paradise is that place Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow. There cherries grow which none may buy, Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy, Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry. Thomas Campion - 'There is a garden in her face' Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted October 18, 2020 Report Share Posted October 18, 2020 She left me with a bouquet of flowers that never bloomed, and a muse with bleeding verses that never rhymed At nights when her name is dancing on my tongue, I hunger for the cherries she once promised to feed me Cherry Promise, N (the only credit I could find) Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted October 19, 2020 Report Share Posted October 19, 2020 I felt that Id a right to song And sung – but in a timid strain Of fondness for my native plain For every thing I felt a love The weeds below the birds above And weeds that bloomed in summers hours I thought they should be reckoned flowers They made a garden free for all And so I loved them great and small... And so it cheered me while I lay Among their beautiful array To think that I in humble dress Might have a right to happiness And sing as well as greater men And then I strung the lyre agen And heartened up and oer toil and fear And lived with rapture every where ... My harp tho simple was my own When I was in the fields alone With none to help and none to hear To bid me either hope or fear... No matter how the world approved Twas nature listened – I that loved. John Clare – from ‘The Progress of Rhyme’ Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted October 27, 2020 Report Share Posted October 27, 2020 Ares at last has quit the field, The bloodstains on the bushes yield To seeping showers, And in their convalescent state The fractured towns associate With summer flowers. Encamped upon the college plain Raw veterans already train As freshman forces; Instructors with sarcastic tongue Shepherd the battle-weary young Through basic courses. Among bewildering appliances For mastering the arts and sciences They stroll or run, And nerves that steeled themselves to slaughter Are shot to pieces by the shorter Poems of Donne. Professors back from secret missions Resume their proper eruditions, Though some regret it; They liked their dictaphones a lot, T hey met some big wheels, and do not Let you forget it. But Zeus' inscrutable decree Permits the will-to-disagree To be pandemic, Ordains that vaudeville shall preach And every commencement speech Be a polemic. Let Ares doze, that other war Is instantly declared once more 'Twixt those who follow Precocious Hermes all the way And those who without qualms obey Pompous Apollo. Brutal like all Olympic games, Though fought with smiles and Christian names And less dramatic, This dialectic strife between The civil gods is just as mean, And more fanatic. What high immortals do in mirth Is life and death on Middle Earth; Their a-historic Antipathy forever gripes All ages and somatic types, The sophomoric Who face the future's darkest hints With giggles or with prairie squints As stout as Cortez, And those who like myself turn pale As we approach with ragged sail The fattening forties. The sons of Hermes love to play And only do their best when they Are told they oughtn't; Apollo's children never shrink From boring jobs but have to think Their work important. Related by antithesis, A compromise between us is Impossible; Respect perhaps but friendship never: Falstaff the fool confronts forever The prig Prince Hal. If he would leave the self alone, Apollo's welcome to the throne, Fasces and falcons; He loves to rule, has always done it; The earth would soon, did Hermes run it, Be like the Balkans. But jealous of our god of dreams, His common-sense in secret schemes To rule the heart; Unable to invent the lyre, Creates with simulated fire Official art. And when he occupies a college, Truth is replaced by Useful Knowledge; He pays particular Attention to Commercial Thought, Public Relations, Hygiene, Sport, In his curricula. Athletic, extrovert and crude, For him, to work in solitude Is the offence, The goal a populous Nirvana: His shield bears this device: Mens sana Qui mal y pense. Today his arms, we must confess, From Right to Left have met success, His banners wave From Yale to Princeton, and the news From Broadway to the Book Reviews Is very grave. His radio Homers all day long In over-Whitmanated song That does not scan, With adjectives laid end to end, Extol the doughnut and commend The Common Man. His, too, each homely lyric thing On sport or spousal love or spring Or dogs or dusters, Invented by some court-house bard For recitation by the yard In filibusters. To him ascend the prize orations And sets of fugal variations On some folk-ballad, While dietitians sacrifice A glass of prune-juice or a nice Marsh-mallow salad. Charged with his compound of sensational Sex plus some undenominational Religious matter, Enormous novels by co-eds Rain down on our defenceless heads Till our teeth chatter. In fake Hermetic uniforms Behind our battle-line, in swarms That keep alighting, His existentialists declare That they are in complete despair, Yet go on writing. No matter; He shall be defied; White Aphrodite is on our side: What though his threat To organize us grow more critical? Zeus willing, we, the unpolitical, Shall beat him yet. Lone scholars, sniping from the walls Of learned periodicals, Our facts defend, Our intellectual marines, Landing in little magazines Capture a trend. By night our student Underground At cocktail parties whisper round From ear to ear; Fat figures in the public eye Collapse next morning, ambushed by Some witty sneer. In our morale must lie our strength: So, that we may behold at length Routed Apollo's Battalions melt away like fog, Keep well the Hermetic Decalogue, Which runs as follows:— Thou shalt not do as the dean pleases, Thou shalt not write thy doctor's thesis On education, Thou shalt not worship projects nor Shalt thou or thine bow down before Administration. Thou shalt not answer questionnaires Or quizzes upon World-Affairs, Nor with compliance Take any test. Thou shalt not sit With statisticians nor commit A social science. Thou shalt not be on friendly terms With guys in advertising firms, Nor speak with such As read the Bible for its prose, Nor, above all, make love to those Who wash too much. Thou shalt not live within thy means Nor on plain water and raw greens. If thou must choose Between the chances, choose the odd; Read The New Yorker, trust in God; And take short views. Under Which Lyre, W H Auden Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted October 29, 2020 Report Share Posted October 29, 2020 Earth has not any thing to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! William Wordsworth - 'Compused upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802' Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted November 1, 2020 Report Share Posted November 1, 2020 I’m normally a social girl I love to meet my mates But lately with the virus here We can’t go out the gates. You see, we are the ‘oldies’ now We need to stay inside If they haven’t seen us for a while They’ll think we’ve upped and died. They’ll never know the things we did Before we got this old There wasn’t any Facebook So not everything was told. We may seem sweet old ladies Who would never be uncouth But we grew up in the 60s – If you only knew the truth! There was sex and drugs and rock ‘n roll The pill and miniskirts We smoked, we drank, we partied And were quite outrageous flirts. Then we settled down, got married And turned into someone’s mum, Somebody’s wife, then nana, Who on earth did we become? We didn’t mind the change of pace Because our lives were full But to bury us before we’re dead Is like red rag to a bull! So here you find me stuck inside For 4 weeks, maybe more I finally found myself again Then I had to close the door! It didn’t really bother me I’d while away the hour I’d bake for all the family But I’ve got no bloody flour! Now Netflix is just wonderful I like a gutsy thriller I’m swooning over Idris Or some random sexy killer. At least I’ve got a stash of booze For when I’m being idle There’s wine and whiskey, even gin If I’m feeling suicidal! So let’s all drink to lockdown To recovery and health And hope this bloody virus Doesn’t decimate our wealth. We’ll all get through the crisis And be back to join our mates Just hoping I’m not far too wide To fit through the flaming gates! Let’s all drink to lockdown, Jan Beaumont Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Tom Fitch Posted November 2, 2020 Report Share Posted November 2, 2020 15 hours ago, lunababymoonchild said: I’m normally a social girl (...) Let’s all drink to lockdown, Jan Beaumont 👍👍👍 Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted November 8, 2020 Report Share Posted November 8, 2020 (edited) Let’s all drink to lockdown - hear, hear From this day forth to unhold, to see the nothing in ringed gold, uncare for you when you are old. New vows you make me swear to keep – not ever wake with you, or sleep, or your body, with mine, worship; this empty hand slipped from your glove, these lips sip never from our loving cup, I may not cherish, kiss; unhave, unlove… And all my worldly goods to unendow… And who here present upon whom I call… Carol Ann Duffy - 'New Vows' Edited November 8, 2020 by Heather Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted November 20, 2020 Report Share Posted November 20, 2020 (edited) She wore a blackened lead pentagram On a frayed string neck chain, Tattoo of a ouija board on her back, You can see it through the blue kimono, Snakeskin cowboy boots, Fishnets, Shrunken goats head's rattling on a wooden bracelet With an incantation inscription, Thick smoke coming from the stubby, thick candles Placed in an ornate copper holder In the shape of a bony hand, Craftmade by the a blacksmith possessed For Alistair Crowley himself; It did not just fall into her possession, No lucky second-hand shop find The chosen one from the start, Destined But worked hard to get the scars, A virgin But lustful, Pale white with an olive complexion, She sprinkles red wine Upon every point of the Star of David encircled, Falls to her knees And worships. They chant solomnly in Latin, Encouraged by the man in the long gown, Dress up important gear, Never seen outside the vestry without it, Not even when in the saloon, Silver Cross of Jesus on rosary beads, Large hand written book by a young apprentice, Painstakingly accurate to the originals that Hadrian brought, Blood, sweat and muscle cramps, Ten hour days by candlelight beneath the pulpit, Concentration to the maximum, Burnt out before making the grade, Men in red with pointed hats Light bowls of incense, Swinging them on chains of gold, They sip red wine from a chalice Fall to their knees And worship. Pentagram or rosary, Both symbols, False idols??? False idols?, Barry Holland Edited November 20, 2020 by lunababymoonchild Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted November 21, 2020 Report Share Posted November 21, 2020 (edited) Old Noah he had an ostrich farm and fowls on the largest scale, He ate his egg with a ladle in a egg-cup big as a pail. And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and the fish he took was Whale. But they all were small to the cellar he took when he set out to sail, And Noah he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine, 'I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.' The cataract of the cliff of heaven fell blinding off the brink As if it would wash the stars away as suds go down a sink, The seven heavens came roaring down for the throats of hell to drink, And Noah he cocked his eye and said, 'It looks like rain, I think. The water has drowned the Matterhorn as deep as a Mendip mine, But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.' But Noah he sinned, and we have sinned; on tipsy feet we trod. Till a great big black teetotaller was sent to us for a rod, And you can't get wine at a P.S.A., or chapel, or Eisteddfod, For the Curse of Water has come again because of the wrath of God, And water is on the Bishop's board and the Higher Thinker's shrine, But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine. G. K. Chesterton - 'Wine and Water' Edited November 21, 2020 by Heather Quote Link to post Share on other sites
lunababymoonchild Posted December 1, 2020 Report Share Posted December 1, 2020 (edited) in a room full of peacocks i am now an ostrich and i don't know if any of you know how it feels to be a splash of grey in a room full of brilliant blues and greens it's like being a lonely, pitiful cloud against a blue sky with leafy trim maybe i have my head in the sand because i don't want to be shallow but you'd be right if you guessed it's because i actually don't want to be seen when my face looks like this which is such a cowardly thing to do (i really shouldn't care) i read Journey to the Center of the Earth in middle school, and the only thing i remember is that it was the volcanoes that erupted (like the hives that erupted across my face this past week) that led them to find it- the heart of life and natural beauty; more breathtaking than the flawless plumage of the peacocks Kate Lion Feb 2013 in a room full of peacocks Edited December 1, 2020 by lunababymoonchild Quote Link to post Share on other sites
jfp Posted December 7, 2020 Report Share Posted December 7, 2020 ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest’s ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller’s head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller’s call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, ’Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:— ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,’ he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. Walter de la Mare, "The Listeners" (Just popping in for a quick nostalgic visit. Hello to Heather and other former poem-swappers! Hope you're keeping well. jfp) Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted December 8, 2020 Report Share Posted December 8, 2020 Hi jfp! Good to hear from you again. Lully, lullay, lully, lullay! The falcon hath born my mak away. He bare hym up, he bare hym down, He bare hym in to an orchard brown. In that orchard there was an hall, That was hangid with purpill and pall; And in that hall there was a bed, Hit was hangid with gold so red; And yn that bed there lyeth a knight, His wounds bleeding day and night; By that bedis side there kneeleth a may, And she weepeth both night and day; And by that beddis side there stondith a ston, "Corpus Christi" wretyn ther-on. Anon - 'Corpus Christi carol' Quote Link to post Share on other sites
jfp Posted December 13, 2020 Report Share Posted December 13, 2020 ANTONY O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,— Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue— A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use And dreadful objects so familiar That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war; All pity choked with custom of fell deeds: And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war; That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial. Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, III.i. Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted December 15, 2020 Report Share Posted December 15, 2020 Compleynt, compleynt I hearde upon a day, Artemis singing, Artemis, Artemis Agaynst Pity lifted her wail: Pity causeth the forests to fail. Pity slayeth my nymphs, Pity spareth so many an evil thing. Pity befouleth April, Pity is the root and the spring. Now if no fayre creature followeth me It is on account of Pity, It is on account that Pity forbideth them slaye. All things are made foul in this season, This is the reason, none may seek purity Having for foulnesse pity And things growne awry; No more do my shaftes fly To slay. Nothing is now clean slayne But rotteth away. Ezra Pound - from 'Canto XXX' Quote Link to post Share on other sites
jfp Posted December 19, 2020 Report Share Posted December 19, 2020 ANTONY Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest— For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men— Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, III.ii. Quote Link to post Share on other sites
Heather Posted December 21, 2020 Report Share Posted December 21, 2020 They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead; They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed; I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking, and sent him down the sky. And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. William Johnson Cory - 'Heraclitus' translated from an ancient Greek poem by Callimachus of Cyrene Quote Link to post Share on other sites
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