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  • #31
    Drake's Drum

    DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
    Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
    An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.
    Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
    Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe,
    An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
    He see et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

    Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
    (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?)
    Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
    A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
    "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
    If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
    An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago."

    Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
    Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
    An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
    Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
    Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'
    They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!


    "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

    I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

    HAKUNA MATATA

    Comment


    • #32
      DULCE ET DECORUM EST

      Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
      Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
      Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
      And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
      Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
      But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
      Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
      Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

      Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
      Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
      But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
      And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
      Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
      As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
      In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
      He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

      If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
      Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
      And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
      His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
      If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
      Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
      Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
      Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
      My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
      To children ardent for some desperate glory,
      The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
      Pro patria mori.


      "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

      I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

      HAKUNA MATATA

      Comment


      • #33
        Nocturne

        The splendour falls on castle walls
        And snowy summits old in story:
        The long light shakes across the lakes,
        And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
        Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
        Bugle blow; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
        O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
        And thinner, clearer, farther going!
        O sweet and far from cliff and scar
        The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
        Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
        Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
        O love, they die in yon rich sky,
        They faint on hill or field or river:
        Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
        And grow for ever and for ever.
        Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
        And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.


        "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

        I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

        HAKUNA MATATA

        Comment


        • #34
          I wonder if I have had a favourite poem.

          The beauty of a poem enraptures me and loses me into a blissful solitude!


          "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

          I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

          HAKUNA MATATA

          Comment


          • #35
            I'm not much for poetry myself, but if I had to pick it would be what chankya said: "If" by Kipling.

            -dale

            Comment


            • #36
              here's one of my favorite (western) poems.

              LESSONS OF THE WAR

              To Alan Michell
              Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
              Et militavi non sine gloria
              I. NAMING OF PARTS

              To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
              We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
              We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
              To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
              Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
              And to-day we have naming of parts.

              This is the lower sling swivel. And this
              Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
              When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
              Which in your case you have not got. The branches
              Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
              Which in our case we have not got.

              This is the safety-catch, which is always released
              With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
              See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
              If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
              Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
              Any of them using their finger.

              And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
              Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
              Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
              Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
              The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
              They call it easing the Spring.

              They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
              If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
              And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
              Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
              Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
              For to-day we have naming of parts.
              There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there has always been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that "My ignorance is just as good as your knowledge."- Isaac Asimov

              Comment


              • #37
                Originally posted by glyn View Post
                When the Reverend gentleman wrote that it was possible to buy laudunum at the chemist shop. What's the betting that he indulged himself?
                Id say you'd win that one easily.....no man in his right mind could have written 'Into the looking glass'.
                For Gallifrey! For Victory! For the end of time itself!!

                Comment


                • #38
                  Originally posted by glyn View Post
                  When the Reverend gentleman wrote that it was possible to buy laudunum at the chemist shop. What's the betting that he indulged himself?
                  If it's anything like the so called modern art, laudanum has probably been put into our water supply rather than floride. The way some of our "leaders" act I'm sure there is an Opium Den in Westminster. Lewis Caroll would be in good company:)

                  Comment


                  • #39
                    I'm a big fan of Rabindranath Tagore. The man writes such complex things in the simplest language. I never had to look for a dictionary to understand Tagore.

                    Here's one of his from a novel.

                    No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible;
                    no shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
                    This love between you and me is simple as a song.

                    We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not raise our
                    hands to the void for things beyond hope.
                    It is enough what we give and we get.
                    We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain.
                    This love between you and me is simple as a song.

                    Comment


                    • #40
                      It would have to be either "Stopiing By a Wood On A Snowy Eveneing" by Robert Frost

                      Whose woods these are I think I know.
                      His house is in the Village though;
                      He will not see me stopping here
                      To watch his woods fill up with snow.

                      My little horse must think it queer
                      To stop without a farmhouse near
                      Between the woods and frozen lake
                      The darkest evening of the year.


                      He gives his harness bells a shake
                      To ask if there is some mistake.
                      The only other sound’s the sweep
                      Of easy wind and downy flake.


                      The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
                      But I have promises to keep,
                      And miles to go before I sleep.
                      And miles to go before I sleep.

                      or Robert Service's "The Creation of Sam McGee"

                      Poem: The Cremation of Sam McGee
                      “Loyalty to country ALWAYS. Loyalty to government, when it deserves it.”
                      Mark Twain

                      Comment


                      • #41
                        I don't care for poetry whatsoever. In fact in most aspects I despise it. I don't do metaphors and I can't interperet meaning of other people's. It was probably High School that turned me off poetry. Completely and utterly. I'd rather stab my eye with a rusty screwdriver than read poetry.

                        But if I had to choose....

                        "There once was a man from Bel-Air.
                        He made love to his wife on the stair.
                        The bannister broke
                        On the 31st stroke,
                        So he finished her off in mid-air!"

                        Author unknown.
                        "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach...just make sure you thrust upward through his ribcage."

                        Comment


                        • #42
                          The Dead
                          Rupert Brooke

                          Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
                          There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
                          But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
                          These laid the world away; poured out the red
                          Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
                          Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
                          That men call age; and those who would have been,
                          Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

                          Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
                          Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain,
                          Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
                          And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
                          And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
                          And we have come into our heritage.
                          These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
                          Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
                          The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
                          And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
                          These had seen movement, and heard music; known
                          Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
                          Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
                          Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

                          There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
                          And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
                          Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
                          And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
                          Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
                          A width, a shining peace, under the night

                          "Every government degenerates when trusted to the rulers of the people alone. The people themselves, therefore, are its only safe depositories." Thomas Jefferson

                          Comment


                          • #43
                            kipling If:

                            If you can keep your head when all about you

                            Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

                            If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

                            But make allowance for their doubting too;

                            If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

                            Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

                            Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

                            And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;



                            If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;

                            If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

                            If you can meet with triumph and disaster

                            And treat those two impostors just the same;

                            If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

                            Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

                            Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

                            And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;



                            If you can make one heap of all your winnings

                            And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

                            And lose, and start again at your beginnings

                            And never breathe a word about your loss;

                            If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

                            To serve your turn long after they are gone,

                            And so hold on when there is nothing in you

                            Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";



                            If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

                            Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;

                            If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

                            If all men count with you, but none too much;

                            If you can fill the unforgiving minute

                            With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--

                            Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

                            And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


                            wow! it sends shivers down my spine.
                            sigpic

                            Comment


                            • #44
                              Under Ben Bulben, William Butler Yeats.

                              I love this poem so much, read it and I think you'll like it - the message really is carved on his grave, I was there in Spring, an utterly beautiful place:).


                              Swear by what the sages spoke
                              Round the Mareotic Lake
                              That the Witch of Atlas knew,
                              Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.
                              Swear by those horsemen, by those women
                              Complexion and form prove superhuman,
                              That pale, long-visaged company
                              That air in immortality
                              Completeness of their passions won;
                              Now they ride the wintry dawn
                              Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

                              Here's the gist of what they mean.

                              Many times man lives and dies
                              Between his two eternities,
                              That of race and that of soul,
                              And ancient Ireland knew it all.
                              Whether man die in his bed
                              Or the rifle knocks him dead,
                              A brief parting from those dear
                              Is the worst man has to fear.
                              Though grave-digger's toil is long,
                              Sharp their spades, their muscles strong,
                              They but thrust their buried men
                              Back in the human mind again.

                              You that Mitchel's prayer have heard,
                              "Send war in our time, O Lord!"
                              Know that when all words are said
                              And a man is fighting mad,
                              Something drops from eyes long blind,
                              He completes his partial mind,
                              For an instant stands at ease,
                              Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
                              Even the wisest man grows tense
                              With some sort of violence
                              Before he can accomplish fate,
                              Know his work or choose his mate.

                              Poet and sculptor, do the work,
                              Nor let the modish painter shirk
                              What his great forefathers did,
                              Bring the soul of man to God,
                              Make him fill the cradles right.
                              Measurement began our might:
                              Forms a stark Egyptian thought,
                              Forms that gentler Phidias wrought,
                              Michael Angelo left a proof
                              On the Sistine Chapel roof,
                              Where but half-awakened Adam
                              Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
                              Till her bowels are in heat,
                              Proof that there's a purpose set
                              Before the secret working mind:
                              Profane perfection of mankind.

                              Quattrocento put in print
                              On backgrounds for a God or Saint
                              Gardens where a soul's at ease;
                              Where everything that meets the eye,
                              Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,
                              Resemble forms that are or seem
                              When sleepers wake and yet still dream,
                              And when it's vanished still declare,
                              With only bed and bedstead there,
                              That heavens had opened.

                              Gyres run on;
                              When that greater dream had gone
                              Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,
                              Prepared a rest for the people of God,
                              Palmer's phrase, but after that
                              Confusion fell upon our thought.

                              Irish poets, learn your trade,
                              Sing whatever is well made,
                              Scorn the sort now growing up
                              All out of shape from toe to top,
                              Their unremembering hearts and heads
                              Base-born products of base beds.
                              Sing the peasantry, and then
                              Hard-riding country gentlemen,
                              The holiness of monks, and after
                              Porter-drinkers' randy laughter;
                              Sing the lords and ladies gay
                              That were beaten into clay
                              Through seven heroic centuries;
                              Cast your mind on other days
                              That we in coming days may be
                              Still the indomitable Irish.

                              Under bare Ben Bulben's head
                              In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
                              An ancestor was rector there
                              Long years ago, a church stands near,
                              By the road an ancient cross.
                              No marble, no conventional phrase;
                              On limestone quarried near the spot
                              By his command these words are cut:

                              Cast a cold eye
                              On life, on death.
                              Horseman, pass by!
                              Although it is not true that all conservatives are stupid people, it is true that most stupid people are conservative.
                              - John Stuart Mill.

                              Comment


                              • #45
                                The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

                                From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
                                And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
                                Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
                                I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
                                When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

                                -- Randall Jarrell

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