“I have no time for those things now,” we say;— Effie Smith
“But in the future just a little way,
No longer by this ceaseless toil oppressed,
I shall have leisure then for thought and rest.
When I the debts upon my land have paid,
Or on foundations firm my business laid,
I shall take time for discourse long and sweet
With those beloved who round my hearthstone meet;
I shall take time on mornings still and cool
To seek the freshness dim of wood and pool,
Where, calmed and hallowed by great Nature’s peace,
My life from its hot cares shall find release;
I shall take time to think on destiny,
Of what I was and am and yet shall be,
Till in the hush my soul may nearer prove
To that great Soul in whom we live and move.
All this I shall do sometime but not now—
The press of business cares will not allow.”
And thus our life glides on year after year;
The promised leisure never comes more near.
Perhaps the aim on which we placed our mind
Is high, and its attainment slow to find;
Or if we reach the mark that we have set,
We still would seek another, farther yet.
Thus all our youth, our strength, our time go past
Till death upon the threshold stands at last,
And back unto our Maker we must give
The life we spent preparing well to live.
Pale coin, what various hands have you passed through
Ere you to-day within my hand were laid?
Perchance a laborer’s well-earned hire you made;
Some miser may have gloated long on you;
Perhaps some pitying hand to Want outthrew;
And, lost and won through devious tricks of trade,
You may have been, alas! the full price paid
For some poor soul that loved you past your due.
— Effie Smith
No doubt ’tis well, O imaged Liberty,
You see not where your placid face is thrust,
Nor know how far man is from being free,
Bound as he is by money’s fateful lust,
While to his anxious soul like mockery
Seem those fair, graven words: “In God we trust.”
Have you ever heard the term “all employees are consultants?” What does this mean? It means that every employee is a consultant! Every employee is a volunteer; they contribute to the bottom line. When you think about it, that makes sense.
I have a friend who loves working in the admissions office at his college. He’s an incredible advisor. He tells people what to say when to talk, what to look for, and how to write good essays. Every employee is a volunteer, and every employee is a consultant.
I also think about the consultants in the small business I work in. Every single employee is a consultant. Every single employee is a volunteer. And if you think about it, they are helping make the company more successful. Because the company would be bankrupt without them!
Now that we understand every employee is a consultant, what can you do to create job aids? Well, there are lots of things you can do! You could get one or two of these terrific books on leadership and transform your employees into consultants!
Why not get an employee assistance program started today? Every employee and every consultant knows that their job is to help the company succeed. They know that their success impacts the bottom line. That’s why you need to create job aids to help your employees and your consultants succeed!
These new employee aid books will help you communicate with your employees better! They will help you make decisions faster. They will help you understand the information your employees provide you. Best of all, these books will show you how to create job aids that actually engage your employees in the process!
Another thing you can do is make sure your employees know that they are valued. You do that by putting a goal board up at each meeting where your employees are present. This goal board should include the skills, talents, and abilities of each of your employees. It should also list the goals you have for the business. You may also want to add some short bullet points to remind the employees of the things you want to be accomplished by a certain date.
Finally, you must make sure that your employees are the ones who are going to feel the brunt of this. Don’t sit back and wait until an incident occurs. The sooner you deal with the problem, the easier it will be to fix it down the road. Your company cannot afford to lose good talent because you did not take the time to recognize and reward it.
One final tip is to make sure your company is willing to go the extra mile to hire and train your new employees. You can only be as successful as the person who is put in charge of implementing the changes. Make sure that you spend the money and devote the time necessary to train all of your employees. It will help you avoid a lot of headaches down the road.
It is also a good idea to consult with consulting services. There are many reputable consulting services out there, and some are even located right near you! These services will provide you with all of the information you need to implement change quickly. Additionally, they will be able to point you in the direction to help you avoid making common mistakes that could easily be avoided.
With the amount of stress that people deal with every day, you can understand why it can be difficult to keep everyone happy. Sometimes, simple mistakes can lead to larger problems that can be hard to correct. When you hire consulting services, you will be getting an outsider’s perspective on how to run your business so that you can understand what is going on. By listening to your people and communicating clearly with them, you can reduce the confusion within your own company. This will improve everyone’s morale, which is something all businesses need to have worked well.
Making all employees happy is a great way for your business to succeed. Employees are one of the most important parts of your business, and they help make everything run smoothly. Make sure that you take the time necessary to hire and train quality individuals. To do this effectively, you need to consult with a professional. A consulting service can help you find the right people for the job so that you can continue to run smoothly.
Many things have to be done in a day. These are the daily disciplines for the homemaker. These have to be accomplished to ensure that daily routines are accomplished and everyone plays their part. Some of these things are very specific, but others can be broad. These are very important tasks that must be done to keep things moving.
The first thing that needs to be done is to create a schedule. This has to include all of the major tasks that need to be accomplished on any given day. This includes both the major tasks that have to be done as well as the smaller ones. To ensure that things get done on time, the planner should stick to this schedule. It is important not to skip something. This will only cause things to go undone, and more work will need to be done in its place.
When it comes to planning out what to accomplish each day, the planner must know where everything needs to go. This will allow her or him to make sure that all things are covered. This also helps to keep things organized. Once all of the smaller details have been covered, a planner can move onto the bigger picture.
Some of the homemaker’s daily disciplines can include planning out the meals that need to be made. These can include eating times as well as snack times. To have enough food on the table each day, a family should set a meal plan into motion. Once meal planning has been done, the rest of the day can be planned. Having a few options can help to get the planning done faster. A couple of choices can include having a sit-down meal or going with a quick snack.
Making sure that the necessary things are present in the home is another part of this process. Some of these things include a place for the children to play regularly. Others can include things such as watching television or using the computer. Having some variety in these things can be important.
Getting things accomplished can be done with a great deal of discipline if done correctly. Once established, your routines will have a comforting rhythum. This means that the same things will have to be done on each day. It will not matter how much fun it is to do things, it all has to be done within the rules of the household.
Doing things that will teach and shape children can be done every day. Some options include arts and crafts. Having a good hobby is something that everyone can relate to. Children do enjoy doing their own crafts and will be more content with that if they do it with the family. It can also be encouraged to do things around the house when the child is older.
Getting a good night’s sleep is another thing that should be done at night. The child will be calmer and less likely to be disruptive at school if they get a good night’s sleep. This should be done consistently. Some things should be avoided on a day-to-day basis, such as anything that contains caffeine.
Controlling impulsivity is a good discipline strategy. Children need to be able to control their impulses before they can act on them. They should learn how to take a pause, think about it for a few seconds, and then decide if it is the right thing to do. Teenagers should still follow these principles but with more caution. These children might be more likely to try things that could get them into trouble.
Learning how to manage your time is another discipline strategy. Children need to know what they have to do for each day of the week and then stick to it. It can sometimes be difficult to do this, but parents need to find a way to make sure that it is done.
These are just a couple of suggestions. All discipline strategies should be age-appropriate and be fit for the child’s age. It may require some experimentation to find the right approach to discipline, but eventually, you should find a method that works well. It can prevent misbehaving in many ways. Children who behave well are praised for good behavior.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed – and gazed – but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie— William Wordsworth
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
LAST comes December with his ruffian wind
Whirled from the maelstrom of the polar sea
To sweep our mighty hill in mockery
Of such enshrouding snows as would be kind
And wrap their frozen mother. Stiffly lined
Through thin and crackling ice the leaves lie stark
As hoar Caina’s ice-locked souls, and dark
In the dark air the branches toss and grind.
Then dawns another day when winds are still;— George Allan England
From our frost-flashing village on the hill
We greet the laggard sun, and far below
All down the valley see the silver spread,
Save where the dim fir-forest’s pungent bed
Lies thatched by tufted pine-plumes bright with snow.
The Trestle and the Buck-Saw— James Whitcomb Riley
Went out a-walking once,
And staid away and staid away
For days and weeks and months:
And when they got back home again,
Of all that had occurred,
The neighbors said the gossips said
They never said a word.
EVEN in her mourning is the College fair,
With burial robes of scarlet leaves and gold
That flicker down in misty morning cold
Or fall reluctant through gray evening air.
The Gothic elms rise desolately bare;
A clinging flame the twisted ivy crawls
Its blood-red course athwart the time-worn walls
And spreads its crimson arras everywhere.
High noon brings some wan ghost of summer, still;— George Allan England
Fresh stand the rose-trees yet, the lawns show green
With leaves inlaid, and still the pigeons fly
Round sun-warm gables where they court and preen;
But evenfall comes shuddering down, a-chill,
And bare black branches fret the leaden sky
We say and we say and we say,— James Whitcomb Riley
We promise, engage, and declare,
Till a year from to-morrow is yesterday,
And yesterday is—Where?
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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath 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,— Rudyard Kipling
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!
DEAD is the day, and through the list’ning leaves
The wind-dirge sighs. Sad at my dim-lit pane
I darkling sit to hear the pattering rain
And pebbly drip that plashes from the eaves.
Far in the misty fields loll sodden sheaves,
Whilst every wheel-mark in the rutty lane
Leads down its trickling rivulet to drain
Marsh-meadows where the knotted willow grieves.
Gray afternoon to dusk hath given place,— George Allan England
And dusk to silent darkness falls again.
Listless, to see the sad earth veil her face,
I watch the miry fields, the swollen rills,
And, farther, through my glimmering windowpane,
The rain-swept valley and the fading hills…
Spades take up leaves— Robert Frost
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use,
But a crop is a crop,
And who’s to say where
The harvest shall stop?
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh—Robert Frost
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
A reading of on YouTube
BY THE old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
“Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay! “
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can’t you ‘ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay ?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!
‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ‘er little cap was green,
An’ ‘er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ‘eathen idol’s foot:
Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ‘er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay…
When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’ slow,
She’d git ‘er little banjo an’ she’d sing “Kulla-lo-lo!
With ‘er arm upon my shoulder an’ ‘er cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’ teak.
Elephints a-pilin’ teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence ‘ung that ‘eavy you was ‘arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay…
But that’s all shove be’ind me – long ago an’ fur away
An’ there ain’t no ‘busses runnin’ from the Bank to Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’ ‘ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
“If you’ve ‘eard the East a-callin’, you won’t never ‘eed naught else.”
No! you won’t ‘eed nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay…
I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,
An’ the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho’ I walks with fifty ‘ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an’ grubby ‘and –
Law! wot do they understand?
I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay…
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,— Rudyard Kipling
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
O the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay !
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,— Henry W. Longfellow
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And molder in dust away!
“The desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.”
—ISAIAH XXXV. I.
Be-hold the flow-ers of June! how fair
And bright their buds ap-pear,
As, open-ing to the sum-mer air,
Our eyes and hearts they cheer!
Who would have thought there could a-bound
Such beau-ty and de-light
Be-neath the cold and win-try ground
That hid those flow-ers from sight?
That pow-er which made and governs all—
The might-y pow-er of God—
A-lone could life and beau-ty call
Out of the life-less sod.
And He, who from the Win-ter’s gloom–anonymous
Can Sum-mer thus dis-close,
Shall one day make the de-sert bloom,
And blos-som as the rose.
To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.Joseph Chilton Pearce
The haw-thorn blos-som, snow-y white,
Hangs thick upon the hedge to-day;
With many flow-ers the fields are bright
Upon this mer-ry First of May.
So let us ga-ther flow-er-ets fair,
And blos-soms from the haw-thorn spray,
To deck our May-pole stand-ing there,
Upon this mer-ry First of May.
And then, like fai-ries, in a ring,
A-round it we will dance or play,
And all our glad-dest songs will sing
Upon this mer-ry First of May.
And dear-est Maud shall there be seen— anonymous
With crown of haw-thorn blos-soms gay,
And she shall be our lit-tle queen,
Upon this mer-ry First of May.
SILENCE and peace. The warm, love-bringing Night
From the pure zenith soft and slow descending
Lulls the sweet air to rest, with the day’s ending,
Save where the dark bat wheels his fickle flight.
Deep glows the rosy-golden West, still bright,
Beyond the plumy toss of elms down-bending,
Whilst on the close-cut lawns, blurring and bending,
Tall chapel-windows cast their ruddy light.
Now the clear blue of the mid dome of heaven— George Allan England
Darkens, immeasurably deep and still.
That one full star which ushers in the even
Burns in rapt glory o’er the steadfast spire;
And the Night-angel strews at his sweet will
The silvern star-dust of the heavenly choir.
It is not work that kills men; it is worry. Work is healthy; you could hardly put more upon a man than he can bear. Worry is rust upon the blade. It is not the revolution that destroys the machinery, but the friction.— Henry Ward Beecher
In work consists the true pride of life; grounded in active employment, though early ardor may abate, it never degenerates into indifference, and age lives in perennial youth. Life is a weariness only to the idle, or where the soul is empty.—Leo W. Grindon.
Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood?
The Lady Pheasant and her Brood;
So stand we still, to let them pass
On oak-leaves through the tasselled grass.
Down dappled aisles of hazel shade
They disappear along the glade,
My Lady in her rusty gown,
Ten children clad in useful brown.
But one fledged laggard stops to eat
The plantain seeds at Betsey’s feet,
Who plucks my fingers: “Mother, come
We’ll pick him up and take him home!”
The nestling joins the hidden nine— Helen Parry Eden
Deep in the copse; and I lift mine
And bear her home along the lane,—
“I want him!” still pouts Betsey-Jane.
Within our garden walls you see
A huge old-fashioned mulberry
Whose purple fruit in summer falls
Into the shade below the walls.
Its blackened trunk grows grim and hard
From the harsh gravel of the yard,
Its crest beholds the winds go by
And scans the milky evening sky.
And like this tree my soul makes mirth,— Helen Parry Eden
(Though rooted deep in blackened earth)
For it shall grow till it hath sight
(The walls o’er-topped) of endless light.
The proper way to eat a fig, in society,
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.
Then you throw away the skin
Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,
After you have taken off the blossom with your lips.
But the vulgar way
Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.
Every fruit has its secret.
The fig is a very secretive fruit.
As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic:
And it seems male.
But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female.
The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part; the fig-fruit:
The fissure, the yoni,
The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre.
The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled;
And but one orifice.
The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom.
There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward;
Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb.
It was always a secret.
That’s how it should be, the female should always be secret.
There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough
Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals;
Silver-pink peach, Venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples,
Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems
Openly pledging heaven:
Here’s to the thorn in flower! Here is to Utterance!
The brave, adventurous rosaceæ.
Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won’t taste it;
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light;
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilisation, and fruiting
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it’s finished, and you’re over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.
Till the drop of ripeness exudes,
And the year is over.
And then the fig has kept her secret long enough.
So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet.
And the fig is finished, the year is over.
That’s how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the purple slit
Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day.
Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret.
That’s how women die too.
The year is fallen over-ripe,
The year of our women.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
The secret is laid bare.
And rottenness soon sets in.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked
She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the man.
She’d been naked all her days before,
But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn’t had the fact on her mind.
She got the fact on her mind, and quickly sewed fig-leaves.
And women have been sewing ever since.
But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it.
They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind,
And they won’t let us forget it.
Now, the secret
Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips
That laugh at the Lord’s indignation.
What then, good Lord! cry the women.
We have kept our secret long enough.
We are a ripe fig.
Let us burst into affirmation.
They forget, ripe figs won’t keep.
Ripe figs won’t keep.
Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, of the south.—D. H. Lawrence
Ripe figs won’t keep, won’t keep in any clime.
What then, when women the world over have all bursten into affirmation?
And bursten figs won’t keep?
I love you, rotten,
I love to suck you out from your skins
So brown and soft and coming suave,
So morbid, as the Italians say.
What a rare, powerful, reminiscent flavor
Comes out of your falling through the stages of decay:
Stream within stream.
Something of the same flavor as Syracusan muscat wine
Or vulgar Marsala.
Though even the word Marsala will smack of preciosity
Soon in the pussy-foot West.
What is it?
What is it, in the grape turning raisin,
In the medlar, in the sorb-apple,
Wineskins of brown morbidity,
What is it that reminds us of white gods?
Gods nude as blanched nut-kernels,
Strangely, half-sinisterly flesh-fragrant
As if with sweat,
And drenched with mystery.
Sorb-apples, medlars with dead crowns.
I say, wonderful are the hellish experiences
Dionysos of the Underworld.
A kiss, and a vivid spasm of farewell, a moment’s orgasm of rupture,
Then along the damp road alone, till the next turning.
And there, a new partner, a new parting, a new unfusing into twain,
A new gasp of further isolation,
A new intoxication of loneliness, among decaying, frost-cold leaves.
Going down the strange lanes of hell, more and more intensely alone,
The fibers of the heart parting one after the other
And yet the soul continuing, naked-footed, ever more vividly embodied
Like a flame blown whiter and whiter
In a deeper and deeper darkness
Ever more exquisite, distilled in separation.
So, in the strange retorts of medlars and sorb-apples
The distilled essence of hell.
The exquisite odor of leave-taking.
Orpheus, and the winding, leaf-clogged, silent lanes of hell.
Each soul departing with its own isolation,
Strangest of all strange companions,
Medlars, sorb-apples— D. H. Lawrence
More than sweet
Flux of autumn
Sucked out of your empty bladders
And sipped down, perhaps, with a sip of Marsala
So that the rambling, sky-dropped grape can add its music to yours,
Orphic farewell, and farewell, and farewell
And the ego sum [I am ] of Dionysos
The sono io [it’s me] of perfect drunkenness
Intoxication of final loneliness.
When did you start your tricks
What do you stand on such high legs for?
Why this length of shredded shank
Is it so that you shall lift your centre of gravity upwards
And weigh no more than air as you alight upon me,
Stand upon me weightless, you phantom?
I heard a woman call you the Winged Victory
In sluggish Venice.
You turn your head towards your tail, and smile.
How can you put so much devilry
Into that translucent phantom shred
Of a frail corpus?
Queer, with your thin wings and your streaming legs
How you sail like a heron, or a dull clot of air,
Yet what an aura surrounds you;
Your evil little aura, prowling, and casting a numbness on my mind.
That is your trick, your bit of filthy magic:
Invisibility, and the anæsthetic power
To deaden my attention in your direction.
But I know your game now, streaky sorcerer.
Queer, how you stalk and prowl the air
In circles and evasions, enveloping me,
Ghoul on wings
Settle, and stand on long thin shanks
Eyeing me sideways, and cunningly conscious that I am aware,
I hate the way you lurch off sideways into air
Having read my thoughts against you.
Come then, let us play at unawares,
And see who wins in this sly game of bluff.
Man or mosquito.
You don’t know that I exist, and I don’t know that you exist.
It is your trump
It is your hateful little trump
You pointed fiend,
Which shakes my sudden blood to hatred of you:
It is your small, high, hateful bugle in my ear.
Why do you do it?
Surely it is bad policy.
They say you can’t help it.
If that is so, then I believe a little in Providence protecting the innocent.
But it sounds so amazingly like a slogan
A yell of triumph as you snatch my scalp.
Blood, red blood
I behold you stand
For a second enspasmed in oblivion,
Sucking live blood
Such silence, such suspended transport,
Such obscenity of trespass.
As well as you may.
Only your accursed hairy frailty
Your own imponderable weightlessness
Saves you, wafts you away on the very draught my anger makes in its snatching.
Away with a pæan of derision
You winged blood-drop.
Can I not overtake you?
Are you one too many for me
Am I not mosquito enough to out-mosquito you?
Queer, what a big stain my sucked blood makes— Siracusa
Beside the infinitesimal faint smear of you!
Queer, what a dim dark smudge you have disappeared into!
Emblem of life, see changeful April sail— Henry Kirke White.
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now bidding Summer’s softest zephyrs rise,
Anon recalling Winter’s stormy gale,
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail:
Then smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,
Promise of sunshine not so prone to fail.
So, to us sojourners in life’s low vale,
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive,
While still the Fates the web of misery weave,
So Hope exultant spreads her airy sail,
And from the present gloom the soul conveys
To distant summers and far happier days.
“Thou makest the earth soft with showers: Thou bless-est the spring-ing there-of.”
—PSALM lxv. 10.
When A-pril skies be-gin to frown,
And the cold rain comes pelt-ing down,
We must not grum-ble nor com-plain,
Nor i-dly say, we hate the rain.
God sends the rain; the dust-y ground
It soft-ens in the fields a-round;
The mois-ture ev-e-ry plant re-ceives,
And springs a-fresh in flow-ers and leaves.
Should God for-bid the show-ers to fall,
Nor send us any rain at all,
The ground would all grow hard and dry,
And ev-e-ry liv-ing plant would die.
All things would starve and per-ish then—— anonymous
No food for birds, nor beasts, nor men;
Then do not mur-mur, nor com-plain,
God, in His good-ness, sends the rain.
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call.
Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star overall,
Thereby the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end,
Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.
I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past,— John Masefield
Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last;
Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled,
Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,— William Ernest Henley
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.