November 1st

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright

The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,

which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed,

Shines like another sun--on mortal sight

Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night,

And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread,

If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head--

Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight

Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing,

Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers

Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure,

White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure,

Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring

Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Hobgoblin

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

First thoughts

"First thoughts are not always the best."

Vittorio Alfieri

Not it

I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it.

Groucho Marx

Quotable

It is better to be quotable than to be honest.

Tom Stoppard

Awake

Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.

Victor Hugo

Longest

The love that lasts longest is the love that is never returned.

W. Somerset Maugham

Life

Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present to live better in the future.

William Wordsworth

Dreams

"Dreams permit each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives."

William Dement

Rage

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Ode to Psyche

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung

By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung

Even into thine own soft-conched ear:

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?

I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,

Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side

In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran

A brooklet, scarce espied:

Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,

They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;

Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,

As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,

And ready still past kisses to outnumber

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:

The winged boy I knew;

But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?

His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!

Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;

Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,

Nor altar heap'd with flowers;

Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan

Upon the midnight hours;

No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet

From chain-swung censer teeming;

No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,

Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,

When holy were the haunted forest boughs,

Holy the air, the water, and the fire;

Yet even in these days so far retir'd

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,

Fluttering among the faint Olympians,

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan

Upon the midnight hours;

Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet

From swinged censer teeming;

Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane

In some untrodden region of my mind,

Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:

Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;

And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;

And in the midst of this wide quietness

A rosy sanctuary will I dress

With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,

With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:

And there shall be for thee all soft delight

That shadowy thought can win,

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,

To let the warm Love in!

John Keats

A Child Asleep

How he sleepeth! having drunken

Weary childhood's mandragore,

From his pretty eyes have sunken

Pleasures, to make room for more -

Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before.

Nosegays! leave them for the waking:

Throw them earthward where they grew.

Dim are such, beside the breaking

Amaranths he looks unto -

Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.

Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden

From the paths they sprang beneath,

Now perhaps divinely holden,

Swing against him in a wreath -

We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath.

Vision unto vision calleth,

While the young child dreameth on.

Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth

With the glory thou hast won!

Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun.

We should see the spirits ringing

Round thee, - were the clouds away.

'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing

In the silent-seeming clay -

Singing!-Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way.

As the moths around a taper,

As the bees around a rose,

As the gnats around a vapour, -

So the Spirits group and close

Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.

Shapes of brightness overlean thee, -

Flash their diadems of youth

On the ringlets which half screen thee, -

While thou smilest, . . . not in sooth

Thy smile . . . but the overfair one, dropt from some aethereal mouth.

Haply it is angels' duty,

During slumber, shade by shade:

To fine down this childish beauty

To the thing it must be made,

Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade.

Softly, softly! make no noises!

Now he lieth dead and dumb -

Now he hears the angels' voices

Folding silence in the room -

Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come.

Speak not! he is consecrated -

Breathe no breath across his eyes.

Lifted up and separated,

On the hand of God he lies,

In a sweetness beyond touching-held in cloistral sanctities.

Could ye bless him-father-mother ?

Bless the dimple in his cheek?

Dare ye look at one another,

And the benediction speak?

Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak?

He is harmless-ye are sinful, -

Ye are troubled-he, at ease:

From his slumber, virtue winful

Floweth outward with increase -

Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace-and go in peace.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

To Summer

O thou who passest thro' our valleys in

Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat

That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,

Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft

Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld

With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard

Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car

Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs

Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on

Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy

Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:

Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:

Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:

Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:

We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,

Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,

Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

William Blake

The Little Dell

Doleful was the land,

Dull on, every side,

Neither soft n'or grand,

Barren, bleak, and wide;

Nothing look'd with love;

All was dingy brown;

The very skies above

Seem'd to sulk and frown.

Plodding sick and sad,

Weary day on day;

Searching, never glad,

Many a miry way;

Poor existence lagg'd

In this barren place;

While the seasons dragg'd

Slowly o'er its face.

Spring, to sky and ground,

Came before I guess'd;

Then one day I found

A valley, like a nest!

Guarded with a spell

Sure it must have been,

This little fairy dell

Which I had never seen.

Open to the blue,

Green banks hemm'd it round

A rillet wander'd through

With a tinkling sound;

Briars among the rocks

Tangled arbours made;

Primroses in flocks

Grew beneath their shade.

Merry birds a few,

Creatures wildly tame,

Perch'd and sung and flew;

Timid field-mice came;

Beetles in the moss

Journey'd here and there;

Butterflies across

Danced through sunlit air.

There I often read,

Sung alone, or dream'd;

Blossoms overhead,

Where the west wind stream'd;

Small horizon-line,

Smoothly lifted up,

Held this world of mine

In a grassy cup.

The barren land to-day

Hears my last adieu:

Not an hour I stay;

Earth is wide and new.

Yet, farewell, farewell!

May the sun and show'rs

Bless that Little Dell

Of safe and tranquil hours!

William Allingham

The Opal Dream Cave

In an opal dream cave I found a fairy:

Her wings were frailer than flower petals,

Frailer far than snowflakes.

She was not frightened, but poised on my finger,

Then delicately walked into my hand.

I shut the two palms of my hands together

And held her prisoner.

I carried her out of the opal cave,

Then opened my hands.

First she became thistledown,

Then a mote in a sunbeam,

Then--nothing at all.

Empty now is my opal dream cave.

Katherine Mansfield

Love Gregor; Or, The Lass Of Lochroyan

'O wha will shoe my fu' fair foot?

And wha will glove my hand?

And wha will lace my middle jimp,

Wi' the new-made London band?

'And wha will kaim my yellow hair,

Wi' the new made silver kaim?

And wha will father my young son,

Till Love Gregor come hame?'

'Your father will shoe your fu' fair foot,

Your mother will glove your hand;

Your sister will lace your middle jimp

Wi' the new-made London band.

'Your brother will kaim your yellow hair,

Wi' the new made silver kaim;

And the king of heaven will father your bairn,

Till Love Gregor come haim.'

'But I will get a bonny boat,

And I will sail the sea,

For I maun gang to Love Gregor,

Since he canno come hame to me.'

O she has gotten a bonny boat,

And sailld the sa't sea fame;

She langd to see her ain true-love,

Since he could no come hame.

'O row your boat, my mariners,

And bring me to the land,

For yonder I see my love's castle,

Close by the sa't sea strand.'

She has ta'en her young son in her arms,

And to the door she's gone,

And lang she's knocked and sair she ca'd,

But answer got she none.

'O open the door, Love Gregor,' she says,

'O open, and let me in;

For the wind blaws thro' my yellow hair,

And the rain draps o'er my chin.'

'Awa, awa, ye ill woman,

You'r nae come here for good;

You'r but some witch, or wile warlock,

Or mer-maid of the flood.'

'I am neither a witch nor a wile warlock,

Nor mer-maid of the sea,

I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;

O open the door to me.'

'Gin ye be Annie of Rough Royal--

And I trust ye are not she--

Now tell me some of the love-tokens

That past between you and me.'

'O dinna you mind now, Love Gregor,

When we sat at the wine,

How we changed the rings frae our fingers?

And I can show thee thine.

'O yours was good, and good enough,

But ay the best was mine;

For yours was o' the good red goud,

But mine o' the diamonds fine.

'But open the door now, Love Gregor,

O open the door I pray,

For your young son that is in my arms

Will be dead ere it be day.'

'Awa, awa, ye ill woman,

For here ye shanno win in;

Gae drown ye in the raging sea,

Or hang on the gallows-pin.'

When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn,

And the sun began to peep,

Then up he rose him, Love Gregor,

And sair, sair did he weep.

'O I dreamd a dream, my mother dear,

The thoughts o' it gars me greet,

That Fair Annie of Rough Royal

Lay cauld dead at my feet.'

'Gin it be for Annie of Rough Royal

That ye make a' this din,

She stood a' last night at this door,

But I trow she wan no in.'

'O wae betide ye, ill woman,

An ill dead may ye die!

That ye woudno open the door to her,

Nor yet woud waken me.'

O he has gone down to yon shore-side,

As fast as he could fare;

He saw Fair Annie in her boat,

But the wind it tossd her sair.

And 'Hey, Annie!' and 'How, Annie!

O Annie, winna ye bide?'

But ay the mair that he cried 'Annie,'

The braider grew the tide.

And 'Hey, Annie!' and 'How, Annie!

Dear Annie, speak to me!'

But ay the louder he cried 'Annie,'

The louder roard the sea.

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,

And dashd the boat on shore;

Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,

But her young son rose no more.

Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,

And made a heavy moan;

Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet,

But his bonny young son was gone.

O cherry, cherry was her cheek,

And gowden was her hair,

But clay cold were her rosey lips,

Nae spark of life was there,

And first he's kissd her cherry cheek,

And neist he's kissed her chin;

And saftly pressd her rosey lips,

But there was nae breath within.

'O wae betide my cruel mother,

And an ill dead may she die!

For she turnd my true-love frae my door,

When she came sae far to me.'

Andrew Lang

Daybreak. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)

A wind came up out of the sea,

And said, 'O mists, make room for me.'

It hailed the ships, and cried, 'Sail on,

Ye mariners, the night is gone.'

And hurried landward far away,

Crying, 'Awake! it is the day.'

It said unto the forest, 'Shout!

Hang all your leafy banners out!'

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,

And said, 'O bird, awake and sing.'

And o'er the farms, 'O chanticleer,

Your clarion blow; the day is near.'

It whispered to the fields of corn,

'Bow down, and hail the coming morn.'

It shouted through the belfry-tower,

'Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.'

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,

And said, 'Not yet! in quiet lie.'

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Beyond The Shadow

SOME quick kind tears, some easy sorrow,

And then 'tis past.

'Twas sad; yet sadness has its morrow;

Blue skies succeed skies overcast:

Why should grief last?

Something that's passing, something dying.

Well, weep one's fill,

Spend grief's sweet courtesy, go sighing;

But violets break from snow-time's chill:

Who can mourn still?

Aye, let me pass. No life will miss me

Save few first days.

A shudder, stooping down to kiss me,

A little love and tardy praise;

Then the old ways.

Augusta Davies Webster

April in September

WHAT song is in the sap of this brave oak-tree

That to the north-star faces,

Ravened each June by caterpillar masses

Till all its leaves are laces,

Poor shreds whose very shadow grieves the grasses?

I leave it then, but roses and the smoke-tree

Look from the lawn below it

And watch for that gold witch, Midsummer Weather,

With magic breath to blow it

Free of its foes, whose wings make mirth together.

Vital as Igdrasil, immortal folk-tree,

When I return, its losses

Are all restored, its fresh, soft foliage gleaming

With peach and citron glosses,

A Druid that is never done with dreaming.

Katharine Lee Bates

An Argument

I've oft been told by learned friars,

That wishing and the crime are one,

And Heaven punishes desires

As much as if the deed were done.

If wishing damns us, you and I

Are damned to all our heart's content;

Come, then, at least we may enjoy

Some pleasure for our punishment!

Thomas Moore