Written by
Barry Tebb |
(or ‘Huddersfield the Second Poetry Capital of England Re-visited’)
What was it Janice Simmons said to me as James lay dying in Ireland?
“Phone Peter Pegnall in Leeds, an ex-pupil of Jimmy’s.
He’s organising
A benefit reading, he’d love to hear from you and have your help.
”
‘Like hell he would’ I thought but I phoned him all the same
At his converted farmhouse at Barswill, a Lecturer in Creative Writing
At the uni.
But what’s he written, I wondered, apart from his CV?
“Well I am organising a reading but only for the big people, you understand,
Hardman, Harrison, Doughty, Duhig, Basher O’Brien, you know the kind,
The ones that count, the ones I owe my job to.
”
We nattered on and on until by way of adieu I read the final couplet
Of my Goodbye poem, the lines about ‘One Leeds Jimmy who could fix the world’s.
Duhigs once and for all/Write them into the ground and still have a hundred
Lyrics in his quiver.
’
Pete Stifled a cough which dipped into a gurgle and sank into a mire
Of strangulated affect which almost became a convulsion until finally
He shrieked, “I have to go, the cat’s under the Christmas tree, ripping
Open all the presents, the central heating boiler’s on the blink,
The house is on fucking fire!”
So I was left with the offer of being raffle-ticket tout as a special favour,
Some recompense for giving over two entire newsletters to Jimmy’s work:
The words of the letter before his stroke still burned.
“I don’t know why
They omitted me, Armitage and Harrison were my best mates once.
You and I
Must meet.
”
A whole year’s silence until the card with its cryptic message
‘Jimmy’s recovering slowly but better than expected’.
I never heard from Pegnall about the reading, the pamphlets he asked for
Went unacknowledged.
Whalebone, the fellow-tutor he commended, also stayed silent.
Had the event been cancelled? Happening to be in Huddersfield on Good Friday
I staggered up three flights of stone steps in the Byram Arcade to the Poetry Business
Where, next to the ‘closed’ sign an out-of-date poster announced the reading in Leeds
At a date long gone.
I peered through the slats at empty desks, at brimming racks of books,
At overflowing bin-bags and the yellowing poster.
Desperately I tried to remember
What Janice had said.
“We were sat up in bed, planning to take the children
For a walk when Jimmy stopped looking at me, the pupils of his eyes rolled sideways,
His head lolled and he keeled over.
”
The title of the reading was from Jimmy’s best collection
‘With Energy To Burn’
with energy to burn.
|
Written by
Walt Whitman |
1
MANHATTAN’S streets I saunter’d, pondering,
On time, space, reality—on such as these, and abreast with them, prudence.
2
After all, the last explanation remains to be made about prudence;
Little and large alike drop quietly aside from the prudence that suits immortality.
The Soul is of itself;
All verges to it—all has reference to what ensues;
All that a person does, says, thinks, is of consequence;
Not a move can a man or woman make, that affects him or her in a day, month, any part of
the
direct
life-time, or the hour of death, but the same affects him or her onward afterward through
the
indirect life-time.
3
The indirect is just as much as the direct,
The spirit receives from the body just as much as it gives to the body, if not more.
Not one word or deed—not venereal sore, discoloration, privacy of the onanist,
putridity
of
gluttons or rum-drinkers, peculation, cunning, betrayal, murder, seduction, prostitution,
but
has
results beyond death, as really as before death.
4
Charity and personal force are the only investments worth anything.
No specification is necessary—all that a male or female does, that is vigorous,
benevolent,
clean, is so much profit to him or her, in the unshakable order of the universe, and
through
the
whole scope of it forever.
5
Who has been wise, receives interest,
Savage, felon, President, judge, farmer, sailor, mechanic, literat, young, old, it is the
same,
The interest will come round—all will come round.
Singly, wholly, to affect now, affected their time, will forever affect all of the past,
and
all of
the present, and all of the future,
All the brave actions of war and peace,
All help given to relatives, strangers, the poor, old, sorrowful, young children, widows,
the
sick,
and to shunn’d persons,
All furtherance of fugitives, and of the escape of slaves,
All self-denial that stood steady and aloof on wrecks, and saw others fill the seats of
the
boats,
All offering of substance or life for the good old cause, or for a friend’s sake, or
opinion’s sake,
All pains of enthusiasts, scoff’d at by their neighbors,
All the limitless sweet love and precious suffering of mothers,
All honest men baffled in strifes recorded or unrecorded,
All the grandeur and good of ancient nations whose fragments we inherit,
All the good of the dozens of ancient nations unknown to us by name, date, location,
All that was ever manfully begun, whether it succeeded or no,
All suggestions of the divine mind of man, or the divinity of his mouth, or the shaping of
his
great
hands;
All that is well thought or said this day on any part of the globe—or on any of the
wandering
stars, or on any of the fix’d stars, by those there as we are here;
All that is henceforth to be thought or done by you, whoever you are, or by any one;
These inure, have inured, shall inure, to the identities from which they sprang, or shall
spring.
6
Did you guess anything lived only its moment?
The world does not so exist—no parts palpable or impalpable so exist;
No consummation exists without being from some long previous consummation—and that
from
some
other,
Without the farthest conceivable one coming a bit nearer the beginning than any.
7
Whatever satisfies Souls is true;
Prudence entirely satisfies the craving and glut of Souls;
Itself only finally satisfies the Soul;
The Soul has that measureless pride which revolts from every lesson but its own.
8
Now I give you an inkling;
Now I breathe the word of the prudence that walks abreast with time, space, reality,
That answers the pride which refuses every lesson but its own.
What is prudence, is indivisible,
Declines to separate one part of life from every part,
Divides not the righteous from the unrighteous, or the living from the dead,
Matches every thought or act by its correlative,
Knows no possible forgiveness, or deputed atonement,
Knows that the young man who composedly peril’d his life and lost it, has done
exceedingly
well
for himself without doubt,
That he who never peril’d his life, but retains it to old age in riches and ease, has
probably
achiev’d nothing for himself worth mentioning;
Knows that only that person has really learn’d, who has learn’d to prefer
results,
Who favors Body and Soul the same,
Who perceives the indirect assuredly following the direct,
Who in his spirit in any emergency whatever neither hurries or, avoids death.
|
Written by
David Lehman |
"My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way:
anyone who understands them eventually recognizes them as
nonsensical, when he has used them -- as steps -- to climb
up beyond them.
(He must, so to speak, throw away the ladder
after he has climbed up it.
)" -- Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus
1.
The first time I met Wittgenstein, I was
late.
"The traffic was murder," I explained.
He spent the next forty-five minutes
analyzing this sentence.
Then he was silent.
I wondered why he had chosen a water tower
for our meeting.
I also wondered how
I would leave, since the ladder I had used
to climb up here had fallen to the ground.
2.
Wittgenstein served as a machine-gunner
in the Austrian Army in World War I.
Before the war he studied logic in Cambridge
with Bertrand Russell.
Having inherited
his father's fortune (iron and steel), he
gave away his money, not to the poor, whom
it would corrupt, but to relations so rich
it would not thus affect them.
3.
On leave in Vienna in August 1918
he assembled his notebook entries
into the Tractatus, Since it provided
the definitive solution to all the problems
of philosophy, he decided to broaden
his interests.
He became a schoolteacher,
then a gardener's assistant at a monastery
near Vienna.
He dabbled in architecture.
4.
He returned to Cambridge in 1929,
receiving his doctorate for the Tractatus,
"a work of genius," in G.
E.
Moore's opinion.
Starting in 1930 he gave a weekly lecture
and led a weekly discussion group.
He spoke
without notes amid long periods of silence.
Afterwards, exhausted, he went to the movies
and sat in the front row.
He liked Carmen Miranda.
5.
He would visit Russell's rooms at midnight
and pace back and forth "like a caged tiger.
On arrival, he would announce that when
he left he would commit suicide.
So, in spite
of getting sleepy, I did not like to turn him out.
" On
such a night, after hours of dead silence, Russell said,
"Wittgenstein, are you thinking about logic or about
yours sins?" "Both," he said, and resumed his silence.
6.
Philosophy was an activity, not a doctrine.
"Solipsism, when its implications are followed out
strictly, coincides with pure realism," he wrote.
Dozens of dons wondered what he meant.
Asked
how he knew that "this color is red," he smiled
and said, "because I have learnt English.
" There
were no other questions.
Wittgenstein let the
silence gather.
Then he said, "this itself is the answer.
"
7.
Religion went beyond the boundaries of language,
yet the impulse to run against "the walls of our cage,"
though "perfectly, absolutely useless," was not to be
dismissed.
A.
J.
Ayer, one of Oxford's ablest minds,
was puzzled.
If logic cannot prove a nonsensical
conclusion, why didn't Wittgenstein abandon it,
"along with the rest of metaphysics, as not worth
serious attention, except perhaps for sociologists"?
8.
Because God does not reveal himself in this world, and
"the value of this work," Wittgenstein wrote, "is that
it shows how little is achieved when these problems
are solved.
" When I quoted Gertrude Stein's line
about Oakland, "there's no there there," he nodded.
Was there a there, I persisted.
His answer: Yes and No.
It was as impossible to feel another's person's pain
as to suffer another person's toothache.
9.
At Cambridge the dons quoted him reverently.
I asked them what they thought was his biggest
contribution to philosophy.
"Whereof one cannot
speak, thereof one must be silent," one said.
Others spoke of his conception of important
nonsense.
But I liked best the answer John
Wisdom gave: "His asking of the question
`Can one play chess without the queen?'"
10.
Wittgenstein preferred American detective
stories to British philosophy.
He liked lunch
and didn't care what it was, "so long as it was
always the same," noted Professor Malcolm
of Cornell, a former student, in whose house
in Ithaca Wittgenstein spent hours doing
handyman chores.
He was happy then.
There was no need to say a word.
|
Written by
John Donne |
Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name,
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,
Angels affect us oft, and worship'd be;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtile than the parent is,
Love must not be, but take a body too,
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
Whilst thus to ballast love, I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw, I had love's pinnace overfraught,
Ev'ry thy hair for love to work upon
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere;
Then as an Angel, face, and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,
So thy love may be my loves sphere;
Just such disparity
As is twixt Air and Angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's will ever be.
|
Written by
Ralph Waldo Emerson |
I
Thy trivial harp will never please
Or fill my craving ear;
Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,
Free, peremptory, clear.
No jingling serenader's art,
Nor tinkle of piano strings,
Can make the wild blood start
In its mystic springs.
The kingly bard
Must smile the chords rudely and hard,
As with hammer or with mace;
That they may render back
Artful thunder, which conveys
Secrets of the solar track,
Sparks of the supersolar blaze.
Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,
Chiming with the forest tone,
When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;
Chiming with the gasp and moan
Of the ice-imprisoned hood;
With the pulse of manly hearts;
With the voice of orators;
With the din of city arts;
With the cannonade of wars;
With the marches of the brave;
And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.
Great is the art,
Great be the manners, of the bard.
He shall not his brain encumber
With the coil of rhythm and number;
But, leaving rule and pale forethought,
He shall aye climb
For his rhyme.
"Pass in, pass in," the angels say,
"In to the upper doors,
Nor count compartments of the floors,
But mount to paradise
By the stairway of surprise.
"
Blameless master of the games,
King of sport that never shames,
He shall daily joy dispense
Hid in song's sweet influence.
Forms more cheerly live and go,
What time the subtle mind
Sings aloud the tune whereto
Their pulses beat,
And march their feet,
And their members are combined.
By Sybarites beguiled,
He shall no task decline;
Merlin's mighty line
Extremes of nature reconciled,
Bereaved a tyrant of his will,
And made the lion mild.
Songs can the tempest still,
Scattered on the stormy air,
Mold the year to fair increase,
And bring in poetic peace.
He shall nor seek to weave,
In weak, unhappy times,
Efficacious rhymes;
Wait his returning strength.
Bird that from the nadir's floor
To the zenith's top can soar,
The roaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.
Nor profane affect to hit
Or compass that, by meddling wit,
Which only the propitious mind
Publishes when 'tis inclined.
There are open hours
When the God's will sallies free,
And the dull idiot might see
The flowing fortunes of a thousand years;
Sudden, at unawares,
Self-moved, fly-to the doors,
Nor sword of angels could reveal
What they conceal.
II
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs;
Balance-loving Nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode;
Each color with its counter glowed:
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough;
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting balls and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.
Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand;
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated;
Adding by their mutual gage,
One to other, health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and ire,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Nor ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect-paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The self-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.
Subtle rhymes, with ruin rife
Murmur in the hour of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay.
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.
|
Written by
Walt Whitman |
WHO learns my lesson complete?
Boss, journeyman, apprentice—churchman and atheist,
The stupid and the wise thinker—parents and offspring—merchant, clerk, porter
and
customer,
Editor, author, artist, and schoolboy—Draw nigh and commence;
It is no lesson—it lets down the bars to a good lesson,
And that to another, and every one to another still.
The great laws take and effuse without argument;
I am of the same style, for I am their friend,
I love them quits and quits—I do not halt, and make salaams.
I lie abstracted, and hear beautiful tales of things, and the reasons of things;
They are so beautiful, I nudge myself to listen.
I cannot say to any person what I hear—I cannot say it to myself—it is very
wonderful.
It is no small matter, this round and delicious globe, moving so exactly in its orbit
forever
and ever, without one jolt, or the untruth of a single second;
I do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years, nor ten billions of
years,
Nor plann’d and built one thing after another, as an architect plans and builds a
house.
I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman,
Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman,
Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me, or any one else.
Is it wonderful that I should be immortal? as every one is immortal;
I know it is wonderful, but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and how I was conceived in
my
mother’s womb is equally wonderful;
And pass’d from a babe, in the creeping trance of a couple of summers and winters, to
articulate and walk—All this is equally wonderful.
And that my Soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without ever seeing each
other, and never perhaps to see each other, is every bit as wonderful.
And that I can think such thoughts as these, is just as wonderful;
And that I can remind you, and you think them, and know them to be true, is just as
wonderful.
And that the moon spins round the earth, and on with the earth, is equally wonderful,
And that they balance themselves with the sun and stars, is equally wonderful.
|
Written by
Isaac Watts |
Deliverance from oppression and falsehood.
O Thou whose justice reigns on high,
And makes th' oppressor cease,
Behold how envious sinners try
To vex and break my peace.
The sons of violence and lies
Join to devour me, Lord;
But as my hourly dangers rise,
My refuge is thy word.
In God most holy, just, and true,
I have reposed my trust;
Nor will I fear what flesh can do,
The offspring of the dust.
They wrest my words to mischief still,
Charge me with unknown faults;
Mischief doth all their counsels fill,
And malice all their thoughts.
Shall they escape without thy frown?
Must their devices stand?
O cast the haughty sinner down,
And let him know thy hand.
PAUSE.
God counts the sorrows of his saints,
Their groans affect his ears;
Thou hast a book for my complaints,
A bottle for my tears.
When to thy throne I raise my cry,
The wicked fear and flee;
So swift is prayer to reach the sky,
So near is God to me.
In thee, most holy, just, and true,
I have reposed my trust;
Nor will I fear what man can do,
The offspring of the dust.
Thy solemn vows are on me, Lord,
Thou shalt receive my praise;
I'll sing, "How faithful is thy word,
How righteous all thy ways!"
Thou hast secured my soul from death,
O set thy pris'ner free!
That heart and hand, and life and breath,
May be employ'd for thee.
|
Written by
Christopher Marlowe |
1 On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
2 In view and opposite two cities stood,
3 Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might;
4 The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
5 At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
6 Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
7 And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
8 Where she could sit for men to gaze upon.
9 The outside of her garments were of lawn,
10 The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
11 Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a grove,
12 Where Venus in her naked glory strove
13 To please the careless and disdainful eyes
14 Of proud Adonis, that before her lies;
15 Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
16 Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
17 Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
18 From whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath;
19 Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,
20 Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives;
21 Many would praise the sweet smell as she past,
22 When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast;
23 And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
24 And beat from thence, have lighted there again.
25 About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,
26 Which lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone.
27 She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
28 Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,
29 Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
30 To play upon those hands, they were so white.
31 Buskins of shells, all silver'd, used she,
32 And branch'd with blushing coral to the knee;
33 Where sparrows perch'd, of hollow pearl and gold,
34 Such as the world would wonder to behold:
35 Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
36 Which as she went, would chirrup through the bills.
37 Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,
38 And looking in her face, was strooken blind.
39 But this is true; so like was one the other,
40 As he imagin'd Hero was his mother;
41 And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
42 About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
43 And laid his childish head upon her breast,
44 And with still panting rock'd there took his rest.
45 So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun,
46 As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
47 Because she took more from her than she left,
48 And of such wondrous beauty her bereft:
49 Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack,
50 Since Hero's time hath half the world been black.
51 Amorous Leander, beautiful and young
52 (Whose tragedy divine Mus?us sung),
53 Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none
54 For whom succeeding times make greater moan.
55 His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,
56 Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,
57 Would have allur'd the vent'rous youth of Greece
58 To hazard more than for the golden fleece.
59 Fair Cynthia wish'd his arms might be her sphere;
60 Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.
61 His body was as straight as Circe's wand;
62 Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.
63 Even as delicious meat is to the taste,
64 So was his neck in touching, and surpast
65 The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye,
66 How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly;
67 And whose immortal fingers did imprint
68 That heavenly path with many a curious dint
69 That runs along his back; but my rude pen
70 Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men,
71 Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice
72 That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes;
73 Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
74 That leapt into the water for a kiss
75 Of his own shadow, and, despising many,
76 Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
77 Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen,
78 Enamour'd of his beauty had he been.
79 His presence made the rudest peasant melt,
80 That in the vast uplandish country dwelt;
81 The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with nought,
82 Was mov'd with him, and for his favour sought.
83 Some swore he was a maid in man's attire,
84 For in his looks were all that men desire,--
85 A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye,
86 A brow for love to banquet royally;
87 And such as knew he was a man, would say,
88 "Leander, thou art made for amorous play;
89 Why art thou not in love, and lov'd of all?
90 Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall.
"
91 The men of wealthy Sestos every year,
92 For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,
93 Rose-cheek'd Adonis, kept a solemn feast.
94 Thither resorted many a wandering guest
95 To meet their loves; such as had none at all
96 Came lovers home from this great festival;
97 For every street, like to a firmament,
98 Glister'd with breathing stars, who, where they went,
99 Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem'd
100 Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seem'd
101 As if another Pha{"e}ton had got
102 The guidance of the sun's rich chariot.
103 But far above the loveliest, Hero shin'd,
104 And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind;
105 For like sea-nymphs' inveigling harmony,
106 So was her beauty to the standers-by;
107 Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star
108 (When yawning dragons draw her thirling car
109 From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky,
110 Where, crown'd with blazing light and majesty,
111 She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood
112 Than she the hearts of those that near her stood.
113 Even as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase,
114 Wretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race,
115 Incens'd with savage heat, gallop amain
116 From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain,
117 So ran the people forth to gaze upon her,
118 And all that view'd her were enamour'd on her.
119 And as in fury of a dreadful fight,
120 Their fellows being slain or put to flight,
121 Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken,
122 So at her presence all surpris'd and tooken,
123 Await the sentence of her scornful eyes;
124 He whom she favours lives; the other dies.
125 There might you see one sigh, another rage,
126 And some, their violent passions to assuage,
127 Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late,
128 For faithful love will never turn to hate.
129 And many, seeing great princes were denied,
130 Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her, died.
131 On this feast-day--O cursed day and hour!--
132 Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower
133 To Venus' temple, where unhappily,
134 As after chanc'd, they did each other spy.
135 So fair a church as this had Venus none:
136 The walls were of discolour'd jasper-stone,
137 Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head
138 A lively vine of green sea-agate spread,
139 Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung,
140 And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung.
141 Of crystal shining fair the pavement was;
142 The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass:
143 There might you see the gods in sundry shapes,
144 Committing heady riots, incest, rapes:
145 For know, that underneath this radiant flower
146 Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower,
147 Jove slyly stealing from his sister's bed,
148 To dally with Idalian Ganimed,
149 And for his love Europa bellowing loud,
150 And tumbling with the rainbow in a cloud;
151 Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net,
152 Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set;
153 Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy,
154 Sylvanus weeping for the lovely boy
155 That now is turn'd into a cypress tree,
156 Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be.
157 And in the midst a silver altar stood:
158 There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood,
159 Vail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close;
160 And modestly they opened as she rose.
161 Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head;
162 And thus Leander was enamoured.
163 Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed,
164 Till with the fire that from his count'nance blazed
165 Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook:
166 Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.
167 It lies not in our power to love or hate,
168 For will in us is over-rul'd by fate.
169 When two are stript, long ere the course begin,
170 We wish that one should lose, the other win;
171 And one especially do we affect
172 Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
173 The reason no man knows, let it suffice,
174 What we behold is censur'd by our eyes.
175 Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
176 Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
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Written by
Christopher Marlowe |
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should love, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows; let it suffice
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?
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Written by
Eugene Field |
This talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh,
We've got a Western editor that's little, but, O gosh!
He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so set
In ante-bellum notions that they vote for Jackson yet;
But the paper he is running makes the rusty fossils swear,--
The smartest, likeliest paper that is printed anywhere!
And, best of all, the paragraphs are pointed as a tack,
And that's because they emanate
From little Mack.
In architecture he is what you'd call a chunky man,
As if he'd been constructed on the summer cottage plan;
He has a nose like Bonaparte; and round his mobile mouth
Lies all the sensuous languor of the children of the South;
His dealings with reporters who affect a weekly bust
Have given to his violet eyes a shadow of distrust;
In glorious abandon his brown hair wanders back
From the grand Websterian forehead
Of little Mack.
No matter what the item is, if there's an item in it,
You bet your life he's on to it and nips it in a minute!
From multifarious nations, countries, monarchies, and lands,
From Afric's sunny fountains and India's coral strands,
From Greenland's icy mountains and Siloam's shady rills,
He gathers in his telegrams, and Houser pays the bills;
What though there be a dearth of news, he has a happy knack
Of scraping up a lot of scoops,
Does little Mack.
And learning? Well he knows the folks of every tribe and age
That ever played a part upon this fleeting human stage;
His intellectual system's so extensive and so greedy
That, when it comes to records, he's a walkin' cyclopedy;
For having studied (and digested) all the books a-goin',
It stands to reason he must know about all's worth a-knowin'!
So when a politician with a record's on the track,
We're apt to hear some history
From little Mack.
And when a fellow-journalist is broke and needs a twenty,
Who's allus ready to whack up a portion of his plenty?
Who's allus got a wallet that's as full of sordid gain
As his heart is full of kindness and his head is full of brain?
Whose bowels of compassion will in-va-ri-a-bly move
Their owner to those courtesies which plainly, surely prove
That he's the kind of person that never does go back
On a fellow that's in trouble?
Why, little Mack!
I've heard 'em tell of Dana, and of Bonner, and of Reid,
Of Johnnie Cockerill, who, I'll own, is very smart indeed;
Yet I don't care what their renown or influence may be,
One metropolitan exchange is quite enough for me!
So keep your Danas, Bonners, Reids, your Cockerills, and the rest,
The woods is full of better men all through this woolly West;
For all that sleek, pretentious, Eastern editorial pack
We wouldn't swap the shadow of
Our little Mack!
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