Cain’s Jawbone

Scotisch rase?

McCrimmons, bagpipers, from Scotland.

Pope Clement VII (1478-1534) aka Guilio de Medici

Gianaclis (Arabic: جناكليس) is a neighbourhood in Alexandria, Egypt. It is named after the Greek-Egyptian businessman Nestor Gianaclis who established the Gianaclis Vineyards in Alexandria and, along with the Kyriazi Freres, founded the Egyptian cigarette industry.

Major Sir William Newenham Montague Orpen, KBE, RA, RHA (27 November 1878 – 29 September 1931) was an Irish artist who worked mainly in London. Orpen was a fine draughtsman and a popular, commercially successful painter of portraits for the well-to-do in Edwardian society, though many of his most striking paintings are self-portraits.Painting: The Café Royal, London, 1912

Lieutenant-Colonel Anthony William Durnford (24 May 1830 – 22 January 1879) was an Irish career British Army officer of the Royal Engineers who served in the Anglo-Zulu War. Breveted colonel, Durnford is mainly known for his defeat by the Zulus at the Battle of Isandlwana, which was a disaster for the British Army.burried at: St George's Garrison Church, Fort Napier, Pietermaritzburg, South Africa (en)

Google- botulism: life threatening condition caused by toxins. These toxins attack the nervous system and cause paralysis. Symptoms: drooping eyelids, blurred double vision, facial muscle weakness, difficulty swallowing, slurred speech, breahting difficulties

Evelyn Hope Poem by Robert BrowningEvelyn HopeI.Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!Sit and watch by her side an hour.That is her book-shelf, this her bed;She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,Beginning to die too, in the glass;Little has yet been changed, I think:The shutters are shut, no light may passSave two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.II.Sixteen years old, when she died!Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;It was not her time to love; beside,Her life had many a hope and aim,Duties enough and little cares,And now was quiet, now astir,Till God's hand beckoned unawares,---And the sweet white brow is all of her.III.Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?What, your soul was pure and true,The good stars met in your horoscope,Made you of spirit, fire and dew---And, just because I was thrice as oldAnd our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was nought to each, must I be told?We were fellow mortals, nought beside?IV.No, indeed! for God aboveIs great to grant, as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love:I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed it may be for more lives yet,Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:Much is to learn, much to forgetEre the time be come for taking you.V.But the time will come,---at last it will,When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)In the lower earth, in the years long still,That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,And your mouth of your own geranium's red---And what you would do with me, in fine,In the new life come in the old one's stead.VI.I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men,Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,Either I missed or itself missed me:And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!What is the issue? let us see!VII.I loved you, Evelyn, all the while.My heart seemed full as it could hold?There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So, hush,---I will give you this leaf to keep:See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!There, that is our secret: go to sleep!You will wake, and remember, and understand.

20th August Cornelis de Witt (Dordrecht, 15 juni 1623 – Den Haag, 20 augustus 1672Johan de Witt (Dordrecht, 24 september 1625[noot 1] – Den Haag, 20 augustus 1672),Johan werd met zijn broer Cornelis door orangisten vermoord en op gruwelijke wijze verminkt. De moord geldt als een van de meest gedenkwaardige en beschamende gebeurtenissen in de Nederlandse geschiedenis.

Google: Horticulture is the science and art of the development, sustainable production, marketing and use of high-value, intensively cultivated food and ornamental plants.Tuinbouw

Strychnine poisoning can be fatal to humans and other animals and can occur by inhalation, swallowing or absorption through eyes or mouth. It produces some of the most dramatic and painful symptoms of any known toxic reaction, making it quite noticeable and a common choice for assassinations and poison attacks. For this reason, strychnine poisoning is often portrayed in literature and film, such as the murder mysteries written by Agatha Christie.Ten to twenty minutes after exposure, the body's muscles begin to spasm, starting with the head and neck in the form of trismus and risus sardonicus. The spasms then spread to every muscle in the body, with nearly continuous convulsions, and get worse at the slightest stimulus. The convulsions progress, increasing in intensity and frequency until the backbone arches continually. Convulsions lead to lactic acidosis, hyperthermia and rhabdomyolysis. These are followed by postictal depression. Death comes from asphyxiation caused by paralysis of the neural pathways that control breathing, or by exhaustion from the convulsions.The subject usually dies within 2–3 hours after exposure.

Digitalis  is a genus of about 20 species of herbaceous perennial plants, shrubs, and biennials, commonly called foxgloves.The best-known species is the common foxglove, Digitalis purpurea. 

Physostigma venenosum, the Calabar bean or ordeal bean, is a leguminous plant, Endemic to tropical Africa, with a seed poisonous to humans. It derives the first part of its scientific name from a curious beak-like appendage at the end of the stigma, in the centre of the flower; this appendage, though solid, was supposed to be hollow (hence the name from φῦσα, a bladder, and stigma).

Lobelia  is a genus of flowering plants comprising 415 species,with a subcosmopolitan distribution primarily in tropical to warm temperate regions of the world, a few species extending into cooler temperate regions. They are known generally as lobelias.Many members of the genus are considered poisonous, with some containing the toxic principle lobeline. Because of lobeline's similarity to nicotine, the internal use of lobelia may be dangerous to susceptible populations, including children, pregnant women, and individuals with cardiac disease. Excessive use will cause nausea and vomiting. It is not recommended for use by pregnant women and is best administered by a practitioner qualified in its use. It also has a chemical known as lobellicyonycin, which may cause dizziness.------------------------------------------------------Arum maculatum is a woodland flowering plant species in the family Araceae. It is native across most of Europe, as well as Turkey and the Caucasus. It is known by an abundance of common names including Adam and Eve, adder's meat, adder's root, arum, wild arum, arum lily, bobbins, cows and bulls, cuckoopint, cuckoo-plant, devils and angels, friar's cowl, jack in the pulpit, lamb-in-a-pulpit, lords-and-ladies, naked boys, snakeshead, starch-root, and wake-robin. Many names refer to the plant's appearance; "lords-and-ladies" and many other names liken the plant to male and female genitalia symbolising copulation.[9] Starch-root is a simple description – the plant's root was used to make laundry starch.Lords and ladies is a very common plant and not considered at threat.All parts of the plant can produce allergic reactions in many people and the plant should be handled with care.The attractive berries are extremely poisonous to many animals, including humans, but harmless to birds, which eat them and propagate the seeds. They contain oxalates of saponins which have needle-shaped crystals that irritate the skin, mouth, tongue, and throat, and result in swelling of throat, difficulty breathing, burning pain, and upset stomach. However, their acrid taste, coupled with the almost immediate tingling sensation in the mouth when consumed, means that large amounts are rarely taken and serious harm is unusual. It is one of the most common causes of accidental plant poisoning based on attendance at hospital emergency departments.There is no known antidote to A. maculatum poisoning. Airway management may reduce the mortality, and aggressive fluid administration may prevent renal injury

Bane= something, especially poison, that causes death.

Caladenia major, commonly known as the waxlip orchid, parson-in-the-pulpit, or purple cockatoo is a plant in the orchid family Orchidaceae, and is endemic to Australia. It is a ground orchid with a single hairy leaf and one or two purple to mauve flowers. It has been known as Glossodia major since its description by the prolific Scottish botanist Robert Brown in 1810, but recent discoveries suggest its inclusion in the genus Caladenia.

Flemming’s tincture of aconite = 1861 mistaken for sherry. The person died.

Aconitum  also known as aconite, monkshood, wolf's-bane, leopard's bane, mousebane, women's bane, devil's helmet, queen of poisons, or blue rocket, is a genus of over 250 species of flowering plants belonging to the family Ranunculaceae. These herbaceous perennial plants are chiefly native to the mountainous parts of the Northern Hemisphere in North America, Europe, and Asia; growing in the moisture-retentive but well-draining soils of mountain meadows.Most Aconitum species are extremely poisonous and must be handled very carefully. Several Aconitum hybrids, such as the Arendsii form of Aconitum carmichaelii, have won gardening awards—such as the Royal Horticultural Society's Award of Garden Merit. Some are used by florists.

Gelsemium sempervirens is a twining vine in the family Gelsemiaceae, native to subtropical and tropical America: Honduras, Guatemala, Belize, Mexico (Chiapas, Oaxaca, Veracruz, Puebla, Hidalgo), and southeastern and south-central United States (from Texas to Virginia).[4] It has a number of common names including yellow jessamine or jasmine, Carolina jasmine or jessamine,evening trumpetflower, gelsemium and woodbine.Yellow jessamine is the state flower of South Carolina.[8]Despite its common name, the species is not a "true jasmine" and not of the genus Jasminum.All parts of this plant contain the toxic strychnine-related alkaloids gelsemine and gelseminine and should not be consumed. The sap may cause skin irritation in sensitive individuals.The plant can be lethal to livestock

Commonly known as hellebores , the Eurasian genus Helleborus consists of approximately 20 species of herbaceous or evergreen perennial flowering plants in the family Ranunculaceae, within which it gave its name to the tribe of Helleboreae. Despite names such as "winter rose", "Christmas rose" and "Lenten rose", hellebores are not closely related to the rose family (Rosaceae). Many hellebore species are poisonous.

Laurus nobilis is an aromatic evergreen tree or large shrub with green, glabrous smooth leaves, in the flowering plant family Lauraceae. It is native to the Mediterranean region and is used as bay leaf for seasoning in cooking. Its common names include bay tree (esp. United Kingdom), bay laurel, sweet bay, true laurel, Grecian laurel, or simply laurel. Laurus nobilis figures prominently in classical Greco-Roman culture.

Gardenia jasminoides, commonly known as gardenia, is an evergreen flowering plant in the coffee family Rubiaceae. It is native to parts of South-East Asia.The common names cape jasmine and cape jessamine derive from the earlier belief that the flower originated in Cape of Good Hope, South Africa. Other common names include danh-danh and jasmin.------------------------------------------------------------------------------Clematis florida var. flore-pleno is a vigorous evergreen climber, bearing small, glossy dark green leaves which become bronze in winter. In summer graceful, double cream-white flowers appear, followed by silky seedheads in autumn. It’s well suited to growing up a fence or trellis, or trained to scramble through shrubs.For best results grow Clematis florida var. flore-pleno in moist but well-drained soil in full sun to partial shade. Mulch annually with well-rotted compost or manure. Falling into Pruning Group One, simply remove spent flowers and dead or damaged foliage after flowering.

Ruta graveolens [L. strong smelling rue], commonly known as rue, common rue or herb-of-grace, is a species of Ruta grown as an ornamental plant and herb. It is native to the Balkan Peninsula. It is now grown throughout the world in gardens, especially for its bluish leaves, and sometimes for its tolerance of hot and dry soil conditions. It is also cultivated as a medicinal herb (famous in Ethiopia, where its local name "Tena adam"/Health for Adam), as a condiment, and to a lesser extent as an insect repellent.

A billhook or bill hook is a versatile cutting tool used widely in agriculture and forestry for cutting woody material such as shrubs, small trees and branches. It is distinct from the sickle. It was commonly used in Europe with an important variety of traditional local patterns. Elsewhere, it was also developed locally such as in the Indian subcontinent,[1] or introduced regionally as in the Americas, South Africa and Oceania by European settlers.

A greenstick fracture occurs when a bone bends and cracks, instead of breaking completely into separate pieces. The fracture looks similar to what happens when you try to break a small, "green" branch on a tree. Most greenstick fractures occur in children younger than 10 years of age

Pieris rapae is a small- to medium-sized butterfly species of the whites-and-yellows family Pieridae. It is known in Europe as the small white, in North America as the cabbage white or cabbage butterfly, on several continents as the small cabbage white, and in New Zealand as the white butterfly.The caterpillar of this species, often referred to as the "imported cabbageworm", is a pest to crucifer crops such as cabbage, kale, bok choy and broccoli. Pieris rapae is widespread in Europe and Asia; it is believed to have originated in the Eastern Mediterranean region of Europe, and to have spread across Eurasia thanks to the diversification of brassicaceous crops and the development of human trade routes. Over the past two centuries, it spread to North Africa, North America, New Zealand, and Australia, as a result of accidental introductions.

Sir Henry Tate, 1st Baronet (11 March 1819 – 5 December 1899) was an English sugar merchant and philanthropist, noted for establishing the Tate Gallery in London.Tate is an institution that houses, in a network of four art galleries, the United Kingdom's national collection of British art, and international modern and contemporary art. It is not a government institution, 

Pigeonholing is a process that attempts to classify disparate entities into a limited number of categories (usually, mutually exclusive ones).The term usually carries connotations of criticism, implying that the classification scheme referred to inadequately reflects the entities being sorted, or that it is based on stereotypes.

vis-à-visMEANING (noun)a person or group occupying a corresponding position to that of another in a different sphere; a counterpart.

Charles BaudelaireLa ChevelureÔ toison, moutonnant jusque sur l'encolure!Ô boucles! Ô parfum chargé de nonchaloir!Extase! Pour peupler ce soir l'alcôve obscureDes souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure,Je la veux agiter dans l'air comme un mouchoir!MEANINGNL: O vacht, wollig tot aan de nek!O krullen! O geur beladen met nonchalance!Extase! Om vanavond de donkere alkoof te bevolkenHerinneringen die in dit haar slapen,Ik wil ermee in de lucht zwaaien als een zakdoek!ENG: O fleecy hair, falling in curls to the shoulders!O black locks! O perfume laden with nonchalance!Ecstasy! To people the dark alcove tonightWith memories sleeping in that thick head of hair.I would like to shake it in the air like a scarf!

petit-déjeuner= breakfast

le couchant dardait ses rayons supremes et le vent bercait les nénuphars blemes; les grands nénuphars entres les roseaux tristement luisaient sur les calmes eaux.Meaning:the sunset darted its supreme rays and the wind cradled the pale water lilies; the tall water lilies between the reeds gleamed sadly on the calm waters.

O triste, triste était mon âmeMEANINGO sad, sad was my soul-------------------------------------------------------à cause, à cause d'une femmeMEANINGbecause, because of a woman

mal de mer= seasickness

Definition of soigné1: WELL-GROOMED, SLEEK2: elegantly maintained or designed

Definition of frisson: a brief moment of emotional excitement : SHUDDER, THRILL

Ouvre ton âme et ton oreille au son de ma mandoline: pour toi j'ai fait, pour toi, cette chanson cruelle at caline.Open your soul and your ear to the sound of my mandolin: for you I made, for you, this cruel and cuddly song. A mandolin (Italian: mandolino pronounced [mandoˈliːno]; literally "small mandola") is a stringed musical instrument in the lute family and is generally plucked with a plectrum.

Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequorMEANINGI see a better way and approve it, but I follow the worst way.

mirabile dictu/ Latin (mɪˈræbɪleɪ ˈdɪktuː) /MEANINGwonderful to relate; amazing to say

furor loquendi= rage for speaking/passion for talking

ek parergou (Gr.), as a by-work.Ephphatha is an Aramaic (or Syriac) word found only once in the New Testament, in Mark 7:34. Mark also gives the meaning of the word: “be opened.”Epea pteroentaBETEKENIS & DEFINITIE(Gr.), gevleugelde woorden. Ontleend .aan de Ilias en de Odyssee, waarin deze vaste verbinding herhaaldelijk voorkomt.

Bellerophon ( Βελλεροφόντης, Βελλεροφόντης ) ("bearing darts") was a hero from Greek mythology whose greatest feat was to kill the Chimera, a monster usually depicted as with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent-tail.An alternate version of the beginning of the quest is that Bellerophon wandered into Proteus, who grew intensely jealous of him. Proteus was the son-in-law of Iobates, King of Lycia, and sent Bellerophon to him with a sealed message that asked to kill Bellerophon, this is the origin of the expression a "bellerophonic letter". Lycia at the time was in the middle of a horrific plague and Iobates didn't want to strain the population with a war, which would surely be the result if he murdered Bellerophon. Instead, he sent him on an impossible quest: to kill the Chimera.

Henry Wilfred "Bunny" Austin (26 August 1906 – 26 August 2000) was an English tennis player. For 74 years he was the last Briton to reach the final of the men's singles at Wimbledon,Frederick John Perry (18 May 1909 – 2 February 1995) was a British tennis and table tennis player and former World No. 1 from England who won 10 Majors including eight Grand Slam tournaments and two Pro Slams single titles, as well as six Major doubles titles. Perry won three consecutive Wimbledon Championships from 1934 to 1936 and was World Amateur number one tennis player during those three years. Prior to Andy Murray in 2013, Perry was the last British player to win the men's Wimbledon championship, in 1936,[4] and the last British player to win a men's singles Grand Slam title, until Andy Murray won the 2012 US Open.

Lapsang souchong is a black tea consisting of Camellia sinensis leaves that are smoke-dried over a pinewood fire. This smoking is accomplished either as a cold smoke of the raw leaves as they are processed or as a hot smoke of previously processed (withered and oxidized) leaves

Orange pekoe, also spelled pecco, or OP is a term used in the Western tea trade to describe a particular genre of black teas (orange pekoe grading).

The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand,Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyesOf Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan. The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knocknarea,And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feetOf Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan. The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;But purer than a tall candle before the Holy RoodIs Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

Galway RacesW. B. Yeats - 1865-1939There where the racecourse isDelight makes all of the one mindThe riders upon the swift horsesThe field that closes in behind.We too had good attendance once,Hearers, hearteners of the work,Aye, horsemen for companionsBefore the merchant and the clerkBreathed on the world with timid breath;But some day and at some new moonWe’ll learn that sleeping is not deathHearing the whole earth change its tune,Flesh being wild again, and it againCrying aloud as the racecourse is;And find hearteners among menThat ride upon horses.

Leda and the SwanBY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSA sudden blow: the great wings beating stillAbove the staggering girl, her thighs caressedBy the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.How can those terrified vague fingers pushThe feathered glory from her loosening thighs?And how can body, laid in that white rush,But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?A shudder in the loins engenders thereThe broken wall, the burning roof and towerAnd Agamemnon dead.                                 Being so caught up,So mastered by the brute blood of the air,Did she put on his knowledge with his powerBefore the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Europe a Prophecy is a 1794 prophetic book by the British poet and illustrator William Blake. It is engraved on 18 plates, and survives in just nine known copies. It followed America a Prophecy of 1793.

Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white,And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight:But rum alone’s the tipple, and the heart’s delight  Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French,And some’ll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench;But I’m for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench,  Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose,But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows;For it’s that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose,  Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung,And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue;But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung,  Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice,And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses’ eyes;But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize  To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.Oh some that’s good and godly ones they hold that it’s a sinTo troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin;But I’m for toleration and for drinking at an inn,  Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits,And there’s a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes;So I’m for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots,  Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Although the requirements of Poet Laureate had changed, and those in the office were rarely required to write verse for special occasions, Masefield took his appointment seriously and produced a large quantity of verse. Poems composed in his official capacity were sent to The Times. Masefield's humility was shown by his inclusion of a stamped envelope with each submission so that his composition could be returned if it were found unacceptable for publication.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------One of the Bo'Sun's Yarnsby John MasefieldL OAFIN ' around in Sailor Town, a-bluin' o' my advance,I met a derelict donkeyman who led me a merry dance,Till he landed me 'n' bleached me fair in the bar of a rum-saloon,'N' there he spun me a juice of a yarn to this-yer brand of tune." It 's a solemn gospel, mate, " he says, " but a man as ships aboardA steamer-tramp, he gets his whack of the wonders of the Lord —Such as roaches crawlin' over his bunk, 'n' snakes inside his bread,And work by night and work by day enough to strike him dead." But that there 's by the way, " says he; " the yarn I'm goin' to spinIs about myself 'n' the life I led in the last ship I was in,The Esmeralda , casual tramp, from Hull towards the Hook,Wi' one o' the brand o' Cain for mate 'n' a human mistake for cook." We'd a week or so of dippin' around in a wind from outer hell,With a fathom or more of broken sea at large in the forrard well,Till our boats were bashed and bust and broke and gone to Davy Jones,'N' then come white Atlantic fog as chilled us to the bones." We slowed her down and started the horn and watch and watch about,We froze the marrow in all our bones a-keepin' a good look-out,'N' the ninth night out, in the middle watch, I woke from a pleasant dream,With the smash of a steamer ramming our plates a point abaft the beam." 'Twas cold and dark when I fetched the deck, dirty 'n' cold 'n' thick,'N' there was a feel in the way she rode as fairly turned me sick; —She was settlin', listin' quickly down, 'n' I heard the mates a-cursin','N' I heard the wash 'n' the grumble-grunt of a steamer's screws reversin'." She was leavin' us, mate, to sink or swim, 'n' the words we took 'n' saidThey turned the port-light grassy-green 'n' the starboard rosy-red.We give her a hot perpetual taste of the singeing curse of Cain,As we heard her back 'n' clear the wreck 'n' off to her course again." Then the mate came dancin' on to the scene, 'n' he says, " Now quit yer chin,Or I'll smash yer skulls, so help me James, 'n' let some wisdom in.Ye dodderin' scum o' the slums,' he says, " are ye drunk or blazin" daft?If ye wish to save yer sickly hides, ye'd best contrive a raft.'" So he spoke us fair and turned us to, 'n' we wrought wi' tooth and nailWi' scantling, casks, 'n' coops 'n' ropes, 'n' boiler-plates 'n' sail,'N' all the while it were dark 'n' cold 'n' dirty as it could be,'N' she was soggy 'n' settlin' down to a berth beneath the sea." Soggy she grew, 'n' she didn't lift, 'n' she listed more 'n' more,Till her bell struck 'n' her boiler-pipes began to wheeze 'n' snore;She settled, settled, listed, heeled, 'n' then may I be cust,If her sneezin', wheezin' boiler-pipes did not begin to bust!" 'N' then the stars began to shine, 'n' the birds began to sing,'N' the next I knowed I was bandaged up 'n' my arm were in a sling,'N' a swab in uniform were there, 'n' " Well," says he, " 'n' howAre yer arms, 'n' legs, 'n' liver, 'n' lungs, 'n' bones a-feelin' now?"" " Where am I?" says I, 'n' he says, says he, a-cantin' to the roll," You're aboard the R.M.S. Marie in the after Glory-Hole,'N' you've had a shave, if you wish to know, from the port o' Kingdom Come.Drink this," he says, 'n' I takes 'n' drinks, 'n' s'elp me, it was rum!" Seven survivors seen 'n' saved of the Esmeralda's crowd,Taken aboard the sweet Marie 'n' bunked 'n' treated proud,'N' D.B.S.'d to Mersey Docks ('n' a joyful trip we made),'N' there the skipper were given a purse by a grateful Board of Trade." That 's the end o' the yarn, " he says, 'n' he takes 'n' wipes his lips," Them 's the works o' the Lord you sees in steam 'n' sailin' ships, —Rocks 'n' fogs 'n' shatterin' seas 'n' breakers right ahead,'N' work o' nights 'n' work o' days enough to strike you dead. "

41- Then I remembered Henry's favorite quatation:

Thy Servant Dog (1930) by Rudyard KilingBootsThe story is told by Boots, a black Aberdeen terrier very similar to those owned by Kipling over the years which obviously inspired his verse “The Power of the Dog”.

Thy Servant Dog (1930) by Rudyard KilingThe dogs meet a hound puppy named Ravager and all misbehave, chasing various animals and killing a rat during the unexplained absence of their owners who eventually return with a baby (his name is Digby, p. 87) which is pleased to see the dogs. 

Hilda Doolittle was born in 1886 in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and grew up in Upper Darby. Writing under the pen name H.D., her work as a writer spanned five decades of the 20th century (1911-1961), and incorporates work in a variety of genres. She is known primarily as a poet, but she also wrote novels, memoirs, and essays and did a number of translations from the Greek.She befriended Sigmund Freud during the 1930s, and became his patient in order to understand and express her bisexuality, her residual war trauma, her writing, and her spiritual experiences. H.D. married once, and undertook a number of relationships with both men and women. She was unapologetic about her sexuality, and thus became an icon for both the LGBT rights and feminist movements when her poems, plays, letters and essays were rediscovered during the 1970s and 1980s.

Epigram by H.D.The golden one is gone from the banquets;She, beloved of Atimetus,The swallow, the bright Homonoea:Gone the dear chatterer;Death succeeds Atimetus.

Saul (1855)...II"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with His dewOn thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blueJust broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heatWere now raging to torture the desert!"III                                         Then I, as was meet,...

A Toccata of Galuppi'sBY ROBERT BROWNINGIOh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!IIHere you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?IIIAy, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by . . . what you call. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival:I was never out of England—it's as if I saw it all.IVDid young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?VWas a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,—On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?VIWell, and it was graceful of them—they'd break talk off and afford—She, to bite her mask's black velvet—he, to finger on his sword,While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?VIIWhat? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—"Must we die?"Those commiserating sevenths—"Life might last! we can but try!VIII"Were you happy?" —"Yes."—"And are you still as happy?"—"Yes. And you?"—"Then, more kisses!"—"Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?"Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!IXSo, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!"I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"XThen they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.XIBut when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every nerve.XIIYes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned."The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned.XIII"Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology,"Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;"Butterflies may dread extinction,—you'll not die, it cannot be!XIV"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,"Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:"What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?XV"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what's become of all the goldUsed to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.

Evelyn Hope Poem by Robert BrowningEvelyn Hope I.Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!Sit and watch by her side an hour.That is her book-shelf, this her bed;She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,Beginning to die too, in the glass;Little has yet been changed, I think:The shutters are shut, no light may passSave two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.II.Sixteen years old, when she died!Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;It was not her time to love; beside,Her life had many a hope and aim,Duties enough and little cares,And now was quiet, now astir,Till God's hand beckoned unawares,---And the sweet white brow is all of her.III.Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?What, your soul was pure and true,The good stars met in your horoscope,Made you of spirit, fire and dew---And, just because I was thrice as oldAnd our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was nought to each, must I be told?We were fellow mortals, nought beside?IV.No, indeed! for God aboveIs great to grant, as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love:I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed it may be for more lives yet,Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:Much is to learn, much to forgetEre the time be come for taking you.V.But the time will come,---at last it will,When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)In the lower earth, in the years long still,That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,And your mouth of your own geranium's red---And what you would do with me, in fine,In the new life come in the old one's stead.VI.I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men,Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,Either I missed or itself missed me:And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!What is the issue? let us see!VII.I loved you, Evelyn, all the while.My heart seemed full as it could hold?There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So, hush,---I will give you this leaf to keep:See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!There, that is our secret: go to sleep!You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Caliban upon SetebosBY ROBERT BROWNING"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself."(David, Psalms 50.21)['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire,With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin.And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,And feels about his spine small eft-things course,Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh:And while above his head a pompion-plant,Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard,And now a flower drops with a bee inside,And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,—He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams crossAnd recross till they weave a spider-web(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times)And talks to his own self, howe'er he please,Touching that other, whom his dam called God.Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha,Could He but know! and time to vex is now,When talk is safer than in winter-time.Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleepIn confidence he drudges at their task,And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe,Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.]Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon.-------------------------------The Cerebos salt company invented 'Bisto' gravy powder product (a mixture of salt, flavourings and colourings), at its salt factory in Middlewich, Cheshire in the United Kingdom. It was acquired by RHM in 1968, which later sold its stake in Cerebos South Africa in the 1980s and Cerebos Pacific to Suntory in 1990.

Pippa Passes is a verse drama by Robert Browning. It was first published in 1841 as the first volume of his Bells and Pomegranates series, in a low-priced two-column edition for sixpence, and next republished in his collected Poems of 1848, where it received much more critical attention.

In a Gondola Robert Browning (1812–89)...she replies, musingDip your arm o’er the boat side, elbow-deep,As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,Caught this way? Death ’s to fear from flame or steel,Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel! Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!        Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon grassTo plait in where the foolish jewel was,I flung away: since you have prais’d my hair,’T is proper to be choice in what I wear....

Home-Thoughts, from AbroadBY ROBERT BROWNINGOh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!It symbolises springtime

The Barretts of Wimpole Street is a 1930 play by the Dutch/English dramatist Rudolf Besier, based on the romance between Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett, and her father's unwillingness to allow them to marry.ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNINGThe Cry of the Children...Alas, the wretched children ! they are seeking      Death in life, as best to have !They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,      With a cerement from the grave.Go out, children, from the mine and from the city —   Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do —Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty   Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through !But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows      Like our weeds anear the mine ?Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,      From your pleasures fair and fine!....

by Arthur Conan Doyle (Edinburgh, 22 mei 1859 – Crowborough (Sussex), 7 juli 1930)

A side-by-side translation of Act 4, Scene 5 of Troilus and Cressida from the original ShakespeareACHILLESI’ll take that winter from your lips, fair lady.Achilles bids you welcome.He kisses her.Venerable: accorded a great deal of respect, especially because of age, wisdom, or character.

The Tragedy of MacbethShakespeare | Macbeth | Act 3, Scene 2...MACBETHWe have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it:She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor maliceRemains in danger of her former tooth.But let the frame of things disjoint, both theworlds suffer,Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleepIn the affliction of these terrible dreamsThat shake us nightly: better be with the dead,Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,Than on the torture of the mind to lieIn restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;After life's fitful fever he sleeps well;Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,Can touch him further....

William Shakespeare wrote in his last will and testament, dated March 25, 1616, “Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed with the furniture” (furniture is used to refer to the curtains and bedcover which formed part of the complete bed).This was not an unusual bequest, nor was it likely to have been intended as a snub. The best bed was usually regarded as an heirloom piece, to be passed to the heir rather than the spouse. It is also probable that the best bed would have been reserved for guests, meaning the “second best” was the bed that William and Anne shared.

The Life of King Henry the Fifth. Shakespeare | Henry V | Act 2, Scene 3SCENE III. London. Before a tavern.Enter PISTOL, Hostess, NYM, BARDOLPH, and BoyHostessPrithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.PISTOLNo; for my manly heart doth yearn.Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins:Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,And we must yearn therefore.BARDOLPHWould I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either inheaven or in hell!HostessNay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in Arthur'sbosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. A' madea finer end and went away an it had been anychristom child; a' parted even just between twelveand one, even at the turning o' the tide: for afterI saw him fumble with the sheets and play withflowers and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knewthere was but one way; for his nose was as sharp asa pen, and a' babbled of green fields. 'How now,sir John!' quoth I 'what, man! be o' goodcheer.' So a' cried out 'God, God, God!' three orfour times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a'should not think of God; I hoped there was no needto trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. Soa' bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put myhand into the bed and felt them, and they were ascold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, andthey were as cold as any stone, and so upward andupward, and all was as cold as any stone.

Admiral Death Poem by Sir Henry NewboltBoys, are ye calling a toast to-night?(Hear what the sea-wind saith)Fill for a bumper strong and bright,And here's to Admiral Death!He's sailed in a hundred builds o' boat,He's fought in a thousand kinds o' coat,He's the senior flag of all that float,And his name's Admiral Death!-------------------------------------------------------HAMLET, Shakespeare  Heaven make thee free of it. I follow thee.— I am dead, Horatio.—Wretched queen, adieu!— You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest), O, I could tell you— But let it be.—Horatio, I am dead. Thou livest. Report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. 

...II"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with His dewOn thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blueJust broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heatWere now raging to torture the desert!"III                                         Then I, as was meet,...

HASSAN'S SERENADEby: James Elroy Flecker (1884-1919)OW splendid in the morning glowsthe lily; with what grace he throwsHis supplication to the rose:do roses nod the head, Yasmin?But when the silver dove descendsI find the little flower of friendsWhose very name that sweetly endsI say when I have said, 'Yasmin'. The morning light is clear and cold,I dare not in that light beholdA deeper light, a deeper golda glory too far shed, Yasmin.But when the deep red eye of dayis level with the lone highway,And some to Mecca turn to pray,and I toward thy bed, Yasmin, Or when the wind beneath the moonis dazzling like a soul aswoon,And harping planets talk love's tunewith milky wings outspread, Yasmin,Shine down thy love, O burning bright!for one night or the other nightWill come the Gardener in white,and gather'd flowers are dead, Yasmin!

A billhook or bill hook is a versatile cutting tool used widely in agriculture and forestry for cutting woody material such as shrubs, small trees and branches. It is distinct from the sickle. It was commonly used in Europe with an important variety of traditional local patterns. Elsewhere, it was also developed locally such as in the Indian subcontinent,[1] or introduced regionally as in the Americas, South Africa and Oceania by European settlers.

The WhaupsRobert Louis Stevenson (1850–94)  To S. R. C.  “BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flyingBlows the wind on the moors to-day and now,Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,  My heart remembers how! “Gray, recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,  Standing stones on the vacant, red-wine moor,Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races  And winds austere and pure! “Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,  Hills of home! and I hear again the callHear about the graves of the martyrs the pee-wees crying,  And hear no more at all.”

TUSITALA = story-teller.It is a word in the Samoan language which means 'writer of stories'.Tusitala was the name used by the Samoan people for Robert Louis Stevenson, who lived the last four years of his life in Samoa and is buried on Mount Vaea.

Robert Louis Stevensonpoem: Henry JamesFrom UnderwoodsWho comes to-night? We open the doors in vain.Who comes? My bursting walls, can you containThe presences that now together throngYour narrow entry, as with flowers and song,As with the air of life, the breath of talk?Lo, how these fair immaculate women walkBehind their jacund maker; and we seeSlighted De Mauves, and that far different she,Gressie, the trivial sphynx; and to our feastDaisy and Barb and Chancellor (she not least!)With all their silken, all their airy kin,Do like unbidden angels enter in.But he, attended by these shining names,Comes (best of all) himself -- our welcome James.

Robert Louis StevensonPoem: "We Uncommiserate Pass Into..."From Songs of TravelWe uncommiserate pass into the nightFrom the loud banquet, and departing leaveA tremor in men's memories, faint and sweetAnd frail as music. Features of our face,The tones of the voice, the touch of the loved hand,Perish and vanish, one by one, from earth:Meanwhile, in the hall of song, the multitudeApplauds the new performer. One, perchance,One ultimate survivor lingers on,And smiles, and to his ancient heart recallsThe long forgotten. Ere the morrow die,He too, returning, through the curtain comes,And the new age forgets us and goes on.

The sedulous ape perspective, artfully written in 1887 by Robert Louis Stevenson in an article published in A College Magazine,Stevenson occasionally critiqued himself along these same lines, claiming that as a writer he was merely "a sedulous ape" who did no more than mimic the styles of the writers who came before him.

Walter Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892) was an American poet, essayist and journalist. A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential pots in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was controversial in its time, particularly his 1855 poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sensuality. Whitman's owne life came under scrunity for his presumed homosexuality.

My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, a staff cut from the woodsby Walt WhitmanMy signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,

THE SLEEPERS.by walt whitman....6Now what my mother told me one day as we sat at dinnertogether,Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parentson the old homestead.A red squaw came one breakfast-time to the old homestead,On her back she carried a bundle of rushes for rush-bottomingchairs,Her hair, straight, shiny, coarse, black, profuse, half-envelop'd herface,Her step was free and elastic, and her voice sounded exquisitelyas she spoke.My mother look'd in delight and amazement at the stranger,She look'd at the freshness of her tall-borne face and full andpliant limbs,The more she look'd upon her she loved her,Never before had she seen such wonderful beauty and purity,She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace, shecook'd food for her,She had no work to give her, but she gave her remembrance andfondness.The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle ofthe afternoon she went away,O my mother was loth to have her go away,All the week she thought of her, she watch'd for her many amonth,She remember'd her many a winter and many a summer,But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there again.

To Think of TimeWalt Whitman - 1819-18921To think of time—of all that retrospection! To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue? Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you? Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing? If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing. To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women   were flexible, real, alive! that everything was alive! To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our   part! To think that we are now here, and bear our part! 2....

Song of the Open RoadBY WALT WHITMAN1Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,Healthy, free, the world before me,The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,Strong and content I travel the open road.

Lovely and Soothing DeathAnother poem which provided the inspiration for Hannah Frank’s work ‘Come Lovely and Soothing Death’ is this poem by Walt Whitman.For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,

NATIVE MOMENTS.NATIVE moments! when you come upon me—Ah youare here now!Give me now libidinous joys only!Give me the drench of my passions! Give me lifecoarse and rank!To-day, I go consort with nature's darlings—to-night too;I am for those who believe in loose delights—I sharethe midnight orgies of young men;I dance with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers;The echoes ring with our indecent calls;I take for my love some prostitute—I pick out somelow person for my dearest friend,He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate—he shall be onecondemn'd by others for deeds done;I will play a part no longer—Why should I exile my-self from my companions?O you shunn'd persons! I at least do not shun you,I come forthwith in your midst—I will be your poet,I will be more to you than to any of the rest.

Song of Myself, 7Walt Whitman - 1819-1892Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,For me those that have been boys and that love women,For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,For me children and the begetters of children.Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

Song of Myself, 15Walt Whitman - 1819-1892The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;)The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,What is removed drops horribly in a pail;The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other,The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain,The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne her first child,The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill,The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead flies swiftly over the notebook, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold,The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the white sails sparkle!)The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the odd cent;)The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly,The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips,The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck,The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other,(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries,On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms,The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change,The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar,In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!)Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface,The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe,Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees,Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas,Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grand-sons around them,In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport,The city sleeps and the country sleeps,The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.

Dr. Richard Austin Freeman MRCS LSA (11 April 1862 – 28 September 1943) was a British writer of detective stories, mostly featuring the medico-legal forensic investigator Dr. Thorndyke.Many of the Dr. Thorndyke stories involve genuine, but sometimes arcane, points of scientific knowledge, from areas such as tropical medicine, metallurgy and toxicology.He was living at 94, Windmill Street, Gravesend, Kent when he died on 28 September 1943.

Edward Phillips Oppenheim (Londen, 22 oktober 1866 -  3 februari 1946) was een Engels prozaschrijver wiens werk, met name tijdens zijn leven, een grote populariteit kende. Hij was een veelschrijver en vervaardigde meer dan 100 romans en talloze korte verhalen

Mary Roberts Rinehart (August 12, 1876 – September 22, 1958) was an American writer, often called the American Agatha Christie. Rinehart published her first mystery novel The Circular Staircase in 1908, which introduced the "had I but known" narrative style. Rinehart is also considered the source of "the butler did it" plot device in her novel The Door (1930), although the exact phrase does not appear in her work.

Luís Vaz de Camões sometimes rendered in English as Camoens or Camoëns, is considered Portugal's and the Portuguese language's greatest poet. His mastery of verse has been compared to that of Shakespeare, Vondel, Homer, Virgil and Dante. He wrote a considerable amount of lyrical poetry and drama but is best remembered for his epic work Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads). His collection of poetry The Parnasum of Luís de Camões was lost during his life. The influence of his masterpiece Os Lusíadas is so profound that Portuguese is sometimes called the "language of Camões".Gilbert Keith Chesterton (29 May 1874 – 14 June 1936) was an English writer,philosopher, lay theologian, and literary and art critic. He has been referred to as the "prince of paradox".Time magazine observed of his writing style: "Whenever possible Chesterton made his points with popular sayings, proverbs, allegories—first carefully turning them inside out."

May's Reading group: Leave It To Psmith by PG Wodehouse"At the open window of the great library of Blandings Castle, drooping like a wet sock, as was his habit when he had nothing to prop his spine against, the Earl of Emsworth, that amiable and boneheaded peer, stood gazing out over his domain."

The green riverI know a green grass path that leaves the field,And like a running river, winds alongInto a leafy wood where is no throngOf birds at noon-day, and no soft throats yieldTheir music to the moon. The place is sealed,An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,And all the unravished silences belongTo some sweet singer lost or unrevealed.So is my soul become a silent place.Oh, may I wake from this uneasy nightTo find a voice of music manifold.Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,Or Love that swoons on sleep, or else delightThat is as wide-eyed as a marigold.

Oscar Wilde: The Importance of Being Earnest 2. SECOND ACT (continued) CHASUBLE. With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far as the schools and back. MISS PRISM. That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your Political Economy in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic problems have their melodramatic side. [Goes down the garden with DR. CHASUBLE.] CECILY. [Picks up books and throws them back on table.] Horrid Political Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German! [Enter MERRIMAN with a card on a salver.] MERRIMAN. Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He has brought his luggage with him. CECILY. [Takes the card and reads it.] 'Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany, W.' Uncle Jack's brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town? MERRIMAN. Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that you and Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you privately for a moment. CECILY. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to the housekeeper about a room for him. MERRIMAN. Yes, Miss. [MERRIMAN goes off.] CECILY. I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else. [Enter ALGERNON, very gay and debonnair.] He does! ALGERNON. [Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I'm sure. CECILY. You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact, I believe I am more than usually tall for my age. [ALGERNON is rather taken aback.] But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card, are Uncle Jack's brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.

Poems by Oscar Wilde Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it. 

Oscar Wilde: I wish I had said that.James McNeill Whistler: You will, Oscar, you will.(they were friends)-----------------James Abbott McNeill Whistler (July 11, 1834 – July 17, 1903) was an American painter active during the American Gilded Age and based primarily in the United Kingdom. He eschewed sentimentality and moral allusion in painting and was a leading proponent of the credo "art for art's sake". His signature for his paintings took the shape of a stylized butterfly possessing a long stinger for a tail.

Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H.BY BEN JONSONWouldst thou hear what man can sayIn a little? Reader, stay.Underneath this stone doth lieAs much beauty as could die;Which in life did harbour giveTo more virtue than doth live.If at all she had a fault,Leave it buried in this vault.One name was Elizabeth,Th' other let it sleep with death:Fitter, where it died to tell,Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.

They are all Gone into the World of LightBY HENRY VAUGHANThey are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit ling’ring here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,After the sun’s remove.I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days:My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.O holy Hope! and high Humility,High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have show’d them meTo kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,Shining nowhere, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dustCould man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest, may knowAt first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.And yet as angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep:So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themesAnd into glory peep.If a star were confin’d into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that lock’d her up, gives room,She’ll shine through all the sphere.O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under thee!Resume thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass,Or else remove me hence unto that hill,Where I shall need no glass.

Henry King (1592 – 30 September 1669) was an English poet who served as Bishop of Chichester.

HENRY KING, BISHOP OF CHICHESTERA RenunciationWE, that did nothing study but the wayTo love each other, with which thoughts the dayRose with delight to us and with them set,Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could giveBeyond ourselves, nor did desire to liveBeyond that wish, all these now cancel must,As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,Witness the chaste desires that never brakeInto unruly heats; witness that breastWhich in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest—'Tis no default in us: I dare acquiteThy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and whiteAs thy pure self. Cross planets did envyUs to each other, and Heaven did untieFaster than vows could bind. Oh, that the stars,When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars!Since then some higher Destinies command,Let us not strive, nor labour to withstandWhat is past help. The longest date of griefCan never yield a hope of our relief:Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves,That must new fortunes try, like turtle-dovesDislodged from their haunts. We must in tearsUnwind a love knit up in many years.In this last kiss I here surrender theeBack to thyself.—So, thou again art free:Thou in another, sad as that, resendThe truest heart that lover e'er did lend.Now turn from each: so fare our sever'd heartsAs the divorced soul from her body parts.

Thomas Hardy OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. A Victorian realist in the tradition of George Eliot, he was influenced both in his novels and in his poetry by Romanticism, including the poetry of William Wordsworth. He was highly critical of much in Victorian society, especially on the declining status of rural people in Britain, such as those from his native South West England.While Hardy wrote poetry throughout his life and regarded himself primarily as a poet, his first collection was not published until 1898. Initially, he gained fame as the author of novels such as Far from the Madding Crowd (1874), The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886), Tess of the d'Urbervilles (1891), and Jude the Obscure (1895). During his lifetime, Hardy's poetry was acclaimed by younger poets (particularly the Georgians) who viewed him as a mentor. After his death his poems were lauded by Ezra Pound, W. H. Auden and Philip Larkin.Many of his novels concern tragic characters struggling against their passions and social circumstances, and they are often set in the semi-fictional region of Wessex; initially based on the medieval Anglo-Saxon kingdom, Hardy's Wessex eventually came to include the counties of Dorset, Wiltshire, Somerset, Devon, Hampshire and much of Berkshire, in southwest and south central England. Two of his novels, Tess of the d'Urbervilles and Far from the Madding Crowd, were listed in the top 50 on the BBC's survey The Big Read.

“Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave,” Thomas Hardy Critical Analysis “Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave,” is a poem written by Thomas Hardy. The central theme of this poem is death, which is also seen in several different forms throughout the works of Thomas Hardy. There is a great deal of disappointment expressed in this poem. The Oxford Reader’s Companion to Hardy deems it, “a satire of circumstance” (Page 378). Thus, death and the afterlife are things of tragedy in this particular work. The point that Hardy makes is that no love or hate outlasts death. An important aspect to the poem’s structure is that it is written sequentially in order to prepare the reader for an unsettling ending. Hardy takes us on a downward spiral through, as The Pattern of Hardy’s Poetry puts it, a “series of steps from appearance to reality” (Hynes 53). The dead woman believes that someone she loved is there at her grave. This, however, she finds out is untrue through a devastating sequence of disappointments. The woman originally suspects that the person at her grave is her husband, but sadly it is not. In reality, her husband is off with his new love, and feels that since she is dead it, “cannot hurt her now” (p.48; l.5). Consequently, the woman guesses again, thinking this time it is her closest of kin. She is, yet again, disappointed. She finds out that they do not care to think of her anymore. This feeling of neglect is seen in the line, “What good will planting flowers produce?” (p.48; l.10). In other words, the family of the woman would rather not think of her than hurt themselves by doing so. Their reason for not going to see her is that nothing can bring her back from, “Death’s gin” (p.48; l.12). At this point, Hardy has still not revealed the digger’s identity. He continues to do this, according to A Critical Introduction to the Poems of Thomas Hardy, to show that, “the eager hopefulness of the dead woman is mercilessly quenched” (Johnson 138). Next, we come upon a slightly different subject. In the third stanza, the woman sees now that not only has she been forgotten by her most beloved, but also by her worst enemy. She is told that her enemy, “cares not where you lie” (p.48; l.18). Similarly, as with her loved ones, her enemy simply thinks the woman no more worth her time to worry about. In the next stanza, the woman has exhausted all of the possibilities, so she gives up and asks who is there. She now finds out that it is her dog. Hardy himself loved animals and it is not a surprise that he would use a dog as the digger. As seen in Victorian Poetry, Hardy, “always championed kindness to animals” (9: 465). He, however, creates a surprising twist, at the end of the poem. Earlier on, in the fifth stanza, the woman praises the noble dog, stating how no human can rival, “A dog’s fidelity” (p.49; l.12). In the last stanza of this rather depressing poem, comes the final blow to the woman. The dog has not remembered her either and has, in fact, mistakenly trodden upon her grave. In the words of The Pattern of Hardy’s Poetry, the dog believes that her grave is, “a place to bury bones, not affections” (Hynes 53). So, even her faithful dog does not care to remember her. “Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave,” is a very tragic and sad poem. It is written in Victorian Studies that, “Hardy recognized that personal relations provide no sure refuge from tragic experience” (36: 176). This plainly means that, as far as death is concerned, few are truly remembered, if any, after they are dead and gone. The most important parts of the woman’s life were, indeed, the people that she knew. From her husband and her

Alexander Pope (21 May 1688 – 30 May 1744) was an English poet, translator, and satirist of the Augustan period and one of its greatest artistic exponents.Considered the foremost English poet of the early 18th century and a master of the heroic couplet, he is best known for satirical and discursive poetry, including The Rape of the Lock, The Dunciad, and An Essay on Criticism, and for his translation of Homer. After Shakespeare, he is the second-most quoted author in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, some of his verses having entered common parlance (e.g. "damning with faint praise" or "to err is human; to forgive, divine").

A Tragic Tale of a Lightning Romance of John Hewit and Sarah Drew as told by England's greatest poet - Alexander PopeOn the 31st of July 1718, John Hewit and Sarah Drew were working in a farm field near the village of Stanton Harcourt in Oxfordshire Cotswolds.They were rustic lovers; he about twenty-five years of age, and she an attractive maiden a little younger. They were betrothed, and had, on that very morning, obtained the consent of the parents on both sides to their marriage, which was to take place on the following week. The poet, Alexander Pope, was a guest at Stanton Harcourt Manor (in the tower) at the time; and he recorded the tragic incident of the day in the following words:"Between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, the clouds grew black, and such a storm of thunder and lightning ensued that all the labourers made the best of their way to what shelter the trees and hedges afforded.Sarah was frightened, and fell down in a swoon on a heap of barley; John, who never separated from her, having raked together two or three heaps the better to secure her from the storm. Immediately after was heard so loud a crash as if the heavens had split asunder.Every one was now solicitous for his neighbour, and they called to one another throughout the field. No answer being returned to those who called to the lovers, they stepped to the place where they lay. They perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then spied the faithful pair; John with one arm about Sarah’s neck, and the other held over her, as if to screen her from the lightning.They were struck dead, and stiffened in this tender posture. Sarah’s left eye was injured, and there appeared a black spot on her breast. Her lover was blackened all over; not the least sign of life was found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, they were conveyed to the town, and next day were interred in Stanton Harcourt churchyard."

Typhoon is a short novel by Joseph Conrad, begun in 1899 and serialized in Pall Mall Magazine in January–March 1902. Its first book publication was in New York by Putnam in 1902; it was also published in Britain in Typhoon and Other Stories by Heinemann in 1903.Captain MacWhirr sails the SS Nan-Shan, a British-built steamer running under the Siamese flag, into a typhoon—a mature tropical cyclone of the northwestern part of the Pacific Ocean. Other characters include the young Jukes - most probably an alter ego of Conrad from the time he had sailed under captain John McWhirr - and Solomon Rout, the chief engineer. While Macwhirr, who, according to Conrad, "never walked on this Earth" - is emotionally estranged from his family and crew, and though he refuses to consider an alternative course to skirt the typhoon, his indomitable will in the face of a superior natural force elicits grudging admiration.

110 TYPHOONDr. Tokeramo, the last crime on this earthwill be when some one drops a bomb amongsta group of vivisectors. He will have explodedHell. Then we'll all dance together men,women, dogs and cats all kick up our heelstogether on the day of the last Bastille. . . .Tokeramo, I'll tell you a joke the best jokeyou have ever heard. It's flashed upon methese last few nights. I, Charles Victor HugoRenard-Beinsky, half Pole, half Frenchman,drunken mongrel, lazy waster, and the rest of it I am a Christian ! Rather a damaged specimen, but I am one of Christ's Christians according to the gospel of St. Tolstoi. I love all nations ;

Francis Thompson (16 December 1859 – 13 November 1907) was an English poet and Catholic mystic. At the behest of his father, a doctor, he entered medical school at the age of 18, but at 26 left home to pursue his talent as a writer and poet. He spent three years on the streets of London, supporting himself with menial labour, becoming addicted to opium which he took to relieve a nervous problem.In 1888 Wilfrid and Alice Meynell read his poetry and took the opium-addicted and homeless writer into their home for a time, later publishing his first volume, Poems, in 1893. In 1897, he began writing prose, drawing inspiration from life in the countryside, Wales and Storrington. His health, always fragile, continued to deteriorate and he died of tuberculosis in 1907. By that time he had published three books of poetry, along with other works and essays.

Dream-Tryst Francis Thompson (1859–1907)  THE BREATHS of kissing night and day  Were mingled in the eastern Heaven:Throbbing with unheard melody  Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven:    When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy,             And dawn’s gray eyes were troubled gray;    And souls went palely up the sky,      And mine to Lucidé. There was no change in her sweet eyes  Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;        There was no change in her deep heart  Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.    Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope’s,      Wherein did ever come and go    The sparkle of the fountain-drops        From her sweet soul below. The chambers in the house of dreams  Are fed with so divine an airThat Time’s hoar wings grow young therein,  And they who walk there are most fair.         I joyed for me, I joyed for her,      Who with the Past meet girt about:    Where our last kiss still warms the air,      Nor can her eyes go out.

An Anthem Of Earthby Francis Thompson.....The cumbered gutters of humanity;Nothing, of nothing king, with front uncrowned,Whose hand holds crownets; playmate swart o' the strong;Tenebrous moon that flux and refluence drawsOf the high-tided man; skull-hous-ed aspThat stings the heel of kings; true Fount of Youth,Where he that dips is deathless; being's drone-pipe;Whose nostril turns to blight the shrivelled stars,And thicks the lusty breathing of the sun;Pontifical Death, that doth the crevasse bridgeTo the steep and trifid God; one mortal birthThat broker is of immortality.Under this dreadful brother uterine,This kinsman feared, Tellus, behold me come,Thy son stern-nursed; who mortal-motherlike,To turn thy weanlings' mouth averse, embitter'stThine over-childed breast. Now, mortal-sonlike,I thou hast suckled, Mother, I at lastShall sustenant be to thee. Here I untrammel,Here I pluck loose the body's cerementing,And break the tomb of life; here I shake offThe bur o' the world, man's congregation shun,And to the antique order of the deadI take the tongueless vows: my cell is setHere in thy bosom; my little trouble is endedIn a little peace.

Daniel Defoe (/dɪˈfoʊ/; born Daniel Foe; c. 1660 – 24 April 1731) was an English writer, trader, journalist, pamphleteer and spy. He is most famous for his novel Robinson Crusoe, published in 1719, which is claimed to be second only to the Bible in its number of translationsThe last word of Journal of the Plague Year is ‘alive’:   A dreadful plague in London wasIn the year sixty-five,Which swept an hundred thousand soulsAway; yet I alive!H. F.

Title: A Journal of the Plague YearAuthor: Daniel Defoe They continued this wretched course three or four days after this, continually mocking and jeering at all that showed themselves religious or serious, or that were any way touched with the sense of the terrible judgement of God upon us; and I was informed they flouted in the same manner at the good people who, notwithstanding the contagion, met at the church, fasted, and prayed to God to remove His hand from them. I say, they continued this dreadful course three or four days—I think it was no more—when one of them, particularly he who asked the poor gentleman what he did out of his grave, was struck from Heaven with the plague, and died in a most deplorable manner; and, in a word, they were every one of them carried into the great pit which I have mentioned above, before it was quite filled up, which was not above a fortnight or thereabout........ I went all the first part of the time freely about the streets, though not so freely as to run myself into apparent danger, except when they dug the great pit in the churchyard of our parish of Aldgate. A terrible pit it was, and I could not resist my curiosity to go and see it. As near as I may judge, it was about forty feet in length, and about fifteen or sixteen feet broad, and at the time I first looked at it, about nine feet deep; but it was said they dug it near twenty feet deep afterwards in one part of it, till they could go no deeper for the water; for they had, it seems, dug several large pits before this. For though the plague was long a-coming to our parish, yet, when it did come, there was no parish in or about London where it raged with such violence as in the two parishes of Aldgate and Whitechappel. I say they had dug several pits in another ground, when the distemper began to spread in our parish, and especially when the dead-carts began to go about, which was not, in our parish, till the beginning of August. Into these pits they had put perhaps fifty or sixty bodies each; then they made larger holes wherein they buried all that the cart brought in a week, which, by the middle to the end of August, came to from 200 to 400 a week; and they could not well dig them larger, because of the order of the magistrates confining them to leave no bodies within six feet of the surface; and the water coming on at about seventeen or eighteen feet, they could not well, I say, put more in one pit. But now, at the beginning of September, the plague raging in a dreadful manner, and the number of burials in our parish increasing to more than was ever buried in any parish about London of no larger extent, they ordered this dreadful gulf to be dug—for such it was, rather than a pit.

ChildrenCome to me, O ye children!  For I hear you at your play,And the questions that perplexed me  Have vanished quite away. Ye open the eastern windows,  That look towards the sun,Where thoughts are singing swallows  And the brooks of morning run. ChildrenIn your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,  In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,But in mine is the wind of Autumn  And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us  If the children were no more?We should dread the desert behind us  Worse than the dark before. What the leaves are to the forest,  With light and air for food,Ere their sweet and tender juices  Have been hardened into wood,-- That to the world are children;  Through them it feels the glowOf a brighter and sunnier climate  Than reaches the trunks below. Come to me, O ye children!  And whisper in my earWhat the birds and the winds are singing  In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings,  And the wisdom of our books,When compared with your caresses,  And the gladness of your looks? Ye are better than all the ballads  That ever were sung or said;For ye are living poems,  And all the rest are dead.

The Children's HourHenry Wadsworth Longfellow - 1807-1882Between 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 eyesThey 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, Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

Ulysses by ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON... There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—That ever with a frolic welcome tookThe thunder and the sunshine, and opposedFree hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;Death closes all: but something ere the end,Some work of noble note, may yet be done,Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deepMoans round with many voices. Come, my friends,'T is not too late to seek a newer world.Push off, and sitting well in order smiteThe sounding furrows; for my purpose holdsTo sail beyond the sunset, and the bathsOf all the western stars, until I die.It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'We are not now that strength which in old daysMoved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;One equal temper of heroic hearts,Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Lord TennysonA FarewellFlow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver;No more by thee my steps shall be, Forever and forever.Flow, softly flow by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river;Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, Forever and forever.But here will sigh thine alder tree And here thine aspen shiver;And here by thee will hum the bee, Forever and forever.A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver;But not by thee my steps shall be, Forever and forever.

QUOTE: I Heard No Longer The Snowy-banded, Dilettante, Delicate-handed Priest Intone. Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson

Lady Clara Vere de VereBy Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892) LADY Clara Vere de Vere,  Of me you shall not win renown:You thought to break a country heart  For pastime, ere you went to town.At me you smiled, but unbeguiled        I saw the snare, and I retired:The daughter of a hundred Earls,  You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,  I know you proud to bear your name,        Your pride is yet no mate for mine,  Too proud to care from whence I came.Nor would I break for your sweet sake  A heart that dotes on truer charms.A simple maiden in her flower        Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,  Some meeker pupil you must find,For were you queen of all that is,  I could not stoop to such a mind.       You sought to prove how I could love,  And my disdain is my reply.The lion on your old stone gates  Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,        You put strange memories in my head.Not thrice your branching limes have blown  Since I beheld young Laurence dead.Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies:  A great enchantress you may be;        But there was that across his throat  Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,  When thus he met his mother’s view,She had the passions of her kind,        She spake some certain truths of you.Indeed I heard one bitter word  That scarce is fit for you to hear;Her manners had not that repose  Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.        Lady Clara Vere de Vere,  There stands a spectre in your hall:The guilt of blood is at your door:  You changed a wholesome heart to gall.You held your course without remorse,        To make him trust his modest worth,And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,  And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,  From yon blue heavens above us bent,        The gardener Adam and his wife  Smile at the claims of long descent.Howe’er it be, it seems to me,  ’Tis only noble to be good.Kind hearts are more than coronets,         And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere;  You pine among your halls and towers:The languid light of your proud eyes  Is wearied of the rolling hours.        In glowing health, with boundless wealth,  But sickening of a vague disease,You know so ill to deal with time,  You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,        If Time be heavy on your hands,Are there no beggars at your gate,  Nor any poor about your lands?Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,  Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,        Pray Heaven for a human heart,  And let the foolish yeoman go.

IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.[Arthur Hugh Hallam]OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII.by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.....  XC.He tasted love with half his mind,Nor ever drank the inviolate springWhere nighest heaven, who first could flingThis bitter seed among mankind;That could the dead, whose dying eyesWere closed with wail, resume their life,They would but find in child and wifeAn iron welcome when they rise:'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine,To pledge them with a kindly tear,To talk them o'er, to wish them here,To count their memories half divine;....

Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Ellen Brine ov AllenburnELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.Noo soul did hear her lips complaïn,An’ she’s a-gone vrom all her païn,An’ others’ loss to her is gaïnFor she do live in heaven’s love;Vull many a longsome day an’ weekShe bore her aïlèn, still, an’ meek;A-workèn while her strangth held on,An’ guidèn housework, when ’twer gone.Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,Oh! there be souls to murn.The last time I’d a-cast my zightUpon her feäce, a-feäded white,Wer in a zummer’s mornèn lightIn hall avore the smwold’rèn vier,The while the childern beät the vloor,In plaÿ, wi’ tiny shoes they wore,An’ call’d their mother’s eyes to viewThe feät’s their little limbs could do.Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,They childern now mus’ murn.Then woone, a-stoppèn vrom his reäce,Went up, an’ on her knee did pleäceHis hand, a-lookèn in her feäce,An’ wi’ a smilèn mouth so small,He zaid, “You promised us to gooTo Shroton feäir, an’ teäke us two!”She heärd it wi’ her two white ears,An’ in her eyes there sprung two tears,Vor Ellen Brine ov AllenburnDid veel that they mus’ murn.September come, wi’ Shroton feäir,But Ellen Brine wer never there!A heavy heart wer on the meäreTheir father rod his hwomeward road.’Tis true he brought zome feärèns back,Vor them two childern all in black;But they had now, wi’ plaÿthings new,Noo mother vor to shew em to,Vor Ellen Brine ov AllenburnWould never mwore return.

The Banks O' DoonThird Version1791Type: PoemYe banks and braes o' bonie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary fu' o' care!Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:Thou minds me o' departed joys,Departed never to return.Aft hae I rov'd by Bonie Doon,To see the rose and woodbine twine:And ilka bird sang o' its Luve,And fondly sae did I o' mine;Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!And may fause Luver staw my rose,But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

Ruth (/ruːθ/; Hebrew: רוּת‎, Modern: Rūt, Tiberian: Rūṯ) is the person after whom the Book of Ruth is named. She was a Moabite woman who married an Israelite. After the death of all the male members of her family (her husband, her father-in-law, and her brother-in-law), she stays with her mother-in-law, Naomi, and moves to Judah with her, where Ruth wins the love and protection of a wealthy relative, Boaz, through her kindness.Naomi (Classically /neɪˈoʊmaɪ, ˈneɪ.oʊmaɪ/,[1] colloquially /neɪˈoʊmi, ˈneɪ.oʊmi/; Hebrew: נָעֳמִי‎, Modern: Naʻomī, Tiberian: Nā‘omī) is Ruth's mother-in-law in the Hebrew Bible in the Book of Ruth. The etymology of her name is not certain, but it is possible that it means "good, pleasant, lovely, winsome."The Old Testament Gleaning Law in ActionWe can read in the Book of Ruth how this law was able to support those who had been widowed in Ruth 2:1-2 “Naomi had a relative of her husband’s, a worthy man of the clan of Elimelech, whose name was Boaz. And Ruth the Moabite said to Naomi, “Let me go to the field and glean among the ears of grain after him in whose sight I shall find favor.” And she said to her, “Go, my daughter.” Since Ruth was a Moabite, she would have been allowed to glean parts of the leftover harvest since she was also a sojourner or stranger (Deut 24:19-22). So Ruth “set out and went and gleaned in the field after the reapers, and she happened to come to the part of the field belonging to Boaz, who was of the clan of Elimelech. And behold, Boaz came from Bethlehem. And he said to the reapers, “The Lord be with you!” And they answered, “The Lord bless you” (Ruth 2:2-4). Boaz noticed this young woman and asked who she was (Ruth 2:5) and Boaz’ servant said “She is the young Moabite woman, who came back with Naomi from the country of Moab. She said, ‘Please let me glean and gather among the sheaves after the reapers.’ So she came, and she has continued from early morning until now, except for a short rest” (Ruth 2:6-7). Boaz made sure she had more than enough and so “Boaz instructed his young men, saying, “Let her glean even among the sheaves, and do not reproach her. And also pull out some from the bundles for her and leave it for her to glean, and do not rebuke her” (Ruth 2:15-16).

Daniel Defoe (/dɪˈfoʊ/; born Daniel Foe; c. 1660 – 24 April 1731) was an English writer, trader, journalist, pamphleteer and spy. He is most famous for his novel Robinson Crusoe, published in 1719, which is claimed to be second only to the Bible in its number of translationsThe last word of Journal of the Plague Year is ‘alive’:   A dreadful plague in London wasIn the year sixty-five,Which swept an hundred thousand soulsAway; yet I alive!H. F.

Arthur Elphinstone, 6th Lord Balmerino[a] and 5th Lord Cupar (1688 – 18 August 1746) was a Scottish nobleman and Jacobite, or supporter of the claim of the exiled House of Stuart to the British throne.He was found guilty, attainted and beheaded on the same day as the Earl of Kilmarnock.----------------------------------------------------------------------William Boyd, 4th Earl of Kilmarnock (12 May 1705 – 18 August 1746), was a Scottish peer who joined the 1745 Jacobite Rising, was captured at Culloden and subsequently executed for treason on Tower Hill.-------------------------------------------------------------------------Guido Reni died 18 August 1642 in Bologna. Born in the same city on 4 November 1575, Reni became one of the leading figures of Italian Baroque painting.

Hyacinth of PolandHyacinth as a Polish Dominican priest and missionary who worked to reform women's monasteries in his native Poland. He was a Doctor of Sacred Studies, educated in Paris and Bologna.Hyacinth was canonized on 17 April 1594 by Pope Clement VIII, and his memorial day is celebrated on 17 August. In 1686 Pope Innocent XI named him a patron of Lithuania. He is the patron saint of those in danger of drowning.

A Tragic Tale of a Lightning Romance of John Hewit and Sarah Drew as told by England's greatest poet - Alexander PopeOn the 31st of July 1718, John Hewit and Sarah Drew were working in a farm field near the village of Stanton Harcourt in Oxfordshire Cotswolds.They were rustic lovers; he about twenty-five years of age, and she an attractive maiden a little younger. They were betrothed, and had, on that very morning, obtained the consent of the parents on both sides to their marriage, which was to take place on the following week. The poet, Alexander Pope, was a guest at Stanton Harcourt Manor (in the tower) at the time; and he recorded the tragic incident of the day in the following words:"Between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, the clouds grew black, and such a storm of thunder and lightning ensued that all the labourers made the best of their way to what shelter the trees and hedges afforded.Sarah was frightened, and fell down in a swoon on a heap of barley; John, who never separated from her, having raked together two or three heaps the better to secure her from the storm. Immediately after was heard so loud a crash as if the heavens had split asunder.Every one was now solicitous for his neighbour, and they called to one another throughout the field. No answer being returned to those who called to the lovers, they stepped to the place where they lay. They perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then spied the faithful pair; John with one arm about Sarah’s neck, and the other held over her, as if to screen her from the lightning.They were struck dead, and stiffened in this tender posture. Sarah’s left eye was injured, and there appeared a black spot on her breast. Her lover was blackened all over; not the least sign of life was found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, they were conveyed to the town, and next day were interred in Stanton Harcourt churchyard."

Thomas Gainsborough RA FRSA (14 May 1727 (baptised) – 2 August 1788) was an English portrait and landscape painter, draughtsman, and printmaker. Along with his rival Sir Joshua Reynolds,he is considered one of the most important British artists of the second half of the 18th century. He painted quickly, and the works of his maturity are characterised by a light palette and easy strokes. Despite being a prolific portrait painter, Gainsborough gained greater satisfaction from his landscapes. He is credited (with Richard Wilson) as the originator of the 18th-century British landscape school. Gainsborough was a founding member of the Royal Academy.

George Combe (21 October 1788 – 14 August 1858) was a trained Scottish lawyer and a spokesman of the phrenological movement for over 20 years. He founded the Edinburgh Phrenological Society in 1820 and wrote a noted study, The Constitution of Man (1828). After marriage in 1833, Combe took in later years to promoting phrenology internationally.

The Affair of the Diamond Necklace (French: Affaire du collier de la reine, "Affair of the Queen's Necklace") was an incident from 1784 to 1785 at the court of King Louis XVI of France that involved his wife, Queen Marie Antoinette.A sensational trial resulted in the acquittal of the Cardinal, Leguay and Cagliostro on 31 May 1786

La Belle Alliance is an inn situated a few miles south of Brussels in Belgium, chiefly remembered for its significance in the aftermath of the Battle of Waterloo (18 June 1815).

Potsdam Day, also known as the Tag von Potsdam or Potsdam Celebration, was a ceremony for the re-opening of the Reichstag following the Reichstag fire, held on 21 March 1933, shortly after that month's German federal election.

An automaton (plural: automata or automatons) is a relatively self-operating machine, or control mechanism designed to automatically follow a sequence of operations, or respond to predetermined instructions.

HASSAN'S SERENADEby: James Elroy Flecker (1884-1919)OW splendid in the morning glowsthe lily; with what grace he throwsHis supplication to the rose:do roses nod the head, Yasmin?But when the silver dove descendsI find the little flower of friendsWhose very name that sweetly endsI say when I have said, 'Yasmin'. The morning light is clear and cold,I dare not in that light beholdA deeper light, a deeper golda glory too far shed, Yasmin.But when the deep red eye of dayis level with the lone highway,And some to Mecca turn to pray,and I toward thy bed, Yasmin, Or when the wind beneath the moonis dazzling like a soul aswoon,And harping planets talk love's tunewith milky wings outspread, Yasmin,Shine down thy love, O burning bright!for one night or the other nightWill come the Gardener in white,and gather'd flowers are dead, Yasmin!

Jack Sheppard (4 March 1702 – 16 November 1724), or "Honest Jack", was a notorious English thief and prison escapee of early 18th-century London. Born into a poor family, he was apprenticed as a carpenter but took to theft and burglary in 1723, with little more than a year of his training to completeThis time, Sheppard was placed in the Middle Stone Room, in the centre of Newgate next to the "Castle", where he could be observed at all times. He was also loaded with 300 pounds of iron weights. He was so celebrated that the gaolers charged high society visitors four shillings to see him, and the King's painter James Thornhill painted his portrait.----------------------------------------Perhaps the most prominent play based on Sheppard's life is John Gay's The Beggar's Opera (1728). -----------------------------------------John Gay (30 June 1685 – 4 December 1732) was an English poet and dramatist and member of the Scriblerus Club. He is best remembered for The Beggar's Opera (1728)

John Walker (18 March 1732, in Colney Hatch, Middlesex – 1 August 1807, in London) was an English stage actor, philologist and lexicographer.

Admiral Death Poem by Sir Henry NewboltBoys, are ye calling a toast to-night?(Hear what the sea-wind saith)Fill for a bumper strong and bright,And here's to Admiral Death!He's sailed in a hundred builds o' boat,He's fought in a thousand kinds o' coat,He's the senior flag of all that float,And his name's Admiral Death!-------------------------------------------------------HAMLET, Shakespeare  Heaven make thee free of it. I follow thee.— I am dead, Horatio.—Wretched queen, adieu!— You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest), O, I could tell you— But let it be.—Horatio, I am dead. Thou livest. Report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. 

Pope Clement VII (1478-1534) aka Guilio de Medici

Augustus Edwin John OM RA (4 January 1878 – 31 October 1961) was a Welsh painter, draughtsman, and etcher. For a time he was considered the most important artist at work in Britain: Virginia Woolf remarked that by 1908 the era of John Singer Sargent and Charles Wellington Furse "was over. The age of Augustus John was dawning."[1] He was the younger brother of the painter Gwen John.Painting: Augustus The Mumpers, 1912