Owen Bawn
Garden party cupcake scented
Edwin Muir, One Foot in Eden
Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922. |
The Betrothed |
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Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922. The Betrothed
“You must choose between me and your cigar.” Breach of Promise Case, circa, 1885
OPEN the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o’er a good cheroot, And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space; 5 In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie’s face. Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie’s a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. There’s peace in a Laranaga, there’s calm in a Henry Clay; But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away— 10 Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown— But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o’ the talk o’ the town! Maggie, my wife at fifty—grey and dour and old— With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, 15 And Love’s torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar— The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket— With never a new one to light tho’ it’s charred and black to the socket! Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a while. Here is a mild Manilla—there is a wifely smile. 20 Which is the better portion—bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties fifty tied in a string? Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride? Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, 25 Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close, This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, With only a Suttee’s passion—to do their duty and burn. This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. 30 The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again. I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. I will scent ’em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, 35 And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o’ Teen. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year; 40 And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-Wisp of Love. Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? 45 Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew— Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke. 50 Light me another Cuba—I hold to my first-sworn vows. If Maggie will have no rival, I’ll have no Maggie for Spouse!
Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922. The Betrothed
“You must choose between me and your cigar.” Breach of Promise Case, circa, 1885
OPEN the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o’er a good cheroot, And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space; 5 In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie’s face. Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie’s a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. There’s peace in a Laranaga, there’s calm in a Henry Clay; But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away— 10 Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown— But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o’ the talk o’ the town! Maggie, my wife at fifty—grey and dour and old— With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, 15 And Love’s torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar— The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket— With never a new one to light tho’ it’s charred and black to the socket! Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a while. Here is a mild Manilla—there is a wifely smile. 20 Which is the better portion—bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties fifty tied in a string? Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride? Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, 25 Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close, This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, With only a Suttee’s passion—to do their duty and burn. This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. 30 The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again. I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. I will scent ’em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, 35 And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o’ Teen. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year; 40 And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-Wisp of Love. Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? 45 Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew— Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke. 50 Light me another Cuba—I hold to my first-sworn vows. If Maggie will have no rival, I’ll have no Maggie for Spouse!
The Rolling English Road, by G K Chesterton
Ulysses ... Alfred, Lord Tennyson
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
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 took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free 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 deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of 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 days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
another great Dan poetry quoteI know this super highway
This bright familiar sun
I guess that I'm the lucky one
Who wrote that tired sea song
Set on this peaceful shore
You think you've heard this one before
Well the danger on the rocks is surely past
Still I remain tied to the mast
Could it be that I have found my home at last
Home at last