An old couple living in Gloucester
Had a beautiful girl but they loucester.
She fell from a yacht
And never the spacht
Could be found where the cold waves had toucester.
An old lady living in Worcester
Had a gift of a handsome young rorcester;
But the way that it crough,
As 'twould never get through,
Was more than the lady was uorcester.
An obstinate lady of Leicester
Wouldn't marry her swain, though he preicester.
For his income, I fear,
Was a hundred a year,
On which he could never have dreicester.
There was a mechalnwick of Alnwick
Whose opinions were anti-Germalnwick.
So when war had begun
He went off with a gun
The proportions of which were Titalnwick.
A youthful schoolmistress named Beauchamp
Said: These awful boys, how shall I teauchamp?
For they will not behave
Although I look grave
And with tears in my eyes I beseauchamp.
A bald-headed judge named Beauclerk
Fell in love with a maiden seau ferk,
Residing at Bicester,
Who said, when he kicester,
"I won't wed a man with neau herk!"
There was a young fellow of Beaulieu
Who loved a fair maiden most treaulieu.
Said he, "Wilt thou be mine?"
When she didn't decline
The marriage was solemnised deaulieu.
A charming young lady named Geoghegan,
Whose Christian names are less peoghegan
Will be Mrs Knollys
Very soon at All Ksollys;
But the date is at present a veogheg'un.
There was a young lady named Wemyss
Who, it semyss, was afflicted with dremyss.
She would wake in the night
And, in a terrible fright,
Shake the bemyss of the house with her scremyss.
There was a young fellow named Cholmondeley,
Whose bride was so mellow and colmondeley
That the best man, Colquhoun,
An inane young bolqufoun,
Could only stand still and stare dolmondeley.
The bridegroom's first cousin, young Belvoir,
Whose dad was a Lancashire welvoir,
Arrived with George Bohun
At just about nohun
When excitement was mounting to felvoir.
An adventurous pirate named Menzies
Once waylaid and captured two denzies.
The Rover, Sir Ralph,
Said, "Do you think that's salph?
You don't want to damage your thenzies."
The Baron of Fawsley, Lord St John,
Had a fine buckskin coat with a frt john.
He said, "It was guthven
Me by Viscount Ruthven,
Who thinks I'm a cowboy, or t john."
As a youngster Sir Reggie Pole-Carew
Was a cissy, and dubbed the schole-farew.
He fled from Lord Tyrwhitt,
Who dressed as a spyrwhitt,
For he found any ghost or ghole-scarew.
A colonel by name Leveson Gower
Mixed tequila and lime jeveson mower
In a drink for Miss Featherstonehaugh
Who said to him, "Meatherstonehaugh,
This stuff might have some yeveson wower."
There was a young student at Caius
Who whizzed down the slopes on his skaius;
But a Fellow of Magdalene
Said "I prefer dagdalene -
"I've got where I am by degraius!"
There was an old lady of Wymondham
Who caught people's kittens and skymondham;
She made lovely fur hats
From the skins of the cats,
Then she chopped 'em and cooked 'em and tymondham.
A dashing young fellow named Cockburn
Was attempting to travel to Holborn.
He asked with a cough
If he please could get ough
When he found himself en route to Oban.
A visiting lady from Appisurgh,
Said "How they talk here would amappiz'urgh:
Typhoo, it is written
Put the T into Britain,
So who took the P out of Happisburgh?
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony
It will be generally admitted that Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. All sorts and conditions are satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs. Munt, and tap surreptitiously when the tunes come—of course, not so as to disturb the others—or like Helen, who can see heroes and shipwrecks in the music’s flood; or like Margaret, who can only see the music; or like Tibby, who is profoundly versed in counterpoint, and holds the full score open on his knee; or like their cousin, Fraulein Mosebach, who remembers all the time that Beethoven is echt Deutsch; or like Fraulein Mosebach’s young man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein Mosebach: in any case, the passion of your life becomes more vivid as you listen....
The music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After an interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right.
But, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a minor, and then—he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death!
Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of the utmost stars. And the goblins—they had not really been there at all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them?
Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might return—and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall. Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.
—E.M. Forster, Howards End.
The music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After an interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right.
But, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a minor, and then—he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death!
Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of the utmost stars. And the goblins—they had not really been there at all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them?
Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might return—and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall. Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.
—E.M. Forster, Howards End.
What hath God promised?
God hath not promised skies always blue,
Flower-strewn pathways all our lives through;
God hath not promised sun without rain,
Joy without sorrow, peace without pain.
God hath not promised we shall not know
Toil and temptation, trouble and woe;
He hath not told us we shall not bear
Many a burden, many a care.
God hath not promised smooth roads and wide,
Swift, easy travel, needing no guide;
Never a mountain, rocky and steep,
Never a river, turbid and deep.
But God hath promised strength for the day,
Rest for the labor, light for the way,
Grace for the trials, help from above,
Unfailing sympathy, undying love.
—Annie J. Flint, 1919.
Flower-strewn pathways all our lives through;
God hath not promised sun without rain,
Joy without sorrow, peace without pain.
God hath not promised we shall not know
Toil and temptation, trouble and woe;
He hath not told us we shall not bear
Many a burden, many a care.
God hath not promised smooth roads and wide,
Swift, easy travel, needing no guide;
Never a mountain, rocky and steep,
Never a river, turbid and deep.
But God hath promised strength for the day,
Rest for the labor, light for the way,
Grace for the trials, help from above,
Unfailing sympathy, undying love.
—Annie J. Flint, 1919.
The Eternity of God
O Lord! my heart is sick,
Sick of this everlasting change;
And life runs tediously quick
Through its unresting race and varied range:
Change finds no likeness to itself in Thee
And wakes no echo in Thy mute eternity.
Dear Lord! my heart is sick
Of this perpetual lapsing time,
So slow in grief, in joy so quick,
Yet ever casting shadows so sublime:
Time of all creatures is least like to Thee,
And yet it is our share of Thine eternity.
...
Farewell, vain joys of earth!
Farewell, all love that is not His!
Dear God! be Thou my only mirth,
Thy Majesty my single timid bliss!
Oh in the bosom of eternity
Thou dost not weary of Thyself, nor we of Thee!
—Frederick William Faber, Hymns
Sick of this everlasting change;
And life runs tediously quick
Through its unresting race and varied range:
Change finds no likeness to itself in Thee
And wakes no echo in Thy mute eternity.
Dear Lord! my heart is sick
Of this perpetual lapsing time,
So slow in grief, in joy so quick,
Yet ever casting shadows so sublime:
Time of all creatures is least like to Thee,
And yet it is our share of Thine eternity.
...
Farewell, vain joys of earth!
Farewell, all love that is not His!
Dear God! be Thou my only mirth,
Thy Majesty my single timid bliss!
Oh in the bosom of eternity
Thou dost not weary of Thyself, nor we of Thee!
—Frederick William Faber, Hymns
Falling in Love
That day I oft remember, when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
Pure as the expanse of Heaven; I thither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me: I started back,
It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love: There I had fixed
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me; 'What thou seest,
'What there thou seest, fair Creature, is thyself;
'With thee it came and goes: but follow me,
'And I will bring thee where no shadow stays
'Thy coming…
—John Milton, Paradise Lost.
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
Pure as the expanse of Heaven; I thither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me: I started back,
It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love: There I had fixed
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me; 'What thou seest,
'What there thou seest, fair Creature, is thyself;
'With thee it came and goes: but follow me,
'And I will bring thee where no shadow stays
'Thy coming…
—John Milton, Paradise Lost.
City People
On the way from the railroad station he had walked tall in the mass of moving metal and concrete speckled with the very small eyes of people. His head jerked backwards after each passing figure until they began to pass too thickly and he observed that their eyes didn't grab at you like the eyes of country people. Several of them bumped into him and this contact that should have made an acquaintance for life made nothing because the hulks shoved on with ducked heads and muttered apologies that he would have accepted if they had waited. You have to do something particular here to make them look at you, he thought. They ain't going to look at you just because God made you.
—Flannery O'Connor, You Can’t Be Any Poorer Than Dead and The Violent Bear It Away.
—Flannery O'Connor, You Can’t Be Any Poorer Than Dead and The Violent Bear It Away.
Elegy
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow;
I am the sun on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight;
I am the stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
—Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow;
I am the sun on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight;
I am the stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
—Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932.
Confessions
Oh you sons of men, how long will you be dull at heart? Even now, after the descent of life to you, do you not wish to ascend and live? But how can you ascend when you have set yourselves up on high and have placed your mouth against heaven? Descend, so that you may ascend—so that you may ascend to God. For you have fallen by rising against God.
—St. Augustine, Confessions, Book 4 Chapter 12.
—St. Augustine, Confessions, Book 4 Chapter 12.
Love Me Irrationally
When we meet again you may be disappointed on finding that I look different from the lovely picture your tender imagination has painted of me. I don't want you to love me for qualities you assume in me, in fact not for any qualities; you must love me as irrationally as other people love, just because I love you, and you don't have to be ashamed of it.
—Sigmund Freud, Letters, 1884, #33, page 89.
Misquoted in Francis Schaeffer, True Spirituality, Substantial Healing of Psychological Problems, page 129, as:
When you come to me, little Princess, love me irrationally.
Besides, this was ten years before Freud began studying psychoanalysis.
—Sigmund Freud, Letters, 1884, #33, page 89.
Misquoted in Francis Schaeffer, True Spirituality, Substantial Healing of Psychological Problems, page 129, as:
When you come to me, little Princess, love me irrationally.
Besides, this was ten years before Freud began studying psychoanalysis.
Boswell's Johnson
Dr. Johnson said of the Turkish Spy that it told nothing but what every body might have known at that time; and that what was good in it, did not pay you for the trouble of reading to find it.
—James Boswell, Life of Johnson, Volume 5, Thursday, 21 October 1773, p341.
—James Boswell, Life of Johnson, Volume 5, Thursday, 21 October 1773, p341.
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