– Anne Bronte Farewell to thee!

Nevertheless not farewell To all my fondest thoughts of thee: Within my heart they still shall dwell; And they shall cheer and comfort me. O, beautiful, and full of grace! If thou hadst never met mine eye, I had not dreamed a living face Could fancied charms so far outvie. If I may ne’er behold again That form and face so dear to me, Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain Preserve, for aye, their memory. That voice, the magic of whose tone Can wake an echo in my breast, Creating feelings that, alone, Can make my tranced spirit blest. That laughing eye, whose sunny beam My memory would not cherish less; And oh, that smile! whose joyous gleam Nor mortal language can express. Adieu, but let me cherish, still, The hope with which I cannot part. Contempt may wound, and coldness chill, But still it lingers in my heart. And who can tell but Heaven, at last, May answer all my thousand prayers, And bid the future pay the past With joy for anguish, smiles for tears?



Wayward Wind - Belinda Subraman  

My patient, Paul, wrote in a poem that he belongs to the wayward wind, a restless breed, a strange and hardy class. I’ve been with him for two years and now he is dying. β€œAre you in pain, Paul?” I ask. β€œI AM pain,” he said. But he is refusing medication although his cancer has spread from his kidneys to his lungs, brain and bones. Somehow bearing this pain to the grave is his last act of defiance bravery/repentance. My hands are tied. My job now is to protect his choice and later as promised to collect his ashes, read his poems in my garden then set him free in the wind where he belongs. πŸ’₯πŸ’₯


Americanisation – G. K. Chesterton

Britannia needs no Boulevards,

No spaces wide and gay:

Her march was through the crooked streets

Along the narrow way.

Nor looks she where,

New York’s seduction,

The Broadway leadeth to destruction.

Britannia needs no Cafes:

If Coffee needs must be, Its place should be the Coffee-house

Where Johnson growled for Tea;

But who can hear that human mountain

Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?

She needs no Russian

Theatrey Mere Father strangles Mother,

In scenes where all the characters

And colours kill each other

Her boast is freedom had by halves,

And Britons never shall be Slaves

But if not hers the Dance of Death,

Great Dostoievsky’s dance,

And if the things most finely

French Are better done in France

Might not American

Be best applied to its own nation?

Ere every shop shall be a store

And every

Trade a Trust . . .

Many men in many lands

Know when their cause is just.

There will be quite a large attendance

When we Declare our Independence.



A Song of Defeat – G. K. Chesterton

The line breaks and the guns go under, The lords and the lackeys ride the plain;

I draw deep breaths of the dawn and thunder,

And the whole of my heart grows young again.

For our chiefs said ‘Done,’ and I did not deem it;

Our seers said ‘Peace,’ and it was not peace;

Earth will grow worse till men redeem it,

And wars more evil, ere all wars cease.

But the old flags reel and the old drums rattle,

As once in my life they throbbed and reeled;

I have found my youth in the lost battle,

I have found my heart on the battlefield.

For we that fight till the world is free,

We are not easy in victory:

We have known each other too long, my brother,

And fought each other, the world and we.

And I dream of the days when work was scrappy,

And rare in our pockets the mark of the mint,

When we were angry and poor and happy,

And proud of seeing our names in print.

For so they conquered and so we scattered,

When the Devil road and his dogs smelt gold,

And the peace of a harmless folk was shattered;

When I was twenty and odd years old.

When the mongrel men that the market classes

Had slimy hands upon England’s rod,

And sword in hand upon Afric’s passes

Her last Republic cried to God.

For the men no lords can buy or sell,

They sit not easy when all goes well,

They have said to each other what naught can smother,

They have seen each other, our souls and hell.

It is all as of old, the empty clang our,

The Nothing scrawled on a five-foot page,

The huckster who, mocking holy anger,

Painfully paints his face with rage.

And the faith of the poor is faint and partial,

And the pride of the rich is all for sale, And the chosen heralds of England’s Marshal

Are the sandwich-men of the Daily Mail,

And the niggards that dare not give are glutted,

And the feeble that dare not fail are strong,

So while the City of Toil is gutted,

I sit in the saddle and sing my song.

For we that fight till the world is free,

We have no comfort in victory;

We have read each other as Cain his brother,

We know each other, these slaves and we.