Favourite Poems and Prose.

‘I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago – the other day…..Light came out of this river since – you say Knights ? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker – may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling ! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine – what d’ye call ’em ? – trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries – a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too – used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here – the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina – and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages, – precious little to eat fit for a civilised man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay – cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death – death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes – he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had done through his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by-and-by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga – perhaps too much dice, you know – coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed around him, – all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There’s no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination – you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.’
He paused.
‘Mind,’ he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus-flower – ‘Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency – the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force – nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind – as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea – something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to…..’

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
A little black nothing of feet and fur;
And by and by, when his eyes came through,
He saw his mother, the big Tattoo.
And all that he learned he learned from her,
“I’ll ask my mother,” says Pinkle Purr.

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
A ridiculous kitten with silky fur.
And little black Pinkle grew and grew
Till he got as big as the big Tattoo.
And all he did he did with her.
“Two friends together,” says Pinkle Purr.

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
An adventurous cat in a coat of fur.
And whenever he thought of a thing to do,
He didn’t much bother about Tattoo.
For he knows it’s nothing to do with her,
So “See you later,” says Pinkle Purr.

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
An enormous leopard with coal-black fur.
A little brown kitten that’s nearly new
Is now playing games with its big Tattoo…
And Pink looks lazily down at her:
“Dear little Tat,” says Pinkle Purr.
A. A. Milne

“HEARTS LOVE”
Arthur Unknown

If your heart ever has need to show, then show me now, While I can know

All the Sweet and tender feelings from which real affection flow.

Show me now, While I am living; Do not wait…… till I am gone……
And let cold chisels in Marble……
Carve Warm Love words on embroided hollow Stone.

If you have Sweet thoughts about me,
Please whisper them to me…….

Don’t you know t’would lift our Spirits and make my Heart strong for thee.

Don’t wait till I am sleeping…… never to waken here again……
For mounds of earth will be between us
and I couldn’t hear you then.

If your “Hearts Love” is of any, If it’s just a tiny bit.
Share it with me now, While Living; So we can own and Cherish it.

The Spiteful Letter

Here, it is here, the close of the year,
And with it a spiteful letter.
My name in song has done him much wrong,
For himself has done much better

O little bard, is your lot so hard,
If men neglect your pages?
I think not much of yours or of mine,
I hear the roll of the ages.

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times!
Are mine for the moment stronger?
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot,
I last but a moment longer.

This faded leaf, our names are as brief;
What room is left for a hater?
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf,
For it hangs one moment later.

Greater than I -is that your cry?
And men will live to see it.
Well -if it be so -so it is, you know;
And if it be so, so be it.

Brief, brief is a summer leaf,
But this is the time of hollies.
O hollies and ivies and evergreens,
How I hate the spites and the follies!

Lord tennyson