literature, poetry

if i should die, think only this of me:

That there’s some corner of a foreign field/ That is forever England. There shall be/ in that rich earth, a richer dust concealed;/ A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware/ Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam/ A body of England’s, breathing English air,/ Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,/ A pulse in the eternal mind, no less/ Gives somewhere back the thoughts that by England given;/ Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;/ And laughter learnt of friends; and gentleness/ In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

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photography, poetry

how to dress the misery in fit magnificence

Do not all charms fly
At the mere touch of cold philosophy?
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine –
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made
The tender-personed Lamia melt into a shade.

lillian

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