Little fly, Thy summers play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not though A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. – William Blake Songs of experience – 1795 Thank you Tarquin.
…but our machines have now been running for seventy or eighty years, and we must expect that, worn as they are, here a pivot, there a wheel, now a pinion, next a spring, will be giving way: and however we may tinker them up for awhile, all will at length surcease motion.
From Seneca: I will not relinquish old age if it leaves my better part intact. But if it begins to shake my mind, if it destroys its faculties one by one, if it leaves not life but breath, I will depart from the putrid and tottering edifice. I will not escape death so long as … More Depart the tottering edifice
By Dylan Thomas, 1914 – 1953 Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into … More Do not go gentle into that good night
By John Betjeman Intolerably sad, profound St. Giles’s bells are ringing round, They bring the slanting summer rain To tap the chestnut boughs again Whose shadowy cave of rainy leaves The gusty belfry-song receives. Intolerably sad and true, Victorian red and jewel blue, The mellow bells are ringing round And charge the evening light with … More Before the Anaesthetic, or A Real Fright
A poem I wrote, after seeing a red glove left on the ground in the commuting rush: Little is more miserable than this dropped glove Fingers of red wool, a pavement splatter Soon, buried in snow, to rot in spring Then carried off, swept up in litter Dragged from a pocket with some frantic seeking … More Red Glove