diff --git a/poems/__init__.py b/poems/__init__.py
index 8311688..b079163 100644
--- a/poems/__init__.py
+++ b/poems/__init__.py
@@ -95,10 +95,12 @@ def html(self):
@property
def email_html(self):
- return f'''
-
+ return f'''
+
+
+
{self.html.replace(self.author.flag, "")}
diff --git a/poems/poem-style.css b/poems/poem-style.css
index 83a01d7..3c93e6a 100644
--- a/poems/poem-style.css
+++ b/poems/poem-style.css
@@ -25,8 +25,4 @@ div.poem-date {
span.poem-title {
font-weight: bold;
-}
-
-section.poem-section {
- padding-left: 3%;
}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/poems/poems.json b/poems/poems.json
index 1cda909..794c11c 100644
--- a/poems/poems.json
+++ b/poems/poems.json
@@ -9835,7 +9835,7 @@
},
"THE DRY SAVAGES": {
"title": "“The Dry Savages”",
- "body": "I\n\nI do not know much about gods; but I think that the river\nIs a strong brown god--sullen, untamed and intractable,\nPatient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;\nUseful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;\nThen only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.\nThe problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten\nBy the dwellers in cities--ever, however, implacable.\nKeeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder\nOf what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated\nBy worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.\nHis rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,\nIn the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,\nIn the smell of grapes on the autumn table,\nAnd the evening circle in the winter gaslight.\n\nThe river is within us, the sea is all about us;\nThe sea is the land’s edge also, the granite\nInto which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses\nIts hints of earlier and other creation:\nThe starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone;\nThe pools where it offers to our curiosity\nThe more delicate algae and the sea anemone.\nIt tosses up our losses, the torn seine,\nThe shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar\nAnd the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,\nMany gods and many voices.\n The salt is on the briar rose,\nThe fog is in the fir trees.\n The sea howl\nAnd the sea yelp, are different voices\nOften together heard: the whine in the rigging,\nThe menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,\nThe distant rote in the granite teeth,\nAnd the wailing warning from the approaching headland\nAre all sea voices, and the heaving groaner\nRounded homewards, and the seagull:\nAnd under the oppression of the silent fog\nThe tolling bell\nMeasures time not our time, rung by the unhurried\nGround swell, a time\nOlder than the time of chronometers, older\nThan time counted by anxious worried women\nLying awake, calculating the future,\nTrying to unweave, unwind, unravel\nAnd piece together the past and the future,\nBetween midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,\nThe future futureless, before the morning watch\nWhen time stops and time is never ending;\nAnd the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,\nClangs\nThe bell.\n\n\nII\n\nWhere is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,\nThe silent withering of autumn flowers\nDropping their petals and remaining motionless;\nWhere is there and end to the drifting wreckage,\nThe prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable\nPrayer at the calamitous annunciation?\n\n There is no end, but addition: the trailing\nConsequence of further days and hours,\nWhile emotion takes to itself the emotionless\nYears of living among the breakage\nOf what was believed in as the most reliable--\nAnd therefore the fittest for renunciation.\n\n There is the final addition, the failing\nPride or resentment at failing powers,\nThe unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,\nIn a drifting boat with a slow leakage,\nThe silent listening to the undeniable\nClamour of the bell of the last annunciation.\n\n Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing\nInto the wind’s tail, where the fog cowers?\nWe cannot think of a time that is oceanless\nOr of an ocean not littered with wastage\nOr of a future that is not liable\nLike the past, to have no destination.\n\n We have to think of them as forever bailing,\nSetting and hauling, while the North East lowers\nOver shallow banks unchanging and erosionless\nOr drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;\nNot as making a trip that will be unpayable\nFor a haul that will not bear examination.\n\n There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,\nNo end to the withering of withered flowers,\nTo the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,\nTo the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,\nThe bone’s prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable\nPrayer of the one Annunciation.\n\n It seems, as one becomes older,\nThat the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence--\nOr even development: the latter a partial fallacy\nEncouraged by superficial notions of evolution,\nWhich becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.\nThe moments of happiness--not the sense of well--being,\nFruition, fulfilment, security or affection,\nOr even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination--\nWe had the experience but missed the meaning,\nAnd approach to the meaning restores the experience\nIn a different form, beyond any meaning\nWe can assign to happiness. I have said before\nThat the past experience revived in the meaning\nIs not the experience of one life only\nBut of many generations--not forgetting\nSomething that is probably quite ineffable:\nThe backward look behind the assurance\nOf recorded history, the backward half-look\nOver the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.\nNow, we come to discover that the moments of agony\n(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,\nHaving hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,\nIs not in question) are likewise permanent\nWith such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better\nIn the agony of others, nearly experienced,\nInvolving ourselves, than in our own.\nFor our own past is covered by the currents of action,\nBut the torment of others remains an experience\nUnqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.\nPeople change, and smile: but the agony abides.\nTime the destroyer is time the preserver,\nLike the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,\nThe bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.\nAnd the ragged rock in the restless waters,\nWaves wash over it, fogs conceal it;\nOn a halcyon day it is merely a monument,\nIn navigable weather it is always a seamark\nTo lay a course by: but in the sombre season\nOr the sudden fury, is what it always was.\n\n\nIII\n\nI sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant--\nAmong other things--or one way of putting the same thing:\nThat the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray\nOf wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,\nPressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.\nAnd the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.\nYou cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,\nThat time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.\nWhen the train starts, and the passengers are settled\nTo fruit, periodicals and business letters\n(And those who saw them off have left the platform)\nTheir faces relax from grief into relief,\nTo the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.\nFare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past\nInto different lives, or into any future;\nYou are not the same people who left that station\nOr who will arrive at any terminus,\nWhile the narrowing rails slide together behind you;\nAnd on the deck of the drumming liner\nWatching the furrow that widens behind you,\nYou shall not think ‘the past is finished’\nOr ‘the future is before us’.\nAt nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,\nIs a voice descanting (though not to the ear,\nThe murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)\n‘Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;\nYou are not those who saw the harbour\nReceding, or those who will disembark.\nHere between the hither and the farther shore\nWhile time is withdrawn, consider the future\nAnd the past with an equal mind.\nAt the moment which is not of action or inaction\nYou can receive this: “on whatever sphere of being\nThe mind of a man may be intent\nAt the time of death”--that is the one action\n(And the time of death is every moment)\nWhich shall fructify in the lives of others:\nAnd do not think of the fruit of action.\nFare forward.\n O voyagers, O seamen,\nYou who came to port, and you whose bodies\nWill suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,\nOr whatever event, this is your real destination.’\nSo Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna\nOn the field of battle.\n Not fare well,\nBut fare forward, voyagers.\n\n\nIV\n\nLady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,\nPray for all those who are in ships, those\nWhose business has to do with fish, and\nThose concerned with every lawful traffic\nAnd those who conduct them.\n\n Repeat a prayer also on behalf of\nWomen who have seen their sons or husbands\nSetting forth, and not returning:\nFiglia del tuo figlio,\nQueen of Heaven.\n\n Also pray for those who were in ships, and\nEnded their voyage on the sand, in the sea’s lips\nOr in the dark throat which will not reject them\nOr wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell’s\nPerpetual angelus.\n\n\nV\n\nTo communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,\nTo report the behaviour of the sea monster,\nDescribe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,\nObserve disease in signatures, evoke\nBiography from the wrinkles of the palm\nAnd tragedy from fingers; release omens\nBy sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable\nWith playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams\nOr barbituric acids, or dissect\nThe recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors--\nTo explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual\nPastimes and drugs, and features of the press:\nAnd always will be, some of them especially\nWhen there is distress of nations and perplexity\nWhether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.\nMen’s curiosity searches past and future\nAnd clings to that dimension. But to apprehend\nThe point of intersection of the timeless\nWith time, is an occupation for the saint--\nNo occupation either, but something given\nAnd taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,\nArdour and selflessness and self-surrender.\nFor most of us, there is only the unattended\nMoment, the moment in and out of time,\nThe distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,\nThe wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning\nOr the waterfall, or music heard so deeply\nThat it is not heard at all, but you are the music\nWhile the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,\nHints followed by guesses; and the rest\nIs prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.\nThe hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.\nHere the impossible union\nOf spheres of existence is actual,\nHere the past and future\nAre conquered, and reconciled,\nWhere action were otherwise movement\nOf that which is only moved\nAnd has in it no source of movement--\nDriven by daemonic, chthonic\nPowers. And right action is freedom\nFrom past and future also.\nFor most of us, this is the aim\nNever here to be realised;\nWho are only undefeated\nBecause we have gone on trying;\nWe, content at the last\nIf our temporal reversion nourish\n(Not too far from the yew-tree)\nThe life of significant soil.",
+ "body": "I\n\nI do not know much about gods; but I think that the river\nIs a strong brown god--sullen, untamed and intractable,\nPatient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;\nUseful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;\nThen only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.\nThe problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten\nBy the dwellers in cities--ever, however, implacable.\nKeeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder\nOf what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated\nBy worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.\nHis rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,\nIn the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,\nIn the smell of grapes on the autumn table,\nAnd the evening circle in the winter gaslight.\n\nThe river is within us, the sea is all about us;\nThe sea is the land’s edge also, the granite\nInto which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses\nIts hints of earlier and other creation:\nThe starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone;\nThe pools where it offers to our curiosity\nThe more delicate algae and the sea anemone.\nIt tosses up our losses, the torn seine,\nThe shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar\nAnd the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,\nMany gods and many voices.\n The salt is on the briar rose,\nThe fog is in the fir trees.\n The sea howl\nAnd the sea yelp, are different voices\nOften together heard: the whine in the rigging,\nThe menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,\nThe distant rote in the granite teeth,\nAnd the wailing warning from the approaching headland\nAre all sea voices, and the heaving groaner\nRounded homewards, and the seagull:\nAnd under the oppression of the silent fog\nThe tolling bell\nMeasures time not our time, rung by the unhurried\nGround swell, a time\nOlder than the time of chronometers, older\nThan time counted by anxious worried women\nLying awake, calculating the future,\nTrying to unweave, unwind, unravel\nAnd piece together the past and the future,\nBetween midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,\nThe future futureless, before the morning watch\nWhen time stops and time is never ending;\nAnd the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,\nClangs\nThe bell.\n\n\nII\n\nWhere is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,\nThe silent withering of autumn flowers\nDropping their petals and remaining motionless;\nWhere is there and end to the drifting wreckage,\nThe prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable\nPrayer at the calamitous annunciation?\n\n There is no end, but addition: the trailing\nConsequence of further days and hours,\nWhile emotion takes to itself the emotionless\nYears of living among the breakage\nOf what was believed in as the most reliable--\nAnd therefore the fittest for renunciation.\n\n There is the final addition, the failing\nPride or resentment at failing powers,\nThe unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,\nIn a drifting boat with a slow leakage,\nThe silent listening to the undeniable\nClamour of the bell of the last annunciation.\n\n Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing\nInto the wind’s tail, where the fog cowers?\nWe cannot think of a time that is oceanless\nOr of an ocean not littered with wastage\nOr of a future that is not liable\nLike the past, to have no destination.\n\n We have to think of them as forever bailing,\nSetting and hauling, while the North East lowers\nOver shallow banks unchanging and erosionless\nOr drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;\nNot as making a trip that will be unpayable\nFor a haul that will not bear examination.\n\n There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,\nNo end to the withering of withered flowers,\nTo the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,\nTo the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,\nThe bone’s prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable\nPrayer of the one Annunciation.\n\n It seems, as one becomes older,\nThat the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence--\nOr even development: the latter a partial fallacy\nEncouraged by superficial notions of evolution,\nWhich becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.\nThe moments of happiness--not the sense of well--being,\nFruition, fulfilment, security or affection,\nOr even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination--\nWe had the experience but missed the meaning,\nAnd approach to the meaning restores the experience\nIn a different form, beyond any meaning\nWe can assign to happiness. I have said before\nThat the past experience revived in the meaning\nIs not the experience of one life only\nBut of many generations--not forgetting\nSomething that is probably quite ineffable:\nThe backward look behind the assurance\nOf recorded history, the backward half-look\nOver the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.\nNow, we come to discover that the moments of agony\n(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,\nHaving hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,\nIs not in question) are likewise permanent\nWith such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better\nIn the agony of others, nearly experienced,\nInvolving ourselves, than in our own.\nFor our own past is covered by the currents of action,\nBut the torment of others remains an experience\nUnqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.\nPeople change, and smile: but the agony abides.\nTime the destroyer is time the preserver,\nLike the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,\nThe bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.\nAnd the ragged rock in the restless waters,\nWaves wash over it, fogs conceal it;\nOn a halcyon day it is merely a monument,\nIn navigable weather it is always a seamark\nTo lay a course by: but in the sombre season\nOr the sudden fury, is what it always was.\n\n\nIII\n\nI sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant--\nAmong other things--or one way of putting the same thing:\nThat the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray\nOf wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,\nPressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.\nAnd the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.\nYou cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,\nThat time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.\nWhen the train starts, and the passengers are settled\nTo fruit, periodicals and business letters\n(And those who saw them off have left the platform)\nTheir faces relax from grief into relief,\nTo the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.\nFare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past\nInto different lives, or into any future;\nYou are not the same people who left that station\nOr who will arrive at any terminus,\nWhile the narrowing rails slide together behind you;\nAnd on the deck of the drumming liner\nWatching the furrow that widens behind you,\nYou shall not think ‘the past is finished’\nOr ‘the future is before us’.\nAt nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,\nIs a voice descanting (though not to the ear,\nThe murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)\n‘Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;\nYou are not those who saw the harbour\nReceding, or those who will disembark.\nHere between the hither and the farther shore\nWhile time is withdrawn, consider the future\nAnd the past with an equal mind.\nAt the moment which is not of action or inaction\nYou can receive this: “on whatever sphere of being\nThe mind of a man may be intent\nAt the time of death”--that is the one action\n(And the time of death is every moment)\nWhich shall fructify in the lives of others:\nAnd do not think of the fruit of action.\nFare forward.\n O voyagers, O seamen,\nYou who came to port, and you whose bodies\nWill suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,\nOr whatever event, this is your real destination.’\nSo Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna\nOn the field of battle.\n Not fare well,\nBut fare forward, voyagers.\n\n\nIV\n\nLady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,\nPray for all those who are in ships, those\nWhose business has to do with fish, and\nThose concerned with every lawful traffic\nAnd those who conduct them.\n\n Repeat a prayer also on behalf of\nWomen who have seen their sons or husbands\nSetting forth, and not returning:\nFiglia del tuo figlio,\nQueen of Heaven.\n\n Also pray for those who were in ships, and\nEnded their voyage on the sand, in the sea’s lips\nOr in the dark throat which will not reject them\nOr wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell’s\nPerpetual angelus.\n\n\nV\n\nTo communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,\nTo report the behaviour of the sea monster,\nDescribe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,\nObserve disease in signatures, evoke\nBiography from the wrinkles of the palm\nAnd tragedy from fingers; release omens\nBy sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable\nWith playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams\nOr barbituric acids, or dissect\nThe recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors--\nTo explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual\nPastimes and drugs, and features of the press:\nAnd always will be, some of them especially\nWhen there is distress of nations and perplexity\nWhether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.\nMen’s curiosity searches past and future\nAnd clings to that dimension. But to apprehend\nThe point of intersection of the timeless\nWith time, is an occupation for the saint--\nNo occupation either, but something given\nAnd taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,\nArdour and selflessness and self-surrender.\nFor most of us, there is only the unattended\nMoment, the moment in and out of time,\nThe distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,\nThe wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning\nOr the waterfall, or music heard so deeply\nThat it is not heard at all, but you are the music\nWhile the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,\nHints followed by guesses; and the rest\nIs prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.\nThe hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.\nHere the impossible union\nOf spheres of existence is actual,\nHere the past and future\nAre conquered, and reconciled,\nWhere action were otherwise movement\nOf that which is only moved\nAnd has in it no source of movement--\nDriven by daemonic, chthonic\nPowers. And right action is freedom\nFrom past and future also.\nFor most of us, this is the aim\nNever here to be realised;\nWho are only undefeated\nBecause we have gone on trying;\nWe, content at the last\nIf our temporal reversion nourish\n(Not too far from the yew-tree)\nThe life of significant soil.",
"keywords": {
"season": "autumn"
}
@@ -9908,14 +9908,14 @@
},
"LITTLE GIDDING": {
"title": "“Little Gidding”",
- "body": "I\n\nMidwinter spring is its own season\nSempiternal though sodden towards sundown,\nSuspended in time, between pole and tropic.\nWhen the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,\nThe brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,\nIn windless cold that is the heart’s heat,\nReflecting in a watery mirror\nA glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.\nAnd glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,\nStirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire\nIn the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing\nThe soul’s sap quivers. There is no earth smell\nOr smell of living thing. This is the spring time\nBut not in time’s covenant. Now the hedgerow\nIs blanched for an hour with transitory blossom\nOf snow, a bloom more sudden\nThan that of summer, neither budding nor fading,\nNot in the scheme of generation.\nWhere is the summer, the unimaginable\nZero summer?\n\n If you came this way,\nTaking the route you would be likely to take\nFrom the place you would be likely to come from,\nIf you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges\nWhite again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.\nIt would be the same at the end of the journey,\nIf you came at night like a broken king,\nIf you came by day not knowing what you came for,\nIt would be the same, when you leave the rough road\nAnd turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade\nAnd the tombstone. And what you thought you came for\nIs only a shell, a husk of meaning\nFrom which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled\nIf at all. Either you had no purpose\nOr the purpose is beyond the end you figured\nAnd is altered in fulfilment. There are other places\nWhich also are the world’s end, some at the sea jaws,\nOr over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--\nBut this is the nearest, in place and time,\nNow and in England.\n\n If you came this way,\nTaking any route, starting from anywhere,\nAt any time or at any season,\nIt would always be the same: you would have to put off\nSense and notion. You are not here to verify,\nInstruct yourself, or inform curiosity\nOr carry report. You are here to kneel\nWhere prayer has been valid. And prayer is more\nThan an order of words, the conscious occupation\nOf the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.\nAnd what the dead had no speech for, when living,\nThey can tell you, being dead: the communication\nOf the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.\nHere, the intersection of the timeless moment\nIs England and nowhere. Never and always.\n\n\nII\n\nAsh on and old man’s sleeve\nIs all the ash the burnt roses leave.\nDust in the air suspended\nMarks the place where a story ended.\nDust inbreathed was a house--\nThe walls, the wainscot and the mouse,\nThe death of hope and despair,\n This is the death of air.\n\nThere are flood and drouth\nOver the eyes and in the mouth,\nDead water and dead sand\nContending for the upper hand.\nThe parched eviscerate soil\nGapes at the vanity of toil,\nLaughs without mirth.\n This is the death of earth.\n\nWater and fire succeed\nThe town, the pasture and the weed.\nWater and fire deride\nThe sacrifice that we denied.\nWater and fire shall rot\nThe marred foundations we forgot,\nOf sanctuary and choir.\n This is the death of water and fire.\n\nIn the uncertain hour before the morning\n Near the ending of interminable night\n At the recurrent end of the unending\nAfter the dark dove with the flickering tongue\n Had passed below the horizon of his homing\n While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin\nOver the asphalt where no other sound was\n Between three districts whence the smoke arose\n I met one walking, loitering and hurried\nAs if blown towards me like the metal leaves\n Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.\n And as I fixed upon the down-turned face\nThat pointed scrutiny with which we challenge\n The first-met stranger in the waning dusk\n I caught the sudden look of some dead master\nWhom I had known, forgotten, half recalled\n Both one and many; in the brown baked features\n The eyes of a familiar compound ghost\nBoth intimate and unidentifiable.\n So I assumed a double part, and cried\n And heard another’s voice cry: ‘What! are you here?’\nAlthough we were not. I was still the same,\n Knowing myself yet being someone other--\n And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed\nTo compel the recognition they preceded.\n And so, compliant to the common wind,\n Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,\nIn concord at this intersection time\n Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,\n We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.\nI said: ‘The wonder that I feel is easy,\n Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:\n I may not comprehend, may not remember.’\nAnd he: ‘I am not eager to rehearse\n My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.\n These things have served their purpose: let them be.\nSo with your own, and pray they be forgiven\n By others, as I pray you to forgive\n Both bad and good. Last season’s fruit is eaten\nAnd the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.\n For last year’s words belong to last year’s language\n And next year’s words await another voice.\nBut, as the passage now presents no hindrance\n To the spirit unappeased and peregrine\n Between two worlds become much like each other,\nSo I find words I never thought to speak\n In streets I never thought I should revisit\n When I left my body on a distant shore.\nSince our concern was speech, and speech impelled us\n To purify the dialect of the tribe\n And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,\nLet me disclose the gifts reserved for age\n To set a crown upon your lifetime’s effort.\n First, the cold friction of expiring sense\nWithout enchantment, offering no promise\n But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit\n As body and soul begin to fall asunder.\nSecond, the conscious impotence of rage\n At human folly, and the laceration\n Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.\nAnd last, the rending pain of re-enactment\n Of all that you have done, and been; the shame\n Of motives late revealed, and the awareness\nOf things ill done and done to others’ harm\n Which once you took for exercise of virtue.\n Then fools’ approval stings, and honour stains.\nFrom wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit\n Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire\n Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.’\nThe day was breaking. In the disfigured street\n He left me, with a kind of valediction,\n And faded on the blowing of the horn.\n\n\nIII\n\nThere are three conditions which often look alike\nYet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:\nAttachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment\nFrom self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference\nWhich resembles the others as death resembles life,\nBeing between two lives--unflowering, between\nThe live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:\nFor liberation--not less of love but expanding\nOf love beyond desire, and so liberation\nFrom the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country\nBegins as attachment to our own field of action\nAnd comes to find that action of little importance\nThough never indifferent. History may be servitude,\nHistory may be freedom. See, now they vanish,\nThe faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,\nTo become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.\n\nSin is Behovely, but\nAll shall be well, and\nAll manner of thing shall be well.\nIf I think, again, of this place,\nAnd of people, not wholly commendable,\nOf no immediate kin or kindness,\nBut of some peculiar genius,\nAll touched by a common genius,\nUnited in the strife which divided them;\nIf I think of a king at nightfall,\nOf three men, and more, on the scaffold\nAnd a few who died forgotten\nIn other places, here and abroad,\nAnd of one who died blind and quiet\nWhy should we celebrate\nThese dead men more than the dying?\nIt is not to ring the bell backward\nNor is it an incantation\nTo summon the spectre of a Rose.\nWe cannot revive old factions\nWe cannot restore old policies\nOr follow an antique drum.\nThese men, and those who opposed them\nAnd those whom they opposed\nAccept the constitution of silence\nAnd are folded in a single party.\nWhatever we inherit from the fortunate\nWe have taken from the defeated\nWhat they had to leave us--a symbol:\nA symbol perfected in death.\nAnd all shall be well and\nAll manner of thing shall be well\nBy the purification of the motive\nIn the ground of our beseeching.\n\n\nIV\n\nThe dove descending breaks the air\nWith flame of incandescent terror\nOf which the tongues declare\nThe one discharge from sin and error.\nThe only hope, or else despair\n Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre--\n To be redeemed from fire by fire.\n\nWho then devised the torment? Love.\nLove is the unfamiliar Name\nBehind the hands that wove\nThe intolerable shirt of flame\nWhich human power cannot remove.\n We only live, only suspire\n Consumed by either fire or fire.\n\n\nV\n\nWhat we call the beginning is often the end\nAnd to make and end is to make a beginning.\nThe end is where we start from. And every phrase\nAnd sentence that is right (where every word is at home,\nTaking its place to support the others,\nThe word neither diffident nor ostentatious,\nAn easy commerce of the old and the new,\nThe common word exact without vulgarity,\nThe formal word precise but not pedantic,\nThe complete consort dancing together)\nEvery phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,\nEvery poem an epitaph. And any action\nIs a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat\nOr to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.\nWe die with the dying:\nSee, they depart, and we go with them.\nWe are born with the dead:\nSee, they return, and bring us with them.\nThe moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree\nAre of equal duration. A people without history\nIs not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern\nOf timeless moments. So, while the light fails\nOn a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel\nHistory is now and England.\n\nWith the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling\n\nWe shall not cease from exploration\nAnd the end of all our exploring\nWill be to arrive where we started\nAnd know the place for the first time.\nThrough the unknown, unremembered gate\nWhen the last of earth left to discover\nIs that which was the beginning;\nAt the source of the longest river\nThe voice of the hidden waterfall\nAnd the children in the apple-tree\nNot known, because not looked for\nBut heard, half-heard, in the stillness\nBetween two waves of the sea.\nQuick now, here, now, always--\nA condition of complete simplicity\n(Costing not less than everything)\nAnd all shall be well and\nAll manner of thing shall be well\nWhen the tongues of flame are in-folded\nInto the crowned knot of fire\nAnd the fire and the rose are one.",
+ "body": "I\n\nMidwinter spring is its own season\nSempiternal though sodden towards sundown,\nSuspended in time, between pole and tropic.\nWhen the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,\nThe brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,\nIn windless cold that is the heart’s heat,\nReflecting in a watery mirror\nA glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.\nAnd glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,\nStirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire\nIn the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing\nThe soul’s sap quivers. There is no earth smell\nOr smell of living thing. This is the spring time\nBut not in time’s covenant. Now the hedgerow\nIs blanched for an hour with transitory blossom\nOf snow, a bloom more sudden\nThan that of summer, neither budding nor fading,\nNot in the scheme of generation.\nWhere is the summer, the unimaginable\nZero summer?\n\n If you came this way,\nTaking the route you would be likely to take\nFrom the place you would be likely to come from,\nIf you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges\nWhite again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.\nIt would be the same at the end of the journey,\nIf you came at night like a broken king,\nIf you came by day not knowing what you came for,\nIt would be the same, when you leave the rough road\nAnd turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade\nAnd the tombstone. And what you thought you came for\nIs only a shell, a husk of meaning\nFrom which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled\nIf at all. Either you had no purpose\nOr the purpose is beyond the end you figured\nAnd is altered in fulfilment. There are other places\nWhich also are the world’s end, some at the sea jaws,\nOr over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--\nBut this is the nearest, in place and time,\nNow and in England.\n\n If you came this way,\nTaking any route, starting from anywhere,\nAt any time or at any season,\nIt would always be the same: you would have to put off\nSense and notion. You are not here to verify,\nInstruct yourself, or inform curiosity\nOr carry report. You are here to kneel\nWhere prayer has been valid. And prayer is more\nThan an order of words, the conscious occupation\nOf the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.\nAnd what the dead had no speech for, when living,\nThey can tell you, being dead: the communication\nOf the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.\nHere, the intersection of the timeless moment\nIs England and nowhere. Never and always.\n\n\nII\n\nAsh on and old man’s sleeve\nIs all the ash the burnt roses leave.\nDust in the air suspended\nMarks the place where a story ended.\nDust inbreathed was a house--\nThe walls, the wainscot and the mouse,\nThe death of hope and despair,\n This is the death of air.\n\nThere are flood and drouth\nOver the eyes and in the mouth,\nDead water and dead sand\nContending for the upper hand.\nThe parched eviscerate soil\nGapes at the vanity of toil,\nLaughs without mirth.\n This is the death of earth.\n\nWater and fire succeed\nThe town, the pasture and the weed.\nWater and fire deride\nThe sacrifice that we denied.\nWater and fire shall rot\nThe marred foundations we forgot,\nOf sanctuary and choir.\n This is the death of water and fire.\n\nIn the uncertain hour before the morning\n Near the ending of interminable night\n At the recurrent end of the unending\nAfter the dark dove with the flickering tongue\n Had passed below the horizon of his homing\n While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin\nOver the asphalt where no other sound was\n Between three districts whence the smoke arose\n I met one walking, loitering and hurried\nAs if blown towards me like the metal leaves\n Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.\n And as I fixed upon the down-turned face\nThat pointed scrutiny with which we challenge\n The first-met stranger in the waning dusk\n I caught the sudden look of some dead master\nWhom I had known, forgotten, half recalled\n Both one and many; in the brown baked features\n The eyes of a familiar compound ghost\nBoth intimate and unidentifiable.\n So I assumed a double part, and cried\n And heard another’s voice cry: ‘What! are you here?’\nAlthough we were not. I was still the same,\n Knowing myself yet being someone other--\n And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed\nTo compel the recognition they preceded.\n And so, compliant to the common wind,\n Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,\nIn concord at this intersection time\n Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,\n We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.\nI said: ‘The wonder that I feel is easy,\n Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:\n I may not comprehend, may not remember.’\nAnd he: ‘I am not eager to rehearse\n My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.\n These things have served their purpose: let them be.\nSo with your own, and pray they be forgiven\n By others, as I pray you to forgive\n Both bad and good. Last season’s fruit is eaten\nAnd the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.\n For last year’s words belong to last year’s language\n And next year’s words await another voice.\nBut, as the passage now presents no hindrance\n To the spirit unappeased and peregrine\n Between two worlds become much like each other,\nSo I find words I never thought to speak\n In streets I never thought I should revisit\n When I left my body on a distant shore.\nSince our concern was speech, and speech impelled us\n To purify the dialect of the tribe\n And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,\nLet me disclose the gifts reserved for age\n To set a crown upon your lifetime’s effort.\n First, the cold friction of expiring sense\nWithout enchantment, offering no promise\n But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit\n As body and soul begin to fall asunder.\nSecond, the conscious impotence of rage\n At human folly, and the laceration\n Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.\nAnd last, the rending pain of re-enactment\n Of all that you have done, and been; the shame\n Of motives late revealed, and the awareness\nOf things ill done and done to others’ harm\n Which once you took for exercise of virtue.\n Then fools’ approval stings, and honour stains.\nFrom wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit\n Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire\n Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.’\nThe day was breaking. In the disfigured street\n He left me, with a kind of valediction,\n And faded on the blowing of the horn.\n\n\nIII\n\nThere are three conditions which often look alike\nYet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:\nAttachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment\nFrom self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference\nWhich resembles the others as death resembles life,\nBeing between two lives--unflowering, between\nThe live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:\nFor liberation--not less of love but expanding\nOf love beyond desire, and so liberation\nFrom the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country\nBegins as attachment to our own field of action\nAnd comes to find that action of little importance\nThough never indifferent. History may be servitude,\nHistory may be freedom. See, now they vanish,\nThe faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,\nTo become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.\n\nSin is Behovely, but\nAll shall be well, and\nAll manner of thing shall be well.\nIf I think, again, of this place,\nAnd of people, not wholly commendable,\nOf no immediate kin or kindness,\nBut of some peculiar genius,\nAll touched by a common genius,\nUnited in the strife which divided them;\nIf I think of a king at nightfall,\nOf three men, and more, on the scaffold\nAnd a few who died forgotten\nIn other places, here and abroad,\nAnd of one who died blind and quiet\nWhy should we celebrate\nThese dead men more than the dying?\nIt is not to ring the bell backward\nNor is it an incantation\nTo summon the spectre of a Rose.\nWe cannot revive old factions\nWe cannot restore old policies\nOr follow an antique drum.\nThese men, and those who opposed them\nAnd those whom they opposed\nAccept the constitution of silence\nAnd are folded in a single party.\nWhatever we inherit from the fortunate\nWe have taken from the defeated\nWhat they had to leave us--a symbol:\nA symbol perfected in death.\nAnd all shall be well and\nAll manner of thing shall be well\nBy the purification of the motive\nIn the ground of our beseeching.\n\n\nIV\n\nThe dove descending breaks the air\nWith flame of incandescent terror\nOf which the tongues declare\nThe one discharge from sin and error.\nThe only hope, or else despair\n Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre--\n To be redeemed from fire by fire.\n\nWho then devised the torment? Love.\nLove is the unfamiliar Name\nBehind the hands that wove\nThe intolerable shirt of flame\nWhich human power cannot remove.\n We only live, only suspire\n Consumed by either fire or fire.\n\n\nV\n\nWhat we call the beginning is often the end\nAnd to make and end is to make a beginning.\nThe end is where we start from. And every phrase\nAnd sentence that is right (where every word is at home,\nTaking its place to support the others,\nThe word neither diffident nor ostentatious,\nAn easy commerce of the old and the new,\nThe common word exact without vulgarity,\nThe formal word precise but not pedantic,\nThe complete consort dancing together)\nEvery phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,\nEvery poem an epitaph. And any action\nIs a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat\nOr to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.\nWe die with the dying:\nSee, they depart, and we go with them.\nWe are born with the dead:\nSee, they return, and bring us with them.\nThe moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree\nAre of equal duration. A people without history\nIs not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern\nOf timeless moments. So, while the light fails\nOn a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel\nHistory is now and England.\n\nWith the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling\n\nWe shall not cease from exploration\nAnd the end of all our exploring\nWill be to arrive where we started\nAnd know the place for the first time.\nThrough the unknown, unremembered gate\nWhen the last of earth left to discover\nIs that which was the beginning;\nAt the source of the longest river\nThe voice of the hidden waterfall\nAnd the children in the apple-tree\nNot known, because not looked for\nBut heard, half-heard, in the stillness\nBetween two waves of the sea.\nQuick now, here, now, always--\nA condition of complete simplicity\n(Costing not less than everything)\nAnd all shall be well and\nAll manner of thing shall be well\nWhen the tongues of flame are in-folded\nInto the crowned knot of fire\nAnd the fire and the rose are one.",
"keywords": {
"month": "january"
}
},
"THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK": {
"title": "“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”",
- "body": "_S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse\nA persona che mai tornasse al mondo\nQuesta fiamma staria senza piu scosse.\nMa perciocche giammai di questo fondo\nNon torno vivo alcun s’i’odo il vero\nSenza tema d’infamia ti rispondo._\n\n\nLet us go then you and I\nWhen the evening is spread out against the sky\nLike a patient etherized upon a table;\nLet us go through certain half-deserted streets\nThe muttering retreats\nOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotels\nAnd sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:\nStreets that follow like a tedious argument\nOf insidious intent\nTo lead you to an overwhelming question …\nOh do not ask “What is it?”\nLet us go and make our visit.\n\nIn the room the women come and go\nTalking of Michelangelo.\n\nThe yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes\nThe yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes\nLicked its tongue into the corners of the evening\nLingered upon the pools that stand in drains\nLet fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys\nSlipped by the terrace made a sudden leap\nAnd seeing that it was a soft October night\nCurled once about the house and fell asleep.\n\nAnd indeed there will be time\nFor the yellow smoke that slides along the street\nRubbing its back upon the window panes;\nThere will be time there will be time\nTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet\nThere will be time to murder and create\nAnd time for all the works and days of hands\nThat lift and drop a question on your plate;\nTime for you and time for me\nAnd time yet for a hundred indecisions\nAnd for a hundred visions and revisions\nBefore the taking of a toast and tea.\n\nIn the room the women come and go\nTalking of Michelangelo.\n\nAnd indeed there will be time\nTo wonder “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”\nTime to turn back and descend the stair\nWith a bald spot in the middle of my hair--\n(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)\nMy morning coat my collar mounting firmly to the chin\nMy necktie rich and modest but asserted by a simple pin--\n(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)\nDo I dare\nDisturb the universe?\nIn a minute there is time\nFor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.\n\nFor I have known them all already known them all:\nHave known the evenings mornings afternoons\nI have measured out my life with coffee spoons;\nI know the voices dying with a dying fall\nBeneath the music from a farther room.\n So how should I presume?\n\nAnd I have known the eyes already known them all--\nThe eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase\nAnd when I am formulated sprawling on a pin\nWhen I am pinned and wriggling on the wall\nThen how should I begin\nTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?\n And how should I presume?\n\nAnd I have known the arms already known them all--\nArms that are braceleted and white and bare\n(But in the lamplight downed with light brown hair!)\nIs it perfume from a dress\nThat makes me so digress?\nArms that lie along a table or wrap about a shawl.\n And should I then presume?\n And how should I begin?\n\n\nShall I say I have gone at dusk through narrow streets\nAnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipes\nOf lonely men in shirt-sleeves leaning out of windows?\n\nI should have been a pair of ragged claws\nScuttling across the floors of silent seas.\n\nAnd the afternoon the evening sleeps so peacefully!\nSmoothed by long fingers\nAsleep … tired … or it malingers.\nStretched on the floor here beside you and me.\nShould I after tea and cakes and ices\nHave the strength to force the moment to its crisis?\nBut though I have wept and fasted wept and prayed\nThough I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter\nI am no prophet--and here’s no great matter;\nI have seen the moment of my greatness flicker\nAnd I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker\nAnd in short I was afraid.\n\nAnd would it have been worth it after all\nAfter the cups the marmalade the tea\nAmong the porcelain among some talk of you and me\nWould it have been worth while\nTo have bitten off the matter with a smile\nTo have squeezed the universe into a ball\nTo roll it toward some overwhelming question\nTo say: “I am Lazarus come from the dead\nCome back to tell you all I shall tell you all”--\nIf one settling a pillow by her head\n Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;\n That is not it at all.”\n\nAnd would it have been worth it after all\nWould it have been worth while\nAfter the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets\nAfter the novels after the teacups after the skirts that trail along the floor--\nAnd this and so much more?--\nIt is impossible to say just what I mean!\nBut as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:\nWould it have been worth while\nIf one settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl\nAnd turning toward the window should say:\n “That is not it at all\n That is not what I meant at all.”\n\n\nNo! I am not Prince Hamlet nor was meant to be;\nAm an attendant lord one that will do\nTo swell a progress start a scene or two\nAdvise the prince; no doubt an easy tool\nDeferential glad to be of use\nPolitic cautious and meticulous;\nFull of high sentence but a bit obtuse;\nAt times indeed almost ridiculous--\nAlmost at times the Fool.\n\nI grow old … I grow old …\nI shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.\n\nShall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?\nI shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach.\nI have heard the mermaids singing each to each.\n\nI do not think that they will sing to me.\n\nI have seen them riding seaward on the waves\nCombing the white hair of the waves blown back\nWhen the wind blows the water white and black.\n\nWe have lingered in the chambers of the sea\nBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown\nTill human voices wake us and we drown.",
+ "body": "_S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse\nA persona che mai tornasse al mondo\nQuesta fiamma staria senza piu scosse.\nMa perciocche giammai di questo fondo\nNon torno vivo alcun s’i’odo il vero\nSenza tema d’infamia ti rispondo._\n\n\nLet us go then you and I\nWhen the evening is spread out against the sky\nLike a patient etherized upon a table;\nLet us go through certain half-deserted streets\nThe muttering retreats\nOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotels\nAnd sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:\nStreets that follow like a tedious argument\nOf insidious intent\nTo lead you to an overwhelming question …\nOh do not ask “What is it?”\nLet us go and make our visit.\n\nIn the room the women come and go\nTalking of Michelangelo.\n\nThe yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes\nThe yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes\nLicked its tongue into the corners of the evening\nLingered upon the pools that stand in drains\nLet fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys\nSlipped by the terrace made a sudden leap\nAnd seeing that it was a soft October night\nCurled once about the house and fell asleep.\n\nAnd indeed there will be time\nFor the yellow smoke that slides along the street\nRubbing its back upon the window panes;\nThere will be time there will be time\nTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet\nThere will be time to murder and create\nAnd time for all the works and days of hands\nThat lift and drop a question on your plate;\nTime for you and time for me\nAnd time yet for a hundred indecisions\nAnd for a hundred visions and revisions\nBefore the taking of a toast and tea.\n\nIn the room the women come and go\nTalking of Michelangelo.\n\nAnd indeed there will be time\nTo wonder “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”\nTime to turn back and descend the stair\nWith a bald spot in the middle of my hair--\n(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)\nMy morning coat my collar mounting firmly to the chin\nMy necktie rich and modest but asserted by a simple pin--\n(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)\nDo I dare\nDisturb the universe?\nIn a minute there is time\nFor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.\n\nFor I have known them all already known them all:\nHave known the evenings mornings afternoons\nI have measured out my life with coffee spoons;\nI know the voices dying with a dying fall\nBeneath the music from a farther room.\n So how should I presume?\n\nAnd I have known the eyes already known them all--\nThe eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase\nAnd when I am formulated sprawling on a pin\nWhen I am pinned and wriggling on the wall\nThen how should I begin\nTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?\n And how should I presume?\n\nAnd I have known the arms already known them all--\nArms that are braceleted and white and bare\n(But in the lamplight downed with light brown hair!)\nIs it perfume from a dress\nThat makes me so digress?\nArms that lie along a table or wrap about a shawl.\n And should I then presume?\n And how should I begin?\n\n\nShall I say I have gone at dusk through narrow streets\nAnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipes\nOf lonely men in shirt-sleeves leaning out of windows?\n\nI should have been a pair of ragged claws\nScuttling across the floors of silent seas.\n\nAnd the afternoon the evening sleeps so peacefully!\nSmoothed by long fingers\nAsleep … tired … or it malingers.\nStretched on the floor here beside you and me.\nShould I after tea and cakes and ices\nHave the strength to force the moment to its crisis?\nBut though I have wept and fasted wept and prayed\nThough I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter\nI am no prophet--and here’s no great matter;\nI have seen the moment of my greatness flicker\nAnd I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker\nAnd in short I was afraid.\n\nAnd would it have been worth it after all\nAfter the cups the marmalade the tea\nAmong the porcelain among some talk of you and me\nWould it have been worth while\nTo have bitten off the matter with a smile\nTo have squeezed the universe into a ball\nTo roll it toward some overwhelming question\nTo say: “I am Lazarus come from the dead\nCome back to tell you all I shall tell you all”--\nIf one settling a pillow by her head\n Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;\n That is not it at all.”\n\nAnd would it have been worth it after all\nWould it have been worth while\nAfter the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets\nAfter the novels after the teacups after the skirts that trail along the floor--\nAnd this and so much more?--\nIt is impossible to say just what I mean!\nBut as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:\nWould it have been worth while\nIf one settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl\nAnd turning toward the window should say:\n “That is not it at all\n That is not what I meant at all.”\n\n\nNo! I am not Prince Hamlet nor was meant to be;\nAm an attendant lord one that will do\nTo swell a progress start a scene or two\nAdvise the prince; no doubt an easy tool\nDeferential glad to be of use\nPolitic cautious and meticulous;\nFull of high sentence but a bit obtuse;\nAt times indeed almost ridiculous--\nAlmost at times the Fool.\n\nI grow old … I grow old …\nI shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.\n\nShall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?\nI shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach.\nI have heard the mermaids singing each to each.\n\nI do not think that they will sing to me.\n\nI have seen them riding seaward on the waves\nCombing the white hair of the waves blown back\nWhen the wind blows the water white and black.\n\nWe have lingered in the chambers of the sea\nBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown\nTill human voices wake us and we drown.",
"keywords": {
"month": "october"
}
@@ -22545,7 +22545,7 @@
"flag": "🇬🇧",
"link": "https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Morris",
"favorite": false,
- "n_poems": 6
+ "n_poems": 7
},
"poems": {
"THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE": {
@@ -22571,7 +22571,7 @@
},
"LOVE’S REWARD": {
"title": "“Love’s Reward”",
- "body": "It was a knight of the southern land\nRode forth upon the way\nWhen the birds sang sweet on either hand\nAbout the middle of the May.\n\nBut when he came to the lily-close,\nThereby so fair a maiden stood,\nThat neither the lily nor the rose\nSeemed any longer fair nor good.\n\n“All hail, thou rose and lily-bough!\nWhat dost thou weeping here,\nFor the days of May are sweet enow,\nAnd the nights of May are dear?”\n\n“Well may I weep and make my moan.\nWho am bond and captive here;\nWell may I weep who lie alone,\nThough May be waxen dear.”\n\n“And is there none shall ransom thee?\nMayst thou no borrow find?”\n“Nay, what man may my borrow be,\nWhen all my wealth is left behind?”\n\n“Perchance some ring is left with thee,\nSome belt that did thy body bind?”\n“Nay, no man may my borrow be,\nMy rings and belt are left behind.”\n\n“The shoes that the May-blooms kissed on thee\nMight yet be things to some men’s mind.”\n“Nay, no man may my borrow be,\nMy golden shoes are left behind.”\n\n“The milk-white sark that covered thee\nA dear-bought token some should find.”\n“Nay, no man may my borrow be,\nMy silken sark is left behind.”\n\n“The kiss of thy mouth and the love of thee\nBetter than world’s wealth should I find.”\n“Nay, thou mayst not my borrow be,\nFor all my love is left behind.\n\n“A year agone come Midsummer-night\nI woke by the Northern sea;\nI lay and dreamed of my delight\nTill love no more would let me be.\n\n“Seaward I went by night and cloud\nTo hear the white swans sing;\nBut though they sang both clear and loud,\nI hearkened a sweeter thing.\n\n“O sweet and sweet as none may tell\nWas the speech so close ’twixt lip and lip:\nBut fast, unseen, the black oars fell\nThat drave to shore the rover’s ship.\n\n“My love lay bloody on the strand\nEre stars were waxen wan:\nNaught lacketh graves the Northern land\nIf to-day it lack a lovelier man.\n\n“I sat and wept beside the mast\nWhen the stars were gone away.\nNaught lacketh the Northland joy gone past\nIf it lack the night and day.”\n\n\n\n“Is there no place in any land\nWhere thou wouldst rather be than here?”\n“Yea, a lone grave on a cold sea-strand\nMy heart for a little holdeth dear.”\n\n“Of all the deeds that women do\nIs there none shall bring thee some delight?”\n“To lie down and die where lay we two\nUpon Midsummer night.”\n\n“I will bring thee there where thou wouldst be,\nA borrow shalt thou find.”\n“Wherewith shall I reward it thee\nFor wealth and good-hap left behind?”\n\n“A kiss from lips that love not me,\nA good-night somewhat kind;\nA narrow house to share with thee\nWhen we leave the world behind.”\n\n\n\nThey have taken ship and sailed away\nAcross the Southland main;\nThey have sailed by hills were green and gay,\nA land of goods and gain.\n\nThey have sailed by sea-cliffs stark and white\nAnd hillsides fair enow;\nThey have sailed by lands of little night\nWhere great the groves did grow.\n\nThey have sailed by islands in the sea\nThat the clouds lay thick about;\nAnd into a main where few ships be\nAmidst of dread and doubt.\n\nWith broken mast and battered side\nThey drave amidst the tempest’s heart;\nBut why should death to these betide\nWhom love did hold so well apart?\n\nThe flood it drave them toward the strand,\nThe ebb it drew them fro;\nThe swallowing seas that tore the land\nCast them ashore and let them go.\n\n“Is this the land? is this the land,\nWhere life and I must part a-twain?”\n“Yea, this is e’en the sea-washed strand\nThat made me yoke-fellow of pain.\n\n“The strand is this, the sea is this,\nThe grey bent and the mountains grey;\nBut no mound here his grave-mound is;\nWhere have they borne my love away?”\n\n“What man is this with shield and spear\nComes riding down the bent to us?\nA goodly man forsooth he were\nBut for his visage piteous.”\n\n“Ghost of my love, so kind of yore,\nArt thou not somewhat gladder grown\nTo feel my feet upon this shore?\nO love, thou shalt not long be lone.”\n\n“Ghost of my love, each day I come\nTo see where God first wrought us wrong:\nNow kind thou com’st to call me home.\nBe sure I shall not tarry long.”\n\n\n\n“Come here, my love; come here for rest,\nSo sore as my body longs for thee!\nMy heart shall beat against thy breast,\nAs arms of thine shall comfort me.”\n\n“Love, let thy lips depart no more\nFrom those same eyes they once did kiss,\nThe very bosom wounded sore\nWhen sorrow clave the heart of bliss!”\n\nO was it day, or was it night,\nAs there they told their love again?\nThe high-tide of the sun’s delight,\nOr whirl of wind and drift of rain?\n\n“Speak sweet, my love, of how it fell,\nAnd how thou cam’st across the sea,\nAnd what kind heart hath served thee well,\nAnd who thy borrow there might be?”\n\nNaught but the wind and sea made moan\nAs hastily she turned her round;\nFrom light clouds wept the morn alone,\nNot the dead corpse upon the ground.\n\n“O look, my love, for here is he\nWho once of all the world was kind,\nAnd led my sad heart o’er the sea!\nAnd now must he be left behind.”\n\nShe kissed his lips that yet did smile,\nShe kissed his eyes that were not sad:\n“O thou who sorrow didst beguile,\nAnd now wouldst have me wholly glad!\n\n“A little gift is this,” she said,\n“Thou once hadst deemed great gift enow;\nYet surely shalt thou rest thine head\nWhere I one day shall lie alow.\n\n“There shalt thou wake to think of me,\nAnd by thy face my face shall find;\nAnd I shall then thy borrow be\nWhen all the world is left behind.”",
+ "body": "It was a knight of the southern land\nRode forth upon the way\nWhen the birds sang sweet on either hand\nAbout the middle of the May.\n\nBut when he came to the lily-close,\nThereby so fair a maiden stood,\nThat neither the lily nor the rose\nSeemed any longer fair nor good.\n\n“All hail, thou rose and lily-bough!\nWhat dost thou weeping here,\nFor the days of May are sweet enow,\nAnd the nights of May are dear?”\n\n“Well may I weep and make my moan.\nWho am bond and captive here;\nWell may I weep who lie alone,\nThough May be waxen dear.”\n\n“And is there none shall ransom thee?\nMayst thou no borrow find?”\n“Nay, what man may my borrow be,\nWhen all my wealth is left behind?”\n\n“Perchance some ring is left with thee,\nSome belt that did thy body bind?”\n“Nay, no man may my borrow be,\nMy rings and belt are left behind.”\n\n“The shoes that the May-blooms kissed on thee\nMight yet be things to some men’s mind.”\n“Nay, no man may my borrow be,\nMy golden shoes are left behind.”\n\n“The milk-white sark that covered thee\nA dear-bought token some should find.”\n“Nay, no man may my borrow be,\nMy silken sark is left behind.”\n\n“The kiss of thy mouth and the love of thee\nBetter than world’s wealth should I find.”\n“Nay, thou mayst not my borrow be,\nFor all my love is left behind.”\n\n“A year agone come Midsummer-night\nI woke by the Northern sea;\nI lay and dreamed of my delight\nTill love no more would let me be.”\n\n“Seaward I went by night and cloud\nTo hear the white swans sing;\nBut though they sang both clear and loud,\nI hearkened a sweeter thing.”\n\n“O sweet and sweet as none may tell\nWas the speech so close ’twixt lip and lip:\nBut fast, unseen, the black oars fell\nThat drave to shore the rover’s ship.”\n\n“My love lay bloody on the strand\nEre stars were waxen wan:\nNaught lacketh graves the Northern land\nIf to-day it lack a lovelier man.”\n\n“I sat and wept beside the mast\nWhen the stars were gone away.\nNaught lacketh the Northland joy gone past\nIf it lack the night and day.”\n\n\n\n“Is there no place in any land\nWhere thou wouldst rather be than here?”\n“Yea, a lone grave on a cold sea-strand\nMy heart for a little holdeth dear.”\n\n“Of all the deeds that women do\nIs there none shall bring thee some delight?”\n“To lie down and die where lay we two\nUpon Midsummer night.”\n\n“I will bring thee there where thou wouldst be,\nA borrow shalt thou find.”\n“Wherewith shall I reward it thee\nFor wealth and good-hap left behind?”\n\n“A kiss from lips that love not me,\nA good-night somewhat kind;\nA narrow house to share with thee\nWhen we leave the world behind.”\n\n\n\nThey have taken ship and sailed away\nAcross the Southland main;\nThey have sailed by hills were green and gay,\nA land of goods and gain.\n\nThey have sailed by sea-cliffs stark and white\nAnd hillsides fair enow;\nThey have sailed by lands of little night\nWhere great the groves did grow.\n\nThey have sailed by islands in the sea\nThat the clouds lay thick about;\nAnd into a main where few ships be\nAmidst of dread and doubt.\n\nWith broken mast and battered side\nThey drave amidst the tempest’s heart;\nBut why should death to these betide\nWhom love did hold so well apart?\n\nThe flood it drave them toward the strand,\nThe ebb it drew them fro;\nThe swallowing seas that tore the land\nCast them ashore and let them go.\n\n“Is this the land? is this the land,\nWhere life and I must part a-twain?”\n“Yea, this is e’en the sea-washed strand\nThat made me yoke-fellow of pain.”\n\n“The strand is this, the sea is this,\nThe grey bent and the mountains grey;\nBut no mound here his grave-mound is;\nWhere have they borne my love away?”\n\n“What man is this with shield and spear\nComes riding down the bent to us?\nA goodly man forsooth he were\nBut for his visage piteous.”\n\n“Ghost of my love, so kind of yore,\nArt thou not somewhat gladder grown\nTo feel my feet upon this shore?\nO love, thou shalt not long be lone.”\n\n“Ghost of my love, each day I come\nTo see where God first wrought us wrong:\nNow kind thou com’st to call me home.\nBe sure I shall not tarry long.”\n\n\n\n“Come here, my love; come here for rest,\nSo sore as my body longs for thee!\nMy heart shall beat against thy breast,\nAs arms of thine shall comfort me.”\n\n“Love, let thy lips depart no more\nFrom those same eyes they once did kiss,\nThe very bosom wounded sore\nWhen sorrow clave the heart of bliss!”\n\nO was it day, or was it night,\nAs there they told their love again?\nThe high-tide of the sun’s delight,\nOr whirl of wind and drift of rain?\n\n“Speak sweet, my love, of how it fell,\nAnd how thou cam’st across the sea,\nAnd what kind heart hath served thee well,\nAnd who thy borrow there might be?”\n\nNaught but the wind and sea made moan\nAs hastily she turned her round;\nFrom light clouds wept the morn alone,\nNot the dead corpse upon the ground.\n\n“O look, my love, for here is he\nWho once of all the world was kind,\nAnd led my sad heart o’er the sea!\nAnd now must he be left behind.”\n\nShe kissed his lips that yet did smile,\nShe kissed his eyes that were not sad:\n“O thou who sorrow didst beguile,\nAnd now wouldst have me wholly glad!”\n\n“A little gift is this,” she said,\n“Thou once hadst deemed great gift enow;\nYet surely shalt thou rest thine head\nWhere I one day shall lie alow.”\n\n“There shalt thou wake to think of me,\nAnd by thy face my face shall find;\nAnd I shall then thy borrow be\nWhen all the world is left behind.”",
"keywords": {
"month": "may",
"month_epoch": "middle"
@@ -22588,6 +22588,13 @@
"title": "“Our Hands Have Met”",
"body": "Our hands have met, our lips have met\nOur souls--who knows when the wind blows\nHow light souls drift mid longings set,\nIf thou forget’st, can I forget\nThe time that was not long ago?\n\nThou wert not silent then, but told\nSweet secrets dear--I drew so near\nThy shamefaced cheeks grown overbold,\nThat scarce thine eyes might I behold!\nAh was it then so long ago!\n\nTrembled my lips and thou wouldst turn\nBut hadst no heart to draw apart,\nBeneath my lips thy cheek did burn--\nYet no rebuke that I might learn;\nYea kind looks still, not long ago.\n\nWilt thou be glad upon the day\nWhen unto me this love shall be\nAn idle fancy passed away,\nAnd we shall meet and smile and say\n“O wasted sighs of long ago!”\n\nWilt thou rejoice that thou hast set\nCold words, dull shows ’twixt hearts drawn close,\nThat cold at heart I live on yet,\nForgetting still that I forget\nThe priceless days of long ago?",
"keywords": {}
+ },
+ "SUMMER DAWN": {
+ "title": "“Summer Dawn”",
+ "body": "Pray but one prayer for me ’twixt thy closed lips,\nThink but one thought of me up in the stars.\nThe summer night waneth, the morning light slips,\nFaint and grey ’twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars,\nThat are patiently waiting there for the dawn:\nPatient and colourless, though Heaven’s gold\nWaits to float through them along with the sun.\nFar out in the meadows, above the young corn,\nThe heavy elms wait, and restless and cold\nThe uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;\nThrough the long twilight they pray for the dawn,\nRound the lone house in the midst of the corn.\nSpeak but one word to me over the corn,\nOver the tender, bow’d locks of the corn.",
+ "keywords": {
+ "season": "summer"
+ }
}
}
},
diff --git a/poems/utils.py b/poems/utils.py
index 295275e..e790023 100644
--- a/poems/utils.py
+++ b/poems/utils.py
@@ -266,14 +266,15 @@ def convert_to_html_lines(text):
Converts to HTML italic format.
"""
html_lines = []
-
- text = add_italic_tags(text)
for line in text.split("\n"):
- if len(line) > 0:
- html_lines.append(f'''{line}
''')
- else:
+ if len(line) == 0:
html_lines.append('''
''')
- return "\n".join(html_lines)
+ elif line.strip().strip("_")[0] in ["“", "‘"]:
+ html_lines.append(f'''{line}
''')
+ else:
+ html_lines.append(f'''{line}
''')
+
+ return add_italic_tags("\n".join(html_lines))