IF I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever
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 the suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts 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.
That’s what he wrote, and what he did. Let’s let it be.
Almost apocalyptic tonight with (apart from my exceedingly good offering now well in the past) four horsemen bringing us stuff of culture… or that about which much of Western culture revolves.
Blognor Regis solves an age-old mystery in showing us the location of the fabled Teenage Boys’ Brains Graveyard.
Pavlov’s Cat on another treasure I’d forgotten, but Inshallah I won’t be ordering this one on Amazon…
Julia on poetry and the Law of the Jungle and its great Scribe. Got to read more of that man.
…and finally, upon a Pale Horse Counting Cats on science fiction …and something with an ‘L.’