Date: Fri, 25 Jul 1997 20:35:51 +0200 Subject: Re: PLC: Mot du jour From: Joerg.Gruel-AT-t-online.de (Joerg T. Gruel) George Trail wrote: > > >And let the music of the swords make them crimson! > >Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! > >Hell blot black for alway the thought "Peace!" > > > >------- > > > >Abysmal? Judge ye! > > > >Joerg > > This convinces me better. > > Down sank our threescore spears together, > As thick we saw the pagans ride; > His eager face in the clear fresh weather, > Shown out that last time by my side. > > Up the sweep of the bridge we dashed together, > It rocked to the crash of the meeting spears, > Down rained the buds of the dear spring weather, > The elm-tree flowers fell like tears. > > There, as we rolled and writhed together, > I threw my arms above my head, > For close by my side in the lovely weather, > I saw him reel and fall back dead. > > I and the slayer met together, > He wanted the death-stroke there in his place, > With thoughts of death in the lovely weather, > Gaped mazed at my maddened face. > > Madly I fought as we fought together; > In vain: the little Christian band > The pagans drowned, asin stormy weather > The river drowns low-lying land. > > They bound my blood-stained hands together, > They bound his corpse to nod by my side: > Then on we rode in the bright March weather, > With clash of cymbals did we ride. > > We ride no more, no more together; > My prison bars are thick and strong, > I take no heed of any weather, > The sweets Saints grant I live not long > > (1856) > G Nice poem; but where's the abyss? Or could it really stand against Ezra's three lines? You can't persuade me that you are serious here. Anyway, here's some more light cavallery stuff, three scattered lines (all I've got) from a poem Tennyson wrote, as my handbook has it, 1854 on an absurd episode of just another absurd kind of Gulf War: there's not to make reply, There's not to reason why, There's but to do and die. So much for the more abysmal side of warfare. Cheers, Joerg
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