Issue 318 10th January 2014

I often wonder why anyone should want to become a politician, when there is far more money to be made by abusing them! You are never too old to set another goal or to dream another dream ... CS Lewis It is so sad when a computer struggles then dies in a flurry of blank screenness. There comes a time when mince-pies start to loose their appeal and the turkey bones just have to go ... Folks long ago had the right idea about garment sizing ... None of this psychological battle with some sizes saying a size ‗10‘ when actually they are more like a ‗14‘ and ‗16s‘ which are actual ‗20s‘. Bring back ‗one size fits all‘ with bodice lacing, I say and trousers with expandable gussets ... Phew ... I‘m getting over excited I‘d better go and have a cuppa ...

Canine adj pertaining to dogs Isomorphic adj looking like another organism, having the same form or appearance as another organism or the same organism at a different stage in its life cycle; corresponding, describes mathematical sets with a one-to-

one correspondence so that an operation such as addition or multiplication in one produces the same result as the analogous operation in the other. Cassandra n an ignored prophet of pending disaster whose warnings were discounted Turlough n a temporary lake formed by rising ground water in limestone region (Irish) Xoanan n Ancient Greece, wooden/stone idol ("Plank figure" of chalk, Early Cypriot III to Middle Cypriot I, 1900-1800 BCE (Museum of Cycladic Art, Athens). Source Wikipedia A xoanon (Greek: to carve or scrape [wood] was an Archaic wooden cult image of Ancient Greece. Classi-

cal Greeks associated such cult objects, whether aniconic or effigy, with the legendary Daedalus. In the 2nd century CE, Pausanias described numerous

xoana in his Description of Greece, notably the image of Hera in her temple at Samos. "The statue of Samian Hera, as Aethilos says, was a wooden beam at first, but afterwards, it was humanized in form".

Kraal n African stockade for animals, or a rural village of huts surrounded by a stockade Omega n last letter of Greek alphabet, can mean the end, the last, the final in a series

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I do seem to be harping on about ‗Owd Age‘ lately, but then I suppose om not theeeere yet, cuz me feet feel okay. Dad always said that, ‗you‘re only as good as your feet‘, But then he was talking bout, horse‘s, cows and bullocks for meat.

As Old as What you Feel

They always say that you‘re, as old as what you feel, Only now I like to have nap, after almost every meal, And in the night get disturbed, got to water me hoss, So now I think I must be old, me legs I cannot cross.

The old body that I‘ve worked with, all my living years, Getting tired and old as well, confirming all my fears,

Joints get stiff and muscles ache, cannot move so fast, Stumble over rough ground, getting all harassed.

I cannot read the paper, until my glasses I must find, Remember where I put them, must be getting blind,

The misses she has got them on, cannot find her own, Each of us both as bad, but then we shouldn‘t moan.

Feet I cannot reach right now, back won‘t bend so much, Got to have chiropodist, corns and toe nails to retouch,

Dad always said that, you’re only as good as your feet, But then he was talking bout, horse’s, cows and bullocks for meat.

Hair it has all gone grey, and very thin on top,

Need a hat in winter, the freezing cold wind to stop, No insulation gainst the cold, a wig I got in mind,

But then it‘s two lots of hair to comb, as well as going blind.

Ya mind is getting slower, reactions far too late, The young ones like to drive, my driving they berate,

A dent or two I don‘t mind, but it frightens them to death, When they‘re sitting in the back and cannot catch their breath.

So now I try to look relaxed, put me feet up on me chair

Central heating turned up, find me glasses and combed me hair, Slippers on, oh what bliss, the telly‘s far too loud,

Lost the bloody controller now, good job we‘re not too proud.

Owd Fred

4

WEATHER REPORT THIRD WEEK DECEMBER

It's 100% Certain – Put your shirt on it!!!!! Yes, it's going to happen. White Christmas? No idea, 16th December still too early and what the Met Office says

is set out below. But (and this is the cultural bit) what Sandy Denny sang about all those years ago will undoubt-edly happen. Sandy, who sang with Fairport Convention in the early 1970s, got it right in her song ―No End‖ when she put her finger on what always happens in the classic opening verse which goes …

―They said that it was snowing, in astounded tones, on the news,

―I wonder why they are always so surprised, because every year it snows, Frozen images of snow ploughs as they churn along the motorways I haven't had no boots to wear, or loot to spare, for days and days.‖

(From the album No More Sad Refrains, the Anthology, Universal Island Records 2000, track 10)

So if, and when it snows, the media will be taken by surprise, but not perhaps the Daily Express, which is pre-dicting howling weather. In fact it has already arrived, in case you had not noticed. Not the Blizzard Thursday,

which everyone was prepared for. Just gales and devastation all the time. Last Saturday (14th) the prediction was ―100 mph gales to last until Christmas‖ quoting Leon Brown of the weather channel that ―This weekend will be very windy... gales around all western coasts ... across Scotland, northern England and Wales‖. But it did not

reach Stafford. Brown reported that ―this stormy picture looks like lasting at least until Christmas‖. By Monday the 16th, the message was torrential rain. The Express re-

ported ―half a month's worth of rain hits Britain today‖. The paper reported that ―Storm Emily, as it will be called, threatens to unleash another vicious weather front with damaging winds and heavy rain sweeping the UK right up

to Christmas‖. We await the arrival of Storm Emily. Storm Emily (―Deadly 100mph blizzards to hit Britain on Christmas Day‖

- Express Tuesday 17th December) is named after Emily Bronte by Weather Channel forecasters (According to the Birmingham Mail on the same day) as the storm will hit on the 165th anniversary of the death of the Wuthering

Heights author, Thursday 19th December. The Mail article was virtually identi-cal to that in the Express. The Express reports ―strong gales and rain are ex-

pected to batter Britain into December 25th‖. And it is coming our way as the Birmingham Mail reports ―Christmas is looking to be a stormy one in the Mid-lands... 'Storm Emily' could wreak havoc across much of the West Midlands‖,

reporting on gloomy Tuesday, 17th December. However by 18th December, when I am writing this, the Express while having the banner headline ―100mph Storm Emily will roar in tonight‖ also wrote of blizzards ―expected to cripple parts of Scotland‖, in fact

the North East. So unless we travelled to North Scotland the chances of seeing a bad day on Thursday seems to have been remote. Check against reality!

In the meanwhile, back to the Meteorological Office. The Met prediction for the week up to and including Sunday 22nd December is for a rainy Monday, dry with sunshine on Tuesday, Wednesday wet and windy, Thurs-day brighter but colder, Friday milder, wet and windy weather. So you can check that against what happened by

the time you get to read this. The weekend is forecast to be windy and rather mild across much of the UK, but longer spells of rain and severe gales ―mainly affecting parts of the north and west‖.

FOR CHRISTMAS WEEK Monday 23rd onward ―conditions look set to continue mild and unsettled... with some heavy rain at times‖.

Christmas day looks like those of us who want a White Christmas ‗might have to keep dreaming for another year'. But the Met is always cautious and ends with ―Will the jet stream fancy a change and move southwards to let in colder weather? Or will it keep roaring across the Atlantic and sending deep lows our way?‖

I haven't spoken to it recently, so I can't say. But if, and when, there is snow, we can be quite sure that Sandy Denny will be right - and the media will be taken by surprise.

Trevor Fisher 17. 12. 13

Waiting For The New Season.

When I had my allotment at Amerton, I bought five root wrapped fruit trees from one of those discount

shops for just under £5 each. They were all common, but named varieties of Cooking Apple, Desert Apple, Pear, Plum and Cherry. As Amerton allotments were forced to close I dug the trees up and potted them. Unfortunately, they were not labelled properly and have lost their labels in the meantime.

The Cherry was planted behind my greenhouse leaving the other four trees in pots behind the garage all summer. Recently I decided to plant a fruit tree on my Hixon allotment and wanted to plant the plum, because if it was planted next to a stone path it would benefit from the lime in the path that would help it to make the stones in the fruit, whereas apples

and pears do not like limey, or alkali soil. The problem was, although the apples had fruited, only the cooking apple still had fruit on it to identify

what it was, so it was a one in three chance that the fruit tree I planted on my allotment was what I wanted to plant. Only time will tell if the tree

turns out to be the plum and suitable for the spot. My intention is to train the ―Fruit Tree,‖ with its branches spreading outwards and not upwards, in the same way that I have done with reasonable success on a Plum, Apri-cot, Quince and Peach at home. This way it should not get too tall and

cast too much shadow over the rest of my plot. Planting the tree in the Winter months will give its roots a chance to settle in a little before the new leaves make demands on them for food and water. This will in turn mean that the tree should not suffer a shock and have die back as the Summer comes. All of the fruit bushes that I in-tended to plant in my plot have also gone in and I have already planted some Winter vegetables such as Garlic, Broad Beans and Cabbages before the snow came. The Jerusalem Artichokes I am still harvesting, but some of the smaller ones are being re-planted as the old plants are being dug up. Other vegetables being harvested are my early planting of Leeks that are short but fat and quite tasty. We are also cutting Kale and have de-cided that although the Kale variety we planted this last season produced smaller, thinner leaves, the central stalks weren‘t so tough and didn‘t need the fiddle of cutting them out before cooking, so it was a better variety. The Scorzonera roots have not forked this time as they were not trans-planted from cells, but were sown directly into the ground. Care is needed when digging them out though as the roots seem to go down forever and are quite thin! Our Oca seem to be keeping well, but we are definitely giv-ing far too many away to all the interested people that we tell about them! The Oca plants in the potato tubs in the greenhouse didn‘t do any better than those grown outside and as such were really a waste of valuable

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space. The only real benefit was that they harvested much later and had started to pro-duce bulbils on their stems that will yield plenty of ―seed,‖ to give away this coming sea-son. Fortunately, I had done nearly all of the preparatory jobs on my allotment ready for the new season before the bad weather came and I had even dug out and manured my climbing and runner bean trenches with some horse manure I got locally. I fetched the horse manure in my car from a site nearby where there are many horses. When I first decide I wanted some horse manure we spot-ted the fields full of horses and kept watch on it to see when they put the bags out by the gate. For what seemed like months we saw what were obviously bags of manure standing up round the field gradually being filled. The bags stood quite tall for some time and mom said that, ―Maybe they were training the horses to use them like an outside loo for horses!‖ It would certainly save the horsey people the trouble of scooping it up from all round the field!

-o0o-

http://www.londonauthorfair.com/

Another year flies by on speedy wings, and I am left to ponder at its flight. At twelve o‘ clock tonight church bells will ring and to old times we‘ll say a fond good night. Look forward now, to this, a brand new year, turn clean white page for all you mean to do. Enjoy each day the road ahead is clear, from here there is an unrestricted view! In future months we‘ll hope the good times roll, and happy tales replace the doom and gloom. With purpose strong, climb out of deep, dark hole, those cobwebs blown, allow grand plans to bloom. Out with the old! The past is now complete! It‘s here and now! For New Year, take your seat.

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Year 1589 : The Cast : The Queen‘s Men : a group of strolling players thrown out of London where the theatres have been closed due to an outbreak of plague. Elizabeth I was on the throne. Kit Marlowe (wordsmith/detective), Harry Swann (the murderer of the-first victim who first found the chal-ice) Samuel Burball (Owner), Peter Pecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays a girl‘s role very badly. Vesta Swann, Rosie Ripp-sheet. The Boar‘s Head Tavern, Trentby: Bertha landlady, Molly Golightly, Martha Goodnight wenches. Ned the bear keeper. The Trentby Abbey of St Jude : Abbot Ranulf knows something about the missing Roman hoard of silver plate/chalice etc The Manor of Bluddschott : sodden Squire Darnley Bluddschott, wife Mis-tress Anne, daughter Penelope about to be sold off into matrimony, Mis-tress Hood seamstress, sister to Penny, Mistress Tatanya

The Sheriff‘s Castle : Magistrate Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, Black Knight, the Sheriff Burrowmere Lord Haywood, man-at-arms Richard of Hyde Leigh, a constable Daniel Smithers and a scribe Modern Day: Rick Fallon and Tommy Tip-Tip McGee** Private eyes in Trentby on case for Sir Kipling Aloysius Bluddschott (Sister Christobel) to locate silver chalice and Roman hoard of Trentby Abbey + corpse Jago Swann DI Pete Ferret PLEASE NOTE: It is important that those writing for the storyline read what other writers have already written before they add a new piece, AND the year has been changed and Moll Ripp-sheet has become Rosie.

Kit fingered his beard, not that there was much of a beard to finger after Mistress Hood had attacked it with her shears. The part Burball had given him called for a young man and, as she said, 'You must suffer for your art Master Marlowe.' It had taken him ten years to grow that beard and Kit doubted that anybody had

suffered as much as he had. But being newly shorn was giving him ideas. 'Master Burball, what think you of a new play where the hero is beset by the heroine in the guise of a boy?' 'Been done! Bacon, that Pork Butcher‘s apprentice at the Globe put one on only last year, Master Marlowe. How's your Poisoned Platter coming along? We need to get that onto the stage as soon as we can. What think you on the title ―Tambourine?‖ We‘ve got a fine old tam-bourine, somewhere ...' 'Act three scene four is almost finished, I only need to do one more and the finale. Can I have the drum and trumpet for that?'

'Has the drum been mended, Master Marlowe? No-one ever tells me anything!' Kit was dismayed, 'No-one tells me anything either! No drum then...The trumpet's been found, it was in the basket with the fodder. All it needs is the oats getting out of it, and the dents removing. It looks as if somebody has been hit over the head with it.' 'As long as it's not someone we know I don't care. That Constable's been sniffing around here again. He's looking for any old excuse to throw us all in his lock-up and we don't want that.' Marlowe was thinking. Particularly as he'd use that as an excuse to sell off our goods to pay the fines. Now ... with his nose for smelling money in the wrong place, I wonder if he's been the one have done away with Harry Swann? Worth thinking

about is that. Editor note ... At last we have the book‘s title ... It is the name of the new play being put on at the Bluddschott‘s bash ...

http://us4.campaign-archive2.com/?

u=309bdda99c8364a6971f4db82&id=b382487a76&e=cdcb43676e

Bulletin No. 3 - Stirring in the Mix

“Write about what you know” ... Hard thing for crime writers?

Who Loses All State Pension Altogether? (ACW)

The Gagging Law will soon end all petitions and charitable campaigns in the UK. My petition (38degrees) would inform all the people who do not yet real-

ise they are losing all state pension altogether, forever, by coming changes in pension law. I keep meeting women who do not realise they have lost state pension at 60 by the Pension Bill already. Back to Victorian Constraints for Women The biggest losers are the 1950s Baby Boomer women generation. Looking at all the changes, all politicians seem to hold the belief that women should not have money of their own and go back to Victorian beliefs that a woman solely relied on her daily survival to father then husband. What! They’ve No Bread. Well… Let Them Eat Cake! Currently, politicians are in denial about welfare reform‘s cut of all benefit in-come being the cause of starvation, and nearly half of all MPs voted against looking further into the huge rise in the use of food banks. Yet over the festive season, the Save the Children Fund broadcast an appeal to feed British children of the working poor. The government called it ‗scaremongering‘ when a church charity put out a printed advertisement – Britain Isn‘t Eating – about starvation caused by the state. Vote New or Starve Half of all women over 50s low waged within the working poor. Majority reason for women over 50s and 60s not being in work is because they are too ill and/or disabled. Any excuse is given not to grant us benefit. I think, 2015 is going to be a Vote New Party or Starve Year.

https://www.facebook.com/churchpoverty

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RBW 2014 Poetry Collection Is now published as a free e-book on www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters and is on our Facebook page Also on the main website http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=80 Welcome to old friends and new voices in this our 7th poetry publication.

Mark Twain once said:

History is better than prophecy. In fact history is

prophecy.

Random Words And

Assignments will be back very soon ...

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IF I RULED THE WORLD Who says who is welcome here? Unwelcome there; where do people go? Travel home; the slums; the Ritz Poor as the poorest; rich as chips Freedom for all of the people of the world That is, if I ruled the world See some dirty, unknown to clean Their water brown or sluggish green Made to drink; or die of thirst Through the deepest heat; no choice is worse Human right to clean water and food! Will be priority if I ruled the world Hear the children cry in pain Riddled with illness, widespread like rain Taking lives off those not deserved From high society to the scum of the earth A host of cures available to all If only I could rule the world Bringing you down to your knees Anxiety spreading through the streams The rivers; oceans; rippled with doubt Cruelty we could do without Violence; crime; harm is hurled NEVER! If I ruled the world

POETRY LIBRARY: Latest Competitions: Grey Hen Poetry Competition 2014 | Closing Date: 30-Apr-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1476 Earlyworks Press with Circaidy Gregory: Poetry Collection Competition | Closing Date: 30-Jun-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1477 New Magazines: Reliquiæ http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=715

from Laon and Cythna; or The Revolution of the

Golden City By Percy Bysshe Shelley To Mary — —

So now my summer task is ended, Mary, And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;

As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faëry, Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome; Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become

A star among the stars of mortal night, If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, Its doubtful promise thus I would unite

With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light. The toil which stole from thee so many an hour

Is ended,—and the fruit is at thy feet! No longer where the woods to frame a bower With interlaced branches mix and meet,

Or where with sound like many voices sweet, Water-falls leap among wild islands green, Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat

Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen: But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when first

The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass. I do remember well the hour which burst My spirit's sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was,

When I walked forth upon the glittering grass, And wept, I knew not why; until there rose From the near school-room, voices, that, alas!

Were but one echo from a world of woes— The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.

And then I clasped my hands and looked around— —But none was near to mock my streaming eyes, Which poured their warm drops on the sunny ground—

So without shame, I spake:—"I will be wise, And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies Such power, for I grow weary to behold

The selfish and the strong still tyrannise Without reproach or check." I then controlled My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold.

And from that hour did I with earnest thought Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore, Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught

I cared to learn, but from that secret store Wrought linked armour for my soul, before It might walk forth to war among mankind;

Thus power and hope were strengthened more and more Within me, till there came upon my mind A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined.

Alas, that love should be a blight and snare To those who seek all sympathies in one!—

Such once I sought in vain; then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone:—

Yet never found I one not false to me, Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be

Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee. Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart Fell, like bright Spring upon some herbless plain;

How beautiful and calm and free thou wert In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain,

And walked as free as light the clouds among, Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung

To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long.

No more alone through the world's wilderness, Although I trod the paths of high intent, I journeyed now: no more companionless,

Where solitude is like despair, I went.— There is the wisdom of a stern content When Poverty can blight the just and good,

When Infamy dares mock the innocent, And cherished friends turn with the multitude To trample: this was ours, and we unshaken stood!

Now has descended a serener hour, And with inconstant fortune, friends return;

Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power Which says:—Let scorn be not repaid with scorn. And from thy side two gentle babes are born To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we

Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn; And these delights, and thou, have been to me The parents of the Song I consecrate to thee.

Is it, that now my inexperienced fingers But strike the prelude of a loftier strain?

Or, must the lyre on which my spirit lingers Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again, Though it might shake the Anarch Custom's reign,

And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway Holier than was Amphion's? I would fain Reply in hope—but I am worn away,

And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey. And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak:

Time may interpret to his silent years. Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek, And in the light thine ample forehead wears, And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears,

And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears: And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see

A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,

Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child. I wonder not—for One then left this earth Whose life was like a setting planet mild

Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled Of its departing glory; still her fame Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild

Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name.

One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit, Which was the echo of three thousand years; And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it, As some lone man who in a desert hears

The music of his home:—unwonted fears Fell on the pale oppressors of our race, And Faith, and Custom, and low-thoughted cares,

Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling-place.

Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind! If there must be no response to my cry— If men must rise and stamp with fury blind

On his pure name who loves them,—thou and I, Sweet Friend! can look from our tranquillity Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night,—

Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's sight, That burn from year to year with un-extinguished light.

Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792–1822

NB: Original spacing had to be reformatted to fit.

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George William Russell (10 April 1867 – 17 July 1935) who wrote with the pseudonym Æ (sometimes written AE or A.E.), was an Irish nationalist, writer, editor, critic, poet and painter.

Russell was born in Lurgan, County Armagh. His family

moved to Dublin when he was eleven-years-old. He was educated at Rathmines School and the Metropoli-tan School of Art, where he began a lifelong friendship

with William Butler Yeats. He started working as a draper's clerk, then for many years for the Irish Agricul-

tural Organization Society (IAOS), an agricultural co-operative society initiated by Horace Plunkett in 1894. In 1897 Plunkett needed an able organiser and W.B.

Yeats suggested Russell, who became Assistant Secre-tary of the IAOS.

Russell was editor from 1905 to 1923 of the Irish Homestead, the journal of the IAOS. His gifts as a

writer and publicist gained a wide influence in the cause of agricultural co-operation. He then became editor of the The Irish Statesman, which merged with the Irish Homestead, from 15 September 1923 until 12 April 1930. With the demise of this newspaper he was for the first

time without a job, and there were concerns that he could find himself in poverty, as he had never earned very much from his paintings or books. Unbeknownst to him meetings and collec-

tions were organized and later that year at Plunkett House he was presented by Father T. Finlay with a cheque for £800. This enabled him to visit the United States the next year, where he was well received and his books sold in large numbers.

He used the pseudonym "AE". This derived from an earlier Æ'on signifying the lifelong quest of man, subsequently abbreviated. His first book of poems, Homeward: Songs by the Way (1894), established him in the Irish Literary Revival, where Æ met the young James Joyce in 1902 and

introduced him to other Irish literary figures, including William Butler Yeats. He appears as a character in the "Scylla and Charybdis" episode of Joyce's Ulysses, where he dismisses

Stephen's theories on Shakespeare. His collected poems was published in 1913, with a second edition in 1926.

His house at 17 Rathgar Avenue in Dublin became a meeting-place for those interested in the economic and artistic future of Ireland. His interests were wide-ranging; he became a theoso-

phist and wrote extensively on politics and economics, while continuing to paint and write po-etry. Æ claimed to be a clairvoyant, able to view various spiritual beings, which he illustrated in paintings and drawings. He was noted for exceptional generosity towards younger writers:

Frank O'Connor termed him "the man who was the father to three generations of Irish writers", and Patrick Kavanagh called him "a great and holy man".

He moved to England after his wife's death in 1932 and died in Bournemouth in 1935. He is buried in Mount Jerome Cemetery, Dublin.

Research and picture source Wikipedia and other websites.

The Veils of Maya MOTHER, with whom our lives should be, Not hatred keeps our lives apart: Charmed by some lesser glow in thee, Our hearts beat not within thy heart. Beauty, the face, the touch, the eyes, Prophets of thee, allure our sight From that unfathomed deep where lies Thine ancient loveliness and light. Self-found at last, the joy that springs Being thyself, shall once again Start thee upon the whirling rings And through the pilgrimage of pain. Symbolism NOW when the spirit in us wakes and broods, Filled with home yearnings, drowsily it flings From its deep heart high dreams and mystic moods, Mixed with the memory of the loved earth

things: Clothing the vast with a familiar face; Reaching its right hand forth to greet the starry race. Wondrously near and clear the great warm fires Stare from the blue; so shows the cottage light To the field labourer whose heart desires The old folk by the nook, the welcome bright

From the house-wife long parted from at dawn- So the star villages in God's great depths withdrawn.

Nearer to Thee, not by delusion led, Though there no house fires burn nor bright eyes gaze: We rise, but by the symbol charioted, Through loved things rising up to Love's own ways: By these the soul unto the vast has wings And sets the seal celestial on all mortal things. Night HEART-HIDDEN from the outer things I rose; The spirit woke anew in nightly birth Unto the vastness where forever glows The star-soul of the earth. There all alone in primal ecstasy, Within her depths where revels never tire, The olden Beauty shines: each thought of me Is veined through with its fire.

And all my thoughts are throngs of living souls; They breathe in me, heart unto heart allied; Their joy undimmed, though when the morning tolls The planets may divide.

George William Russell

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