Little soul, you charming little wanderer, my body’s guest and partner,
where are you off to now?
somewhere without colour, savage and bare;
You’ll crack no more of your jokes once you’re there.
Emperor Hadrian
All the Secrets of the Universe and Some Really Important Stuff Too!
Aphorisms, proverbs, wise sayings and other witty, pithy stuff
Little soul, you charming little wanderer, my body’s guest and partner,
where are you off to now?
somewhere without colour, savage and bare;
You’ll crack no more of your jokes once you’re there.
Emperor Hadrian
God’s Garden
THE Lord God planted a garden
In the first white days of the world,
And He set there an angel warden
In a garment of light enfurled.
So near to the peace of Heaven,
That the hawk might nest with the wren,
For there in the cool of the even
God walked with the first of men.
And I dream that these garden closes
With their shade and their sun-flecked sod
And their lilies and bowers of roses,
Were laid by the hand of God.
The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth, –
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.
For He broke it for us in a garden
Under the olive-trees
Where the angel of strength was the warden
And the soul of the world found ease.
Dorothy Frances Gurney
Autobiography—that unrivalled vehicle for telling the truth about other people.
Philip Guedalla
History repeats itself: historians repeat each other.
Philip Guedalla
Of all the heavenly gifts that mortal men commend,
What trusty treasure in the world can countervail a friend?
Nicholas Grimald
A place in thy memory, dearest,
Is all that I claim;
To pause and look back when thou hearest
The sound of my name.
Gerald Griffin
No one does more harm in the Church than he who has the title or rank of holiness and acts perversely.
Pope Gregory I
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard (written 1750, publ. 1751)
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the moon complain.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
…
Thomas Gray
To each his suff’rings: all are men,
Condemn’d alike to groan,
The tender for another’s pain;
Th’ unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
‘Tis folly to be wise.
Thomas Gray
To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession.
Robert Graves