Showing posts with label Richard Burton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Richard Burton. Show all posts

Sunday 18 September 2022

THE LEADEN ECHO

Richard Burton reads Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem 'The Leaden Echo & The ...

Richard Burton  races through this poem 
with unbelievable speed. 
A technical tour de force.

The Leaden Echo And The Golden Echo
(Maidens' song from St. Winefred's Well)_

THE LEADEN ECHO

How to keep--is there any any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, lace, latch or catch or key to keep
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, . . . from vanishing away?
O is there no frowning of these wrinkles, ranked wrinkles deep,
Down? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey?
No there's none, there's none, O no there's none,
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair,
Do what you may do, what, do what you may,
And wisdom is early to despair:
Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done
To keep at bay
Age and age's evils, hoar hair,
Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death's worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay;
So be beginning, be beginning to despair.
O there's none; no no no there's none:
Be beginning to despair, to despair,
Despair, despair, despair, despair.

 THE GOLDEN ECHO

Spare!
There is one, yes I have one (Hush there!);
Only not within seeing of the sun,
Not within the singeing of the strong sun,
Tall sun's tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth's air.
Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one,
One. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place,
Where whatever's prized and passes of us, everything that's fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone,
Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet
Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matched face,
The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet,
Never fleets more, fastened with the tenderest truth
To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an ever-lastingness of, O it is an all youth!
Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace,
Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace--
Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath,
And with sighs soaring, soaring sighs deliver
Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death
Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair
Is, hair of the head, numbered.
Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould
Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept,
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold
What while we, while we slumbered.
O then, weary then why should we tread? O why are we so haggard at the heart, so care-coiled, care-killed, so fagged, so fashed, so cogged, so cumbered,
When the thing we freely forfeit is kept with fonder a care,
Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept
Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder
A care kept. Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.--
Yonder.--What high as that! We follow, now we follow.--
Yonder, yes yonder, yonder,
Yonder.



Friday 6 May 2022

Ian McShane

Ian McShane discussing Richard Burton and "Villain" on The Jonathan Ross...

Ian McShane recounts working 
with the great Richard Burton 
on the 1971 film "Villain
on The Jonathan Ross Show

Saturday 19 February 2022

St. Andrew's Cross


 

 
Peter O'Toole Cameo  in CASINO ROYALE  1967 / Peter Sellers
 
...I mean, can you blame him, really..?

Tuesday 16 November 2021

The Oncoming Storm



 
The Gathering Storm - 1974 
(Richard Burton, Robert Hardy)


"It fell upon Mr. Chamberlain in one of 
The Supreme Crises of The World
to be Contradicted by Events
to be Deceived and Cheated 
by an Evil and Wicked Man
because he had Hope -- 

Hope of Peace
The Most Noble Instinct of Man."








    "Since we last met, The House has suffered a very grievous loss in the death of one of its most distinguished Members and of a statesman and public servant who, during the best part of three memorable years, was first Minister of The Crown.

    The fierce and bitter controversies which hung around him in recent times were hushed by the news of his illness and are silenced by his death. In paying a tribute of respect and of regard to an eminent man who has been taken from us, no one is obliged to alter the opinions which he has formed or expressed upon issues which have become a part of history; but at the Lychgate we may all pass our own conduct and our own judgments under a searching review. It is not given to human beings, happily for them, for otherwise life would be intolerable, to foresee or to predict to any large extent the unfolding course of events. In one phase men seem to have been right, in another they seem to have been wrong. Then again, a few years later, when the perspective of time has lengthened, all stands in a different setting. There is a new proportion. There is another scale of values. History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days. What is the worth of all this? The only guide to a man is his conscience; the only shield to his memory is the rectitude and sincerity of his actions. It is very imprudent to walk through life without this shield, because we are so often mocked by the failure of our hopes and the upsetting of our calculations; but with this shield, however the fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honour.

    It fell to Neville Chamberlain in one of the supreme crises of the world to be contradicted by events, to be disappointed in his hopes, and to be deceived and cheated by a wicked man. But what were these hopes in which he was disappointed? What were these wishes in which he was frustrated? What was that faith that was abused? They were surely among the most noble and benevolent instincts of the human heart — the love of peace, the toil for peace, the strife for peace, the pursuit of peace, even at great peril and certainly to the utter disdain of popularity or clamour. Whatever else History may or may not say about these terrible, tremendous years, we can be sure that Neville Chamberlain acted with perfect sincerity according to his lights and strove to the utmost of his capacity and authority, which were powerful, to save the world from the awful, devastating struggle in which we are now engaged. This alone will stand him in good stead as far as what is called the verdict of history is concerned.

    But it is also a help to our country and to our whole Empire, and to our decent faithful way of living that, however long the struggle may last, or however dark may be the clouds which overhang our path, no future generation of English-speaking folks — for that is the tribunal to which we appeal — will doubt that, even at a great cost to ourselves in technical preparation, we were guiltless of the bloodshed, terror and misery which have engulfed so many lands and peoples, and yet seek new victims still. Herr Hitler protests with frantic words and gestures that he has only desired peace. What do these ravings and outpourings count before the silence of Neville Chamberlain's tomb? Long and hard, hazardous years lie before us, but at least we entered upon them united and with clean hearts.

    I do not propose to give an appreciation of Neville Chamberlain's life and character, but there were certain qualities, always admired in these Islands, which he possessed in an altogether exceptional degree. He had a physical and moral toughness of fibre which enabled him all through his varied career to endure misfortune and disappointment without being unduly discouraged or wearied. He had a precision of mind and an aptitude for business which raised him far above the ordinary levels of our generation. He had a firmness of spirit which was not often elated by success, seldom downcast by failure and never swayed by panic. When, contrary to all his hopes, beliefs and exertions, the war came upon him, and when, as he himself said, all that he had worked for was shattered, there was no man more resolved to pursue the unsought quarrel to the death. The same qualities which made him one of the last to enter the war, made him one of the last who would quit it until the full victory of a righteous cause was won.

    I had the singular experience of passing in a day from being one of his most prominent opponents and critics to being one of his principal lieutenants, and on another day of passing from serving under him to become the head of a Government of which, with perfect loyalty, he was content to be a member. Such relationships are unusual in our public life. I have before told the House on the morrow of the Debate which in the early days of May challenged his position, he declared to me and a few other friends that only a National Government could face the storm about to break upon us, and that if he were an obstacle to the formation of such a Government, he would instantly retire. Thereafter, he acted with that singleness of purpose and simplicity of conduct which at all times, and especially in great times, ought to be a model for us all.

    When he returned to duty a few weeks after a most severe operation, the bombardment of London and of the seat of Government had begun. I was a witness during that fortnight of his fortitude under the most grievous and painful bodily afflictions, and I can testify that, although physically only the wreck of a man, his nerve was unshaken and his remarkable mental faculties unimpaired.

    After he left the Government he refused all honours. He would die like his father, plain Mr. Chamberlain. I sought the permission of the King however to have him supplied with the Cabinet papers, and until a few days of his death he followed our affairs with keenness, interest and tenacity. He met the approach of death with a steady eye. If he grieved at all, it was that he could not be a spectator of our victory, but I think he died with the comfort of knowing that his country had, at least, turned the corner.

    At this time our thoughts must pass to the gracious and charming lady who shared his days of triumph and adversity with a courage and quality the equal of his own. He was, like his father and his brother, Austen, before him, a famous Member of the House of Commons, and we here assembled this morning, Members of all parties, without a single exception, feel that we do ourselves and our country honour in saluting the memory of one whom Disraeli would have called an "English worthy."

    §
    The Lord Privy Seal (Mr. Attlee)


    I desire to add a few words on behalf of the Labour party to the eloquent and moving tribute which the Prime Minister has paid to one who was so lately our colleague in the Government, and to one who only six months ago was himself the Prime Minister. It is an old and gracious tradition of this House, when death comes to one who has taken a leading place in Parliament, that controversy should be stilled while leaders of all parties speak in recognition of the loss which has been sustained in common by all Members. At the present time, when war has brought together in support of one Government all the great parties of the State, it might seem, perhaps, unnecessary that anyone should speak from this Bench except the Prime Minister, who can speak for us all. Yet there is, I think, good reason to continue our ancient usages. It is characteristic of the way of life which we are fighting to preserve not to allow political differences to prevent mutual respect and friendship. It is a mark of our democracy to attain national unity, not by uniformity, but by diversity. For all but a few months of his political career, Neville Chamberlain stood for policies in home and foreign affairs to which we of the Labour Party were opposed, and often very bitterly opposed. But this is not the time or the occasion to pass any judgment on those controversies. We are too close to them to gain a true perspective. But opposed as we were to his policy, we never doubted that Mr. Chamberlain was honestly and sincerely following the course which he believed to be right in the interests of his country. We never doubted his deep devotion to the cause of peace.

    It is remarkable that one family, in so short a period, should have produced three statesmen of outstanding achievement with such diverse gifts as Joseph, Austen and Neville Chamberlain. Neville Chamberlain brought to the service of this House most remarkable qualities—great industry, an orderly mind, clarity of exposition and readiness in debate, backed by great tenacity and determination. It was always obvious when he spoke that he had not just read a brief but had mastered his subject. Rarely, if ever, was he found wanting in knowledge. Few Ministers were more skilful in piloting through Committee a difficult and
    1621
    complicated Measure, and he was a great administrator.

    It was his fate to be called to the office of Prime Minister at a time of very great difficulty. For nearly 18 years I encountered him as a political opponent—a redoubtable political opponent—but although we disagreed profoundly on politics, he never allowed those differences to affect the friendliness of our private relations. In the last months of his life I worked with him as a colleague and I was then better able to appreciate to the full his qualities. I saw the magnanimity with which he worked with those who had been his severe critics. I recognised his devotion to the common cause and his abhorrence of the evil thing which is seeking to destroy our civilisation. Above all, I admired the courage with which he faced the physical disabilities which came upon him, the devotion with which he strove to the last to serve his country and the faith in ultimate victory which sustained him. I wish, on behalf of the Members of my party, to express our deep sympathy with his widow and family in their bereavement.

    §
    The Secretary of State for Air (Sir Archibald Sinclair)

    I should be grateful if the House would allow me on behalf of the Liberal party to add a very few words to the impressive tributes which have already been offered by the Prime Minister and by the Lord Privy Seal to the memory of Mr. Chamberlain. The Liberal party opposed his policies but respected his character and integrity. More than once, even in the heat of our most controversial Debates, we have paused to pay tribute to his humanity as a social reformer, to his courage, to his high sense of public duty and to his unsparing devotion to the cause of peace. Time and events have obliterated the most acute differences in policy, have united all parties in this House in the pursuit of a common aim—the aim of preserving British freedom from the menace of foreign tyranny—and have enabled us, his erstwhile opponents, to share the present grief of Mr. Chamberlain's family and of his loyal supporters and friends. So, I join with the Prime Minister and the Lord Privy Seal in mourning the loss of a generous and warm-hearted colleague, of a cool, wise and resolute counsellor,
    1622
    and of a brave and faithful public servant, who, with his father and his brother, shared a name which will for ever remain illustrious in the annals of Parliament.

    §
    Mr. Lambert (South Molton)

    As one of the few Members who served in the House of Commons with three members of the Chamberlain family, may I add a few words to the tributes which have already been paid to Mr. Neville Chamberlain. I remember so well Sir Austen Chamberlain making his maiden speech. On that occasion Mr. Gladstone, always the soul of chivalry, complimented him on having made a speech, which was "dear and refreshing to a father's heart," and Mr. Joseph Chamberlain was moved by that expression. Sir Austen Chamberlain never became Prime Minister, nor did his distinguished father. That office fell to Mr. Neville Chamberlain, and he inherited a troubled heritage. No one can say that for the past few years our foreign policy has been conducted with vision or with vigour, but that was not entirely due to Mr. Chamberlain. When he assumed office he endeavoured strenuously, and at great personal inconvenience, to secure peace. He was baulked only by a cold-blooded and unscrupulous perjurer. But his name remains as that of one who strove for peace. How fervently we must wish that he could have been successful. Had he been successful, tens of millions of people in Europe would have blessed his name. But the great action at Munich—and I think it was a great action—has brought criticism. I would remind those who criticise, that Munich, at least, gave some tens of thousands of our young British boys another year of life and enabled this country to build up its armaments.

    Those days are past and history will record its verdict. After the Debate of May of last year, although Mr. Chamberlain had a comfortable majority, he did not hesitate for one moment to sacrifice his great position on the altar of national unity, and I am sure that my right hon. Friend the Prime Minister, who has paid him such an eloquent tribute, will agree that he never had a more loyal and unselfish colleague. Intrigue was foreign to Neville Chamberlain. We mourn him; we shall
    1623
    miss him, and if I had to search for an epitaph for him it would be: "Neville Chamberlain, a selfless patriot, who gave his life to his country."



Thursday 30 September 2021

MAKE Yourself Worthy.



exorcist 2 the heretic (1977)- regan VS evil regan!! HD



Cardinal Jaros, may I present 
Father Philip Lamont, Society of Jesus? 

Cardinal Jaros :
Would you care to explain 
your refusal to accept this task? 

Fr. Phillip Lamont (S.J.) :
I should be relieved from 
all pastoral responsibilities. 
I'm Not Worthy. 

Cardinal Jaros :
Father, I have not asked you 
to perform another exorcism --

I simply requested that you 
investigate the death 
of Father Merrin. 

You have performed exorcisms. 
You knew Father Merrin. 

Furthermore, you were 
exposed to his teachings.
 
I cannot think of 
anyone more qualified 
for this assignment. 

Philip, it's So Good to See You. 
Merrin's, uh, reputation is in jeopardy. 
His writings have been impounded. 

Fr. Phillip Lamont (S.J.) :
I'm not surprised. 

No one in The Church wants 
to hear about The Devil. 

Satan has become an embarrassment 
to our progressive views. 

Cardinal Jaros :
Merrin was rather more extreme, I'm afraid. 
He argued that The Power of Evil 
threatens to overthrow God Himself. 

Fr. Phillip Lamont (S.J.) :
So they finally found a heresy to nail him to. 

Cardinal Jaros :
Well, uh, many of the theological college believe that... 
He died at the hands of The Devil... 
during that, uh, American exorcism. 

Some, and they are close 
to The Pontiff, 
go so far as to suggest... 
That he was a Satanist. 
At The End, I mean. 


Fr. Phillip Lamont (S.J.) :
Perhaps Father Merrin took 
A Path no-one could follow. 

Cardinal Jaros :
But how he inspired us, Philip! 
Here. Remember, Christ 
is hard to follow too

Fr. Phillip Lamont (S.J.) :
We were Young. 
Today, wherever I look, 
I see only Evil. 
God has fallen Silent

Cardinal Jaros :
I cannot move to safeguard Merrin's Testament
until all the facts about his last exorcism 
are clearly known

You Will Conduct 
The Investigation. 

You Will Act Discreetly 
in All Confidence, 
reporting to Me Alone. 

Fr. Phillip Lamont (S.J.) :
But I'm not Worthy! 

Cardinal Jaros :
You are A Soldier of Christ
MAKE Yourself Worthy.

Wednesday 2 January 2019

Richard Burton - The Greatest Poem in the English Language


I will Teach You Infinities -

I Will Say to You of 
The Greatest Poem in The English Language -

The Present Tense of The Verb "To Be".

Now, One Asks,
"What is the Present Tense of The Verb "To Be"...

Now - I shall speak it for You :-

I am


Thou art



She is...



...He is



We are



You are

They are




TIG: 
Sorry, brother. I should have stayed. 
Had your back. I mean, just turning in this SA tag-- 
I don't know, man-- was just kind of lost in this cartel sh1t. 

I love you, Clay. I do. 

I guess I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around you stepping down. 

I don't know... 
I don't know what I'm gonna look like when that happens, you know? 
(door opens

GEMMA: 
This is not your fault, baby. Oh, honey. 
(Tig cries) 
It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay. 

(Tig sobbing) 
Oh. He knows you love him. 
It's okay, really. 
(Tig sniffles) 

TIG: 
Yeah. Thanks. 
Ah, sh1t. sh1t. 
How are you? 

GEMMA: 
I'm fine. 

GEMMA: 
Where's Jax? TIG: Oh, he's at the clubhouse. 
Uh... give me a minute, yeah? 

GEMMA: 
Okay. Sorry. 

JAX: 
I've been looking for you. Shut the door. What happened to Piney? 

GEMMA: 
Clay killed him. 
(Jax sighs

JAX: 
Look, I know Clay and Piney were beefing over this cartel sh1t... 

GEMMA: - 
It wasn't over the cartel. 
It was over these. 

Maureen Ashby put them in your bag before you left Belfast. They're letters from your father. 

-Tara found them before you did. 

JAX: 
Tara had these? 
Why didn't she tell me? 

GEMMA: 
She knew they would break your heart. 
Same way they did mine. 

When Thomas got sick, your dad stopped going to Belfast... 
started writing to Maureen. 

JAX: 
What does this have to do with Clay? 

GEMMA: 
JT and Kellan decided to get the MC out of guns, away from the IRA. 

Clay thought it was a mistake. 

He was afraid John would destroy the club. 
So he decided to kill him. 

The first time... he sent John into a Mayan ambush, unprotected. 

Your dad made it out. 
But he knew it was Clay who'd set it up. 
And he knew Clay would try again. 
He predicted it would be mechanical. 

He was right. 

JAX: 
The accident. 

GEMMA: 
The only person JT ever let work on his bike was Lowell Sr. Clay must have... paid him off or threatened him. 
He had to be the one who sabotaged the Panhead. 

JAX: 
Lowell Sr. was killed by the Mayans a week later. 

GEMMA: 
Yeah. Clay buried the secret. (sighs)

 JAX: 
How do you know all this? 

GEMMA: 
The letters. The speculation. The Mayan ambush. 
John knew Clay would kill him. 
And Clay knew those letters would prove it. 


Enough to get him voted out, undo everything he'd worked for. 

JAX: 
Piney got ahold of these. 

GEMMA: 
He must have threatened Clay. 

JAX (quietly): 
Oh, my God. 

GEMMA: 
That's not all. I found the cover letter Maureen wrote telling you to read them. It was in your house. I knew Tara was the one who'd found them. I... I panicked. I told Clay. 

JAX: 
Clay knew... that Tara had these? 

GEMMA: 
He tried to kill Tara. That thing that happened in the park, that wasn't the cartel. That was guys Clay hired to kill your wife, Jax. 

JAX: 
How did you get them? 

GEMMA: 
Tara gave them to me. Don't be upset with her. 
She didn't want you to read them. 
She didn't know what you might do. 

JAX: 
Why are you telling me this, Mom? Why now? 

GEMMA: 
Because I know how dangerous secrets can be. 
And it's time we all knew the truth. 

Clay Morrow killed your father. 

Stole that seat away from this family. 
Gunned down your father's best friend. 
And he tried to kill your wife. 

He's a murderous traitor. 
And there's only one thing to do now, Jackson. 

For your father, your family and your club. 
It's in you. It's who you are. 

Clay has to die. 

Read 'em. See him in your father's own hand. 
And then you kill him, Jax. 

You kill Clay before he's on his feet and strikes first. 
And when it's done... you take your place at the head of this table... 

Where a Teller belongs. 
Where you belong.

Saturday 10 November 2018

Too Much Love Can Kill You



“ The man had killed the thing he loved
  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
  By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!



" Negligence is an Extreme Thing. "

Chapter 1, p. 1
The Way of The Samurai,




   


The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Oscar Wilde, 1854 - 1900

 I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
  For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
  When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
  And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
  In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
  With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
  Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
  A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
  "That fellow's got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
  Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
  Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
  My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
  Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
  With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
  By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
  And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
  Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
  Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
  And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
  Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
  On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
  Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
  Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men
  Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
  And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
  The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
  Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
  The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
  With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
  To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
  Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
  Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
  That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
  Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
  That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
  The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
  Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
  Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
  Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
  For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
  The kiss of Caiaphas.


II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
  In a suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
  Its raveled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
  Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
  In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
  And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
  Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
  Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
  As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
  Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
  A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
  The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
  With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
  So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
  Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
  That in the spring-time shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
  With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
  Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
  For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
  Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer's collar take
  His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
  When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
  Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
  To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
  We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
  Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
  His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
  Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
  In the black dock's dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
  In God's sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
  We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
  We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
  But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
  Two outcast men were we:
The world had thrust us from its heart,
  And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
  Had caught us in its snare.


III

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
  And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
  Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
  For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
  His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
  And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
  Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
  The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
  A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called
  And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
  And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
  No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
  The hangman's hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
  No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher's doom
  Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
  And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
  To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
  Pent up in Murderers' Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
  Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
  We trod the Fool's Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
  The Devil's Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
  Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
  With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
  And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
  And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
  We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
  And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
  Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
  Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
  That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
  We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
  Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
  To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
  Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
  On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
  Went shuffling through the gloom
And each man trembled as he crept
  Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
  Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
  Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
  White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
  In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watcher watched him as he slept,
  And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
  With a hangman close at hand?

But there is no sleep when men must weep
  Who never yet have wept:
So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
  That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
  Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
  To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
  Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
  For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
  Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
  Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
  Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
  Mad mourners of a corpse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
  The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
  Was the savior of Remorse.

The cock crew, the red cock crew,
  But never came the day:
And crooked shape of Terror crouched,
  In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
  Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
  Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
  Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
  The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
  Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
  They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
  Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
  They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
  As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and loud they sang,
  For they sang to wake the dead.

"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
  But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
  Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
  In the secret House of Shame."

No things of air these antics were
  That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
  And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
  Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
  Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
  Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
  Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
  But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
  Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
  Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
  The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
  We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
  To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
  Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
  That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
  God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
  At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
  The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
  Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
  Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
  Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
  To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
  Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
  Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
  And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
  And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
  It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
  The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
  Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
  That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
  For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
  Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
  Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man's heart beat thick and quick
  Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
  Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
  Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
  From a leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
  In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
  Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
  Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
  That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
  None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
  More deaths than one must die.


IV

There is no chapel on the day
  On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
  Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
  Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
  And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
  Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
  Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,
  But not in wonted way,
For this man's face was white with fear,
  And that man's face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
  In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
  Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
  They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
  Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
  Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
  And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
  And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
  With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
  The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
  And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
  And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
  Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
  And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
  And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
  And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
  By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
  There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
  By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
  That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
  Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
  Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
  Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
  Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
  And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
  But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
  Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
  Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
  With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
  Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
  Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
  The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
  Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
  Christ brings his will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
  Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
  May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
  Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
  A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
  Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
  By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who tramp the yard
  That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
  Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit man not walk by night
  That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may not weep that lies
  In such unholy ground,

He is at peace—this wretched man—
  At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
  Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
  Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
  They did not even toll
A reguiem that might have brought
  Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
  And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
  And gave him to the flies;
They mocked the swollen purple throat
  And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
  In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
  By his dishonored grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
  That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
  Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
  To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
  Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourner will be outcast men,
  And outcasts always mourn.


V

I know not whether Laws be right,
  Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
  Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
  A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
  That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother's life,
  And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
  With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were
  If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
  Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
  How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
  And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
  For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
  Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
  Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
  That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
  And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
  Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
  And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
  Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
  Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
  In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink
  Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
  Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
  Wild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
  Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
  For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
  Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,
  And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
  Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
  Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
  To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
  Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
  With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain
  Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
  And some men make no moan:
But God's eternal Laws are kind
  And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
  In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
  Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
  With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break
  And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
  And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
  May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat.
  And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
  The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
  The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
  Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
  His soul of his soul's strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
  The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
  The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
  And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
  Became Christ's snow-white seal.


VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
  There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
  Eaten by teeth of flame,
In burning winding-sheet he lies,
  And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
  In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
  Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
  And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,
  By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

Sunday 20 May 2018

Why Don’t You?

Why Don't You

or,


Why Don’t You Just Switch Off Your Television Set and Go Out and Do Something Less Boring Instead?