Weekly Photo Challenge: this week’s Issue 1—
“And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: ‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? …”
Moving on …
I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are,
But man can have the sun for friend, and for his guide a star …
And to cheer you up, the shot above was from the Winton cemetery (and those blue hills are over a hundred miles away) (hence the fuzzy).
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
Taken from Noyse’s “The Highwayman“.
Don’t read it (sad ending).
” Rum! Rum! I want rum, Jim!”
“Bring aft the rum, Darbs!”
Possibly misquoten by an old sea-dog from a book not read for too many years (but as much as said dog delights in paradox you’ll just have to relate it yourself to the imagery) and of course the literary reference here is ‘Treasure Island‘ by RLS—
—to sit upon whose grave with a rum was always a cherished ambition of mine but never fulfilled. The closest I got was only a few hundred metres—but it was just a brief fuelling stop and we were in a hurry.
If you want more of RLS—
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
I read somewhere a very intriguing notion to the effect that he was actually misplaced: that he longed for (and wanted to be shipped back to) his native Scotland, and interred there.
I guess we shall never know …
‘Twas ever thus … and now: where’s Jim and me blasted rum, dammit?!?