angels

Praised are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe,
Creator of light and darkness, who make peace and fashions all things.
In mercy, You illuminate the world and those who live upon it.
In Your goodness You daily renew creation.
How numerous are You works, Adonai!
In wisdom, You formed them all, filling the earth with Your creatures.
Be praised, Adonai our God, for the excellent work of your hands,
And for the lights You created; may they glorify You.
Shine a new light upon Zion, that we may swiftly merit its radiance.
Praised are You Adonai, Creator of heavenly lights.

Every man dies - Not every man really lives.

The Angel at the Ford -

I sought to hold her, but within her eyes
I read a new strange meaning; faint they prayed,
“Oh, let me pass and taste the great surprise;
Behold me not reluctant nor afraid!”

“Nay, I will strive with God for this!” I cried,
“As man with man, like Jacob at the brook,
Only be thou, dear heart, upon my side!”
“Be still,” she answered, “very still, and look!”

And straightway I discerned with inward dread
The multitudinous passing of white souls,
Who paused, each one with sad averted head,
And flashing of indignant aureoles.

Song of an Old General -
When he was a youth of fifteen or twenty,
He chased a wild horse, he caught him and rode him,
He shot the white-browed mountain tiger,
He defied the yellow-bristled Horseman of Ye.
Fighting single- handed for a thousand miles,
With his naked dagger he could hold a multitude.
...Granted that the troops of China were as swift as heaven's thunder
And that Tartar soldiers perished in pitfalls fanged with iron,
General Wei Qing's victory was only a thing of chance.
And General Li Guang's thwarted effort was his fate, not his fault.
Since this man's retirement he is looking old and worn:
Experience of the world has hastened his white hairs.
Though once his quick dart never missed the right eye of a bird,
Now knotted veins and tendons make his left arm like an osier.
He is sometimes at the road-side selling melons from his garden,
He is sometimes planting willows round his hermitage.
His lonely lane is shut away by a dense grove,
His vacant window looks upon the far cold mountains
But, if he prayed, the waters would come gushing for his men
And never would he wanton his cause away with wine.
...War-clouds are spreading, under the Helan Range;
Back and forth, day and night, go feathered messages;
In the three River Provinces, the governors call young men --
And five imperial edicts have summoned the old general.
So he dusts his iron coat and shines it like snow-
Waves his dagger from its jade hilt in a dance of starry steel.
He is ready with his strong northern bow to smite the Tartar chieftain --
That never a foreign war-dress may affront the Emperor.
...There once was an aged Prefect, forgotten and far away,
Who still could manage triumph with a single stroke.

In the fourth petition (which is, Give us this day our daily bread) we pray, That of God's free gift we may receive a competent portion of the good things of this life, and enjoy his blessing with them.

Know then, as women owe a duty--so do men. Men must be like the branch and bark to trees, which doth defend them from tempestuous rage;-- clothe them in winter, tender them in age, or as ewes' love unto their eanlings lives; such should be husbands' custom to their wives. If it appears to them they've stray'd amiss, they only must rebuke them with a kiss; or cluck them as hens' chickens, with kind call, cover them under their wing, and pardon all.

Reeds of Innocence -

Piing down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

'Pipe a song about a Lamb!'
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper, pipe that song again;'
So I piped: he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read.'
So he vanish'd from my sight;
And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

Songs of Innocence (Introduction) -

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’
So I piped with merry cheer.
‘Piper, pipe that song again;’
So I piped; he wept to hear.

‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:’
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

‘Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.’
So he vanish’d from my sight,
And I pluck’d a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

Florentine Ingratitude:

Sir Joshua sent his own portrait to
The birthplace of Michael Angelo,
And in the hand of the simpering fool
He put a dirty paper scroll,
And on the paper, to be polite,
Did ‘Sketches by Michael Angelo’ write.
The Florentines said ‘’Tis a Dutch-English bore,
Michael Angelo’s name writ on Rembrandt’s door.’
The Florentines call it an English fetch,
For Michael Angelo never did sketch; 10
Every line of his has meaning,
And needs neither suckling nor weaning.
’Tis the trading English-Venetian cant
To speak Michael Angelo, and act Rembrandt:
It will set his Dutch friends all in a roar
To write ‘Mich. Ang.’ on Rembrandt’s door;
But you must not bring in your hand a lie
If you mean that the Florentines should buy.
Giotto’s circle or Apelles’ line
Were not the work of sketchers drunk with wine;
Nor of the city clock’s running … fashion;
Nor of Sir Isaac Newton’s calculation.

In the Italian Renaissance… there was no ‘subject-matter’. What we call subject matter now, was then painting itself. Subject matter came later on when parts of those works were taken out arbitrarily, when a man for no reason is sitting, standing or ling down. He became a bather, she became a bather; she was reclining; he just stood there looking ahead. That is when the posing in panting began… For really, when you think of all the life and death problems in the art of Renaissance, who cares if a Chevalier is laughing or that a young girl has a red blouse on.

As the air to a bird or the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.

I will not cease from mental fight nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.

It is right it should be so; man was made for joy and woe; and when this we rightly know, thro' the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine runs a joy with silken twine.

The record of one's life must needs prove more interesting to him who writes it than to him who reads what has been written. I have no name: I am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am, joy is my name. Sweet joy befall thee!

When my mother died, I was very young, and my father sold me while yet my tongue could scarcely cry `'weep! 'Weep! 'Weep! 'Weep!' so your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

Where man is not, nature is barren.

Destroy it. There may be a redistribution of the land, but the natural inequality of men soon re-creates an inequality of possessions and privileges, and raises to power a new minority with essentially the same instincts as the old.

Well, all I know is just what I read in the papers. And say I had to read plenty in the paper the other day. There is a paper got out in Detroit, Michigan. It's called the Legal Record. It says it's a paper dedicated to the interests of the legal profession. That dedication that's printed on its front page in big type shows that it's a paper that has nothing to do with news or facts, and I like the honesty of it. It tells you right off we take nothing but the lawyer's side. (For there ain't any other side.) Well the headline as follows to wit, habus corpus, nolle prose, change of venue as follows: The legal profession as a humorist sees it.

As the pearl ripens in the obscurity of its shell, so ripens in the tomb all the fame that is truly precious.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town.