Friday, 25 December 2009
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
An interesting fact concerning the church at Croome: Capability Brown had it demolished and rebuilt in a more picturesque location at some distance from the house. Presumably the earls preferred to keep their religion "at arm's length" so to speak!
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Monday, 14 December 2009
Since looking out "A Childe my Choyce", for my cards this year, I have been completely smitten with it. Can there be a more perfect poem in the English language?
Whose hart no thought, whose tong no word, whose hand no deed defilde.
I praise him most I love him best all prayse and love is his
While him I love, in him I live, and cannot lyve amisse
Loves sweetest mark, lawdes highest theme, mans most desired light
To love him life to leave him death to live in Him delighte
He myne by gift I his by debt thus ech to other Dewe
First frende he was best frende he is, all tymes will try Him trewe.
Though yonge yet wise though small yet stronge though man yet God he is
As wise he knows, as stronge he can as God He loves to blesse
His knowledge rules his strength defendes his love doth cherish all
His birth our joye, his life our light, his death our end of thrall
Alas he weepes he sighes he pantes yet do his Angels sing
Out of his teares his sighes and throbbs doth bud a joyfull springe
Almighty babe whose tender armes can force all foes to flye
Correct my faultes, protect my life direct me when I die.
St Robert Southwell SJ (1561-95)
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Friday, 11 December 2009
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Monday, 7 December 2009
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Thursday, 3 December 2009
In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne,
I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were,
In habite as an heremite unholy of werkes
Wente wide in this world wondres to here.
Ac on a May morwenynge on Malverne hill
Me bifel a ferly, of Fairye me thoghte.
I was wery forwandred and wente me to reste
Under a brood bank by a bourne syde;
And as I lay and lenede and loked on the watres,
I slombred into a slepyng, it sweyed so murye.
Thanne gan I meten a merveillous swevene --
That I was in a wildernesse, wiste I nevere where.
A[c] as I biheeld into the eest an heigh to the sonne,
I seigh a tour on a toft trieliche ymaked,
A deep dale bynethe, a dongeon therinne,
With depe diches and derke and dredfulle of sighte.
A fair feeld ful of folk fond I ther bitwene --
Of alle manere of men, the meene and the riche,
Werchynge and wandrynge as the world asketh.
Somme putten hem to the plough, pleiden ful selde,
In settynge and sowynge swonken ful harde,
And wonnen that thise wastours with glotonye destruyeth.