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The River of Life by William Blake 'The River of Life' The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages; A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders. But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker? When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death Feel we its tide more rapid? It may be strange—yet who would change Time's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have gone, And left our bosoms bleeding? Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length, Proportioned to their sweetness. Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) was a Scottish poet born in Glasgow. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. "In contrast with the Nile, where boats can drift downstream, borne by the current, or be carried upstream by the wind in their sails, the Tigris is a one-way river. In Mesopotamia the winds, like the currents flow southwards from the mountains to the sea, never blowing inshore, with the result that, on their journeys downstream, boats have to be loaded with donkeys and mules which, on the return journey, will haul the chastened craft precariously along dry land back to their moorings in their home town. In the far north, where it has its source, the untamed Tigris hurtles down between the rocks, and only a few Armenian boatmen venture to navigate it, never taking their eyes off the seething, treacherous waters. A strange thoroughfare, where wayfarers never meet, never overtake each other, never exchange greetings or directives. Whence the exhilarating impression of sailing all alone, with no protective genie, no escort other than the date palms on the banks. Then, on reaching the city of Ctesiphon, the metropolis of the land of Babel, the home of the Parthian kings, the Tigris calms down. It can be approached without any special care; it is now sothing more than a vast expanse of water that can be crossed from bank to bank in round, flat-bottomed basked in which men and goods are piled, so that they sink in up to the brim, and sometimes spin around, without ever foundering - just common or garden baskets of plaited reeds which strip all dignity from the River of the Deluge." Amin Maalouf, The Gardens of Light There was once upon a time a little girl who lived in a house full of grown-ups. She was sad and lonely and one day she discovered that she could escape and go anywhere if she climbed on to the magic carpet of her imagination and sent herself off to far away magical places. Lots of exciting things happened there and the fun would only stop when someone said sternly: 'You are so absent-minded! Look what you've done!' - amazingly that is still happening today, she is still away out there only nowadays she comes back to earth with a bump only to hear people say: "Look what you've done! You have Alzheimers!" My newest production has been in housing: old housing, derelict and distorted. But the pressure is on to produce well-behaved boxes instead. I can't complain: I am the author of my own suffering. The mist and cold make it well worthwhile getting stuck into making more half-moon boxes to feed the market! |
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