Practically every American has heard of the storied railroad engineer of the late 1800’s, Casey Jones, made famous throughout the years in song, story, and film. But it is generally not known that he was baptized a Catholic at the … Continue reading
All that enters through my eye My intellect must simplify; For nothing in my mind can be a Guest unless it’s an idea:
My prayers for you, alas, are all Somewhat anthropological. I cannot separate a whole, Dissect a substance and see a soul;
If in future I my lyre Ever from its rack remove, And go plucking with my plectrum Anything I cannot prove,
In little tasks of daily life Which every man must do, Like climbing up and down a hill, Or counting two and two,
God give me strength In making a rhyme To limit the length, To stop it in time.
Now the King-less Jews, I guess, Are check-mated, And their little game of chess Terminated.
The inn that would not bed and board The Blessed Mother of Our Lord,
I know that God is infinite, But like Him not that way a bit; I love Him, yes, but like Him less;
Now what’s the good looking like good-looking lasses Who are just as good-looking in looking-glasses, Or caring for curls that can be cultivated
When we were young, we looked on them as creatures Inalterable in nature, as in form and features; Diffidently to be approached, and shyly to be attended, Extravagantly to be admired, and valiantly to be defended.
(a Christmas card by a British playwright) A stupid horse and cow, they say, Called for convenience, ox and ass, Stood in a stable munching hay: A rather stupid sort of grass.
I cannot go it — go it you who can: The celluloid survival of a man; The play that is acted
While candles on the altar-shelf Between the ferns and flowers Were burning, and the Carmelites Chanted the Little Hours: —
There was a lady made of gold, And at an auction she was sold. She was a little lady wrought In metal molded by a thought,