Albion

“I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d, I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.”
― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass: The Death-Bed Edition

“When a boy I could never bear to read any Poetry whatever without disgust and reluctance,” he said.32 He”
― Benita Eisler, Byron: Child of Passion, Fool of Fame

“Because he has bright white teeth, Egnatius whips out a tooth-flash on all possible (& impossible) occasions. You’re in court. Counsel for defence concludes a moving peroration. (Grin.) At a funeral, on all sides heart-broken mothers weep for only sons. (Grin.) Where, when, whatever the place or time – grin. It could be a sort of ‘tic’. If so, it’s a very vulgar tic, Egnatius, & one to be rid of. A Roman, a Tiburtine or Sabine, washes his teeth. Well-fed Umbrians & overfed Etruscans wash theirs daily. The dark Lanuvians (who don’t need to), & we Veronese, all wash our teeth.… But we keep them tucked in. We spare ourselves the nadir of inanity – inane laughter. You come from Spain. Spaniards use their morning urine for tooth-wash. To us that blinding mouthful means one thing & one only – the quantity of urine you have swallowed.”
― Catullus, The Poems

“AFTER THE DELUGE AS SOON as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, A hare stopped in the clover and swaying flower-bells, and said a prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web. Oh! the precious stones that began to hide,—and the flowers that already looked around. In the dirty main street, stalls were set up and boats were hauled toward the sea, high tiered as in old prints. Blood flowed at Blue Beard’s,—through slaughterhouses, in circuses, where the windows were blanched by God’s seal. Blood and milk flowed. Beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the little bars. In the big glass house, still dripping, children in mourning looked at the marvelous pictures. A door banged; and in the village square the little boy waved his arms, understood by weather vanes and cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower. Madame *** installed a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral. Caravans set out. And Hotel Splendid was built in the chaos of ice and of the polar night. Ever after the moon heard jackals howling across the deserts of thyme, and eclogues in wooden shoes growling in the orchard. Then in the violet and budding forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. Gush, pond,—Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods;—black palls and organs, lightning and thunder, rise and roll;—waters and sorrows rise and launch the Floods again. For since they have been dissipated—oh! the precious stones being buried and the opened flowers!—it’s unbearable! and the Queen, the Witch who lights her fire in the earthen pot will never tell us what she knows, and what we do not know.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations: Prose poems