Epigraphy

Tell Me a StoryRobert Penn Warren - 1905-1989[ A ]Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stoodBy a dirt road, in first dark, and heardThe great geese hoot northward.I could not see them, there being no moonAnd the stars sparse. I heard them.I did not know what was happening in my heart.It was the season before the elderberry blooms,Therefore they were going north.The sound was passing northward. [ B ]Tell me a story.In this century, and moment, of mania,Tell me a story.Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.The name of the story will be Time,But you must not pronounce its name.Tell me a story of deep delight.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Charge of the Light BrigadeBY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSONIHalf a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.“Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!” he said.Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.II“Forward, the Light Brigade!”Was there a man dismayed?Not though the soldier knew Someone had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.IIICannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred.IVFlashed all their sabres bare,Flashed as they turned in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, while All the world wondered.Plunged in the battery-smokeRight through the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReeled from the sabre stroke Shattered and sundered.Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred.VCannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell.They that had fought so wellCame through the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of hell,All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.VIWhen can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Oakby Alfred Lord TennysonLive thy Life,Young and old,Like yon oak,Bright in spring,Living gold;Summer-richThen; and thenAutumn-changedSoberer-huedGold again.All his leavesFall'n at length,Look, he stands,Trunk and boughNaked strength.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The CatsBy H. P. LovecraftBabels of blocks to the high heavens tow’ring,Flames of futility swirling below;Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flow’ring,Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,Cobwebs of cable by nameless things spun;Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos deliversStreams of live foetor, that rots in the sun.Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,Shrieking and ringing and scrambling insane,Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal,Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,Yelling the burden of Pluto’s red rune.Tall tow’rs and pyramids ivy’d and crumbling,Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber’d streets;Bleak broken bridges o’er rivers whose rumblingJoins with no voice as the thick tide retreats.Belfries that blackly against the moon totter,Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac’d,And living to answer the wind and the water,Only the lean cats that howl in the waste!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Sonnet 135: Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy WillBY WILLIAM SHAKESPEAREWhoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;More than enough am I that vex thee still,To thy sweet will making addition thus.Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?Shall will in others seem right gracious,And in my will no fair acceptance shine?The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,And in abundance addeth to his store;So thou being rich in Will add to thy WillOne will of mine, to make thy large Will more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; Think all but one, and me in that one Will.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Dying LoverI cannot change, as others do,Though you unjustly scorn;Since that poor swain that sighs for you,For you alone was born.No, Phyllis, no, your heart to moveA surer way I'll try:And to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on, will still love on, and die.When, killed with grief, Amintas liesAnd you to mind shall call,The sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall,That welcome hour that ends this smartWill then begin your pain;For such a faithful tender heartCan never break, can never break in vain.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Change Brought On Doves' Wings by Jason GellerFind us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Dead Dream By Madison Julius CaweinBetween the darkness and the dayAs, lost in doubt, I went my way,I met a shape, as faint as fair,With star-like blossoms in its hair:Its body, which the moon shone through,Was partly cloud and partly dew:Its eyes were bright as if with tears,And held the look of long-gone years;Its mouth was piteous, sweet yet dread,As if with kisses of the dead:And in its hand it bore a flower,In memory of some haunted hour.I knew it for the Dream I'd hadIn days when life was young and glad.Why had it come with love and woeOut of the happy Long-Ago?Upon my brow I felt its breath,Heard ancient. words of faith and death,Sweet with the immortalityOf many a fragrant memory:And to my heart again I tookIts joy and sorrow in a look,And kissed its eyes and held it fast,And bore it home from out the pastMy Dream of Beauty and of Truth,I dreamed had perished with my Youth.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

BootsWe're foot--slog--slog--slog--sloggin' over Africa -- Foot--foot--foot--foot--sloggin' over Africa -- (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up and down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Seven--six--eleven--five--nine-an'-twenty mile to-day -- Four--eleven--seventeen--thirty-two the day before -- (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up and down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Don't--don't--don't--don't--look at what's in front of you. (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again); Men--men--men--men--men go mad with watchin' em, An' there's no discharge in the war! Try--try--try--try--to think o' something different -- Oh--my--God--keep--me from goin' lunatic! (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Count--count--count--count--the bullets in the bandoliers. If--your--eyes--drop--they will get atop o' you! (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up and down again) -- There's no discharge in the war! We--can--stick--out--'unger, thirst, an' weariness, But--not--not--not--not the chronic sight of 'em -- Boot--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again, An' there's no discharge in the war! 'Taint--so--bad--by--day because o' company, But night--brings--long--strings--o' forty thousand million Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again. There's no discharge in the war! I--'ave--marched--six--weeks in 'Ell an' certify It--is--not--fire--devils, dark, or anything, But boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again, An' there's no discharge in the war!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Ozymandias.IN Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throwsThe only shadow that the Desart knows:—"I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone,"The King of Kings; this mighty City shows"The wonders of my hand."— The City's gone,—Nought but the Leg remaining to discloseThe site of this forgotten Babylon.We wonder,—and some Hunter may expressWonder like ours, when thro' the wildernessWhere London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guessWhat powerful but unrecorded raceOnce dwelt in that annihilated place.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The MessengerBy H. P. LovecraftThe thing, he said, would come that night at threeFrom the old churchyard on the hill below;But crouching by an oak fire’s wholesome glow,I tried to tell myself it could not be.Surely, I mused, it was a pleasantryDevised by one who did not truly knowThe Elder Sign, bequeathed from long ago,That sets the fumbling forms of darkness free.He had not meant it—no—but still I litAnother lamp as starry Leo climbedOut of the Seekonk, and a steeple chimedThree—and the firelight faded, bit by bit.Then at the door that cautious rattling came—And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Invictus BY WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEYOut of the night that covers me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds and shall find me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate,I am the captain of my soul.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Politifact Part 2 by Jason GellerFind us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Politifact Part 1 by Jason GellerFind us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

If…BY RUDYARD KIPLINGIf you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all men count with you, but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

We Have Not Long to LoveBY TENNESSEE WILLIAMSWe have not long to love.Light does not stay.The tender things are thosewe fold away.Coarse fabrics are the onesfor common wear.In silence I have watched youcomb your hair.Intimate the silence,dim and warm.I could but did not, reachto touch your arm.I could, but do not, breakthat which is still.(Almost the faintest whisperwould be shrill.)So moments pass as thoughthey wished to stay.We have not long to love.A night. A day....Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Dying LoverI cannot change, as others do,Though you unjustly scorn;Since that poor swain that sighs for you,For you alone was born.No, Phyllis, no, your heart to moveA surer way I'll try:And to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on, will still love on, and die.When, killed with grief, Amintas liesAnd you to mind shall call,The sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall,That welcome hour that ends this smartWill then begin your pain;For such a faithful tender heartCan never break, can never break in vain.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

I Have a Rendezvous with DeathBY ALAN SEEGERI have a rendezvous with DeathAt some disputed barricade,When Spring comes back with rustling shadeAnd apple-blossoms fill the air—I have a rendezvous with DeathWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.It may be he shall take my handAnd lead me into his dark landAnd close my eyes and quench my breath—It may be I shall pass him still.I have a rendezvous with DeathOn some scarred slope of battered hill,When Spring comes round again this yearAnd the first meadow-flowers appear.God knows 'twere better to be deepPillowed in silk and scented down,Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,Where hushed awakenings are dear ...But I've a rendezvous with DeathAt midnight in some flaming town,When Spring trips north again this year,And I to my pledged word am true,I shall not fail that rendezvous.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

II cannot heed the words they say,The lights grow far away and dim,Amid the laughing men and maidsMy eyes unbidden seek for him.I hope that when he smiles at meHe does not guess my joy and pain,For if he did, he is too kindTo ever look my way again.III have a secret in my heartNo ears have ever heard,And still it sings there day by dayMost like a caged bird.And when it beats against the bars,I do not set it free,For I am happier to knowIt only sings for me.IIII wrote his name along the beach,I love the letters so.Far up it seemed and out of reach,For still the tide was low.But oh, the sea came creeping up,And washed the name away,And on the sand where it had beenA bit of sea-grass lay.A bit of sea-grass on the sand,Dropped from a mermaid's hair --Ah, had she come to kiss his nameAnd leave a token there?IVWhat am I that he should love me,He who stands so far above me,What am I?I am like a cowslip turningToward the sky,Where a planet's golden burningBreaks the cowslip's heart with yearning,What am I that he should love me,What am I?VO dreams that flock about my sleep,I pray you bring my love to me,And let me think I hear his voiceAgain ring free.And if you care to please me well,And live to-morrow in my mind,Let him who was so cold before,To-night seem kind.VII plucked a daisy in the fields,And there beneath the sunI let its silver petals fallOne after one.I said, "He loves me, loves me not,"And oh, my heart beat fast,The flower was kind, it let me say"He loves me," last.I kissed the little leafless stem,But oh, my poor heart knewThe words the flower had said to me,They were not true.VIII sent my love a letter,And if he loves me not,He shall not find my love for himIn any line or dot.But if he loves me truly,He'll find it hidden deep,As dawn gleams red thro' chilly cloudsTo eyes awaked from sleep.VIIIThe world is cold and gray and wet,And I am heavy-hearted, yetWhen I am home and look to seeThe place my letters wait for me,If I should find one letter there,I think I should not greatly careIf it were rainy or were fair,For all the world would suddenlySeem like a festival to me.IXI hid three words within my heart,That longed to fly to him,At dawn they woke me with a start,They sang till day was dim.And now at last I let them fly,As little birds should do,And he will know the first is "I",The others "Love" and "You".XAcross the twilight's violetHis curtained window glimmers gold;Oh happy light that round my loveCan fold.Oh happy book within his hand,Oh happy page he glorifies,Oh happy little word beneathHis eyes.But oh, thrice happy, happy IWho love him more than songs can tell,For in the heaven of his heartI dwell.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

United Front SongAnd because a man is humanHe'll want to eat, and thanks a lotBut talk can't take the place of meator fill an empty pot.So left, two, three!So left, two, three!Comrade, there's a place for you.Take your stand in the workers united frontFor you are a worker too.And because a man is humanhe won't care for a kick in the face.He doesn't want slaves under himOr above him a ruling class.So left, two, three!So left, two, three!Comrade, there's a place for you.Take your stand in the workers united frontFor you are a worker too.And because a worker's a workerNo one else will bring him liberty.It's nobody's work but the worker' ownTo set the worker free.So left, two, three!So left, two, three!Comrade, there's a place for you.Take your stand in the workers united frontFor you are a worker too.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Yule HorrorThere is snow on the ground,And the valleys are cold,And a midnight profoundBlackly squats o'er the wold;But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.There is death in the clouds,There is fear in the night,For the dead in their shroudsHail the sin's turning flight.And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.To no gale of Earth's kindSways the forest of oak,Where the sick boughs entwinedBy mad mistletoes choke,For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Young JennyThe cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted laneWhere the wild roses hang and the woodbines entwine,And the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles againRound the side of the tavern close by the sign.The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen,In curtains the richest that ever were seen.The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain,And, beating the hedges, low fly the barn owls;The moon with her horns is just peeping again,And deep in the forest the dog-badger howls;In best bib and tucker then wanders my JaneBy the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane.On a sweet eventide I walk by her side;In green hoods the daisies have shut up their eyes.Young Jenny is handsome without any pride;Her eyes (O how bright!) have the hue of the skies.O 'tis pleasant to walk by the side of my JaneAt the close of the day, down the mossy green lane.We stand by the brook, by the gate, and the stile,While the even star hangs out his lamp in the sky;And on her calm face dwells a sweet sunny smile,While her soul fondly speaks through the light of her eye.Sweet are the moments while waiting for Jane;'T is her footsteps I hear coming down the green lane.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Mask Of Anarchy by Percy Bysshe Shelley1.As I lay asleep in ItalyThere came a voice from over the Sea,And with great power it forth led meTo walk in the visions of Poesy.2.I met Murder on the way -He had a mask like Castlereagh -Very smooth he looked, yet grim;Seven blood-hounds followed him:3.All were fat; and well they mightBe in admirable plight,For one by one, and two by two,He tossed them human hearts to chewWhich from his wide cloak he drew.4.Next came Fraud, and he had on,Like Eldon, an ermined gown;His big tears, for he wept well,Turned to mill-stones as they fell.5.And the little children, whoRound his feet played to and fro,Thinking every tear a gem,Had their brains knocked out by them.6.Clothed with the Bible, as with light,And the shadows of the night,Like Sidmouth, next, HypocrisyOn a crocodile rode by.7.And many more Destructions playedIn this ghastly masquerade,All disguised, even to the eyes,Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.8.Last came Anarchy: he rodeOn a white horse, splashed with blood;He was pale even to the lips,Like Death in the Apocalypse.9.And he wore a kingly crown;And in his grasp a sceptre shone;On his brow this mark I saw -'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!'10.With a pace stately and fast,Over English land he passed,Trampling to a mire of bloodThe adoring multitude.11.And a mighty troop around,With their trampling shook the ground,Waving each a bloody sword,For the service of their Lord.12.And with glorious triumph, theyRode through England proud and gay,Drunk as with intoxicationOf the wine of desolation.13.O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,Passed the Pageant swift and free,Tearing up, and trampling down;Till they came to London town.14.And each dweller, panic-stricken,Felt his heart with terror sickenHearing the tempestuous cryOf the triumph of Anarchy.15.For with pomp to meet him came,Clothed in arms like blood and flame,The hired murderers, who did sing'Thou art God, and Law, and King.16.'We have waited, weak and loneFor thy coming, Mighty One!Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'17.Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,To the earth their pale brows bowed;Like a bad prayer not over loud,Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -18.Then all cried with one accord,'Thou art King, and God, and Lord;Anarchy, to thee we bow,Be thy name made... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Sonnet LXXXVIIFarewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,And like enough thou know'st thy estimate,The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;My bonds in thee are all determinate.For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?And for that riches where is my deserving?The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,And so my patent back again is swerving.Thy self thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,Or me to whom thou gav'st it else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,Comes home again, on better judgement making.Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

F*cking gnarly animal that speak pretty f*cking words by Matthew James FrenchWebsite: www.matthewjamesfrench.comInstagram: @matthewjamesfrench / https://www.instagram.com/matthewjamesfrench/Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/matthewjamesfrenchofficial/BandCamp (Music): https://matthewjamesfrench.bandcamp.com/Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Protest by Ella Wheeler Wilcox - 1850-1919To sin by silence, when we should protest,Makes cowards out of men. The human raceHas climbed on protest. Had no voice been raisedAgainst injustice, ignorance, and lust,The inquisition yet would serve the law,And guillotines decide our least disputes.The few who dare, must speak and speak againTo right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,No vested power in this great day and landCan gag or throttle. Press and voice may cryLoud disapproval of existing ills;May criticise oppression and condemnThe lawlessness of wealth-protecting lawsThat let the children and childbearers toilTo purchase ease for idle millionaires.Therefore I do protest against the boastOf independence in this mighty land.Call no chain strong, which holds one rusted link.Call no land free, that holds one fettered slave.Until the manacled slim wrists of babesAre loosed to toss in childish sport and glee,Until the mother bears no burden, saveThe precious one beneath her heart, untilGod’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greedAnd given back to labor, let no manCall this the land of freedom.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Akeem Chandler-Prescod also known as StonedwithCupid is a spoken word artist, songwriter, audio engineer, rapper, theatre practitioner and creative director from the island of Barbados. He has amassed several awards such as 3 Silver Medals at the National Independence Festival for Creative Arts, performed at numerous notable Barbadian events, won numerous competitions and has even performed in South Africa at the Vrystaat Festival. In addition he has been nominated for Poet of The Year at the GineOn People’s Choice Awards as well as Music Video of the Year with a spoken word video, making it the first poetry video to be nominated for that award.His work is a combination of spoken poetry, rapping, chanting and unorthodox use of environmental sounds to create musical beds which he then lays his witty, thought provoking lyricism to create a niche poetic product. The pieces echo his inspirations which include Outkast, Sade, Erykah Badu, J Cole and Damien Marley.Background At the youthful age of 25 his artistic experience spans over 7 years with the first spark of his creativity being ignited at The Combermere School when he was 16 years old. This introduction into the creative sector came through the discipline of theatre arts where he learnt the basics of acting, stage craft and performance which would eventually form the skeleton of his performance art in the years to come. Throughout his time at The Combermere School he appeared in many school productions as an actor as well as working backstage as a stage hand. This theatre journey found its next phase within the Youth Achieving Results Program which was organised by the National Cultural Foundation and was an attempt at that organisation to develop artistic development in Barbadian youth. This program provided vocal and performance training which allowed Akeem to find his voice in music.At the age of 17 he embarked on the frequently travelled path of being a rapper and writing Hip-Hop songs. He began recording these songs on his computer with the built in equipment and a free DAW which introduced him to the basics of mixing and mastering vocals. Many of these tracks were performed at school pageants, competitions and talent showcases for a few years as he continued to enhance his craft before exploring poetry.He wrote his first poem at the age of 22 and since then have written, recorded and produced over 30 poetic pieces. His poetry arose from a need to be able to express all his disciplines under one umbrella in a cost effective manner where he can not only do everything he is good at it but also create something new that can give him a competitive advantage and bring value to the artistic market. The first few poems were reinventions of rap songs which then matured into fusions of poetry with hip-hop influences. Having self-taught himself to write, rap, produce, mix and master as well as direct his creative performances, his creations are not reminiscent or reflections of any existing genre or artist and can only be defined as his own genre.The Art At current his poetry is packaged in a digital format in the form of audio/visual recordings and distributed online. These recordings often consist of stripped instrumentals utilizing very few instruments with many being replaced with a vocal bed or vocal loop. Ambient environmental sounds are used such as heartbeats, gasps, claps, winds and waves to create a soundscape which the vocals exist within. The lyrical delivery meanders between a slower poetic execution and a fast paced rapping style which occasionally is accompanied with melodic backing vocals. The style of mixing, which consist of heavy reverberation often found in neo soul productions and pitched vocals more often seen in hip-hop give the production a distinct sound and feel. The usage of his Barbadian accent with sprinkles of a standardized accent plant the seeds of a... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Funeral BluesStop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;For nothing now can ever come to any good.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The GardenThere's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams; Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool,And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool: In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare, Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna, And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound. As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind; I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more, As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before. Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start - For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

I Carry Your Heart With MeBY E. E. CUMMINGSI carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)I am never without it(anywhereI go you go, my dear; and whatever is doneby only me is your doing, my darlingI fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I wantNo world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meantand whatever a sun will always sing is youhere is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the budand the sky of a tree called life; which growshigher than soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apartI carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Things We Dare Not TellThe fields are fair in autumn yet, and the sun's still shining there,But we bow our heads and we brood and fret, because of the masks we wear;Or we nod and smile the social while, and we say we're doing well,But we break our hearts, oh, we break our hearts! for the things we must not tell.There's the old love wronged ere the new was won, there's the light of long ago;There's the cruel lie that we suffer for, and the public must not know.So we go through life with a ghastly mask, and we're doing fairly well,While they break our hearts, oh, they kill our hearts! do the things we must not tell.We see but pride in a selfish breast, while a heart is breaking there;Oh, the world would be such a kindly world if all men's hearts lay bare!We live and share the living lie, we are doing very well,While they eat our hearts as the years go by, do the things we dare not tell.We bow us down to a dusty shrine, or a temple in the East,Or we stand and drink to the world-old creed, with the coffins at the feast;We fight it down, and we live it down, or we bear it bravely well,But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Little TigerLittle Tiger, burning brightWith a subtle Blakeish light,Tell what visions have their homeIn those eyes of flame and chrome!Children vex thee - thoughtless, gay -Holding when thou wouldst away:What dark lore is that which thou,Spitting, mixest with thy meow? Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Blue SongI am tired.I am tired of speech and of action.If you should meet me upon thestreet do not question me forI can tell you only my nameand the name of the town I wasborn in–but that is enough.It does not matter whether tomorrowarrives anymore. If there isonly this night and after it ismorning it will not matter now.I am tired. I am tired of speechand of action. In the heart of meyou will find a tiny handful ofdust. Take it and blow it outupon the wind. Let the wind haveit and it will find its way home.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Fact and FancyBy H. P. LovecraftHow dull the wretch, whose philosophic mindDisdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,And wreck the solace of the poet’s mood!Young Zeno, practic’d in the Stoic’s art,Rejects the language of the glowing heart;Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;Condemns th’ effect whilst looking for the cause;Freezes poor Ovid in an ic’d review,And sneers because his fables are untrue!In search of Truth the hopeful zealot goes,But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!Stay! vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blastThe graceful legends of the story’d past;Whose tongue in censure flays th’ embellish’d page,And scolds the comforts of a dreary age:Would’st strip the foliage from the vital boughTill all men grow as wisely dull as thou?Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eyeDiscerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;Finds Sylphs and Dryads in the waving trees,And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze;For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,While reedy music by the fountain rings;To whom the waves a Nereid tale confideTill friendly presence fills the rising tide.Happy is he, who void of learning’s woes,Th’ ethereal life of body’d Nature knows:I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,And flout his gravity in sunlit dreams!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Death, be not proud BY JOHN DONNEDeath, be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrowDie not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee do go,Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,And poppy or charms can make us sleep as wellAnd better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternallyAnd death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, BY EMILY DICKINSONI felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and froKept treading - treading - till it seemedThat Sense was breaking through -And when they all were seated,A Service, like a Drum -Kept beating - beating - till I thoughtMy mind was going numb -And then I heard them lift a BoxAnd creak across my SoulWith those same Boots of Lead, again,Then Space - began to toll,As all the Heavens were a Bell,And Being, but an Ear,And I, and Silence, some strange Race,Wrecked, solitary, here -And then a Plank in Reason, broke,And I dropped down, and down -And hit a World, at every plunge,And Finished knowing - then -Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Sun Rising BY JOHN DONNEBusy old fool, unruly sun,Why dost thou thus,Through windows, and through curtains call on us?Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?Saucy pedantic wretch, go chideLate school boys and sour prentices,Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,Call country ants to harvest offices,Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.Thy beams, so reverend and strongWhy shouldst thou think?I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,But that I would not lose her sight so long;If her eyes have not blinded thine,Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,Whether both th' Indias of spice and mineBe where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.She's all states, and all princes, I,Nothing else is.Princes do but play us; compared to this,All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,In that the world's contracted thus.Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties beTo warm the world, that's done in warming us.Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

“Alone” BY EDGAR ALLAN POEFrom childhood’s hour I have not beenAs others were—I have not seenAs others saw—I could not bringMy passions from a common spring—From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow—I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone—And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—Then—in my childhood—in the dawnOf a most stormy life—was drawnFrom ev’ry depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still—From the torrent, or the fountain—From the red cliff of the mountain—From the sun that ’round me roll’dIn its autumn tint of gold—From the lightning in the skyAs it pass’d me flying by—From the thunder, and the storm—And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue)Of a demon in my view—Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Lee FrostTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;Then took the other, as just as fairAnd having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that, the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden blackOh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Ditty Of First Desire by Federico García LorcaIn the green morningI wanted to be a heart.A heart.And in the ripe eveningI wanted to be a nightingale.A nightingale.(Soul,turn orange-colored.Soul,turn the color of love.)In the vivid morningI wanted to be myself.A heart.And at the evening's endI wanted to be my voice.A nightingale.Soul,turn orange-colored.Soul,turn the color of love.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Harlem by Langston HughesWhat happens to a dream deferred?Does it dry uplike a raisin in the sun?Or fester like a sore—And then run?Does it stink like rotten meat?Or crust and sugar over—like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sagslike a heavy load.Or does it explode?Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Apologia by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills WildeIs it thy will that I should wax and wane,Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,And at thy pleasure weave that web of painWhose brightest threads are each a wasted day?Is it thy will Love that I love so wellThat my Soul's House should be a tortured spotWherein, like evil paramours, must dwellThe quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,And sell ambition at the common mart,And let dull failure be my vestiture,And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.Perchance it may be better so at leastI have not made my heart a heart of stone,Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.Many a man hath done so; sought to fenceIn straitened bonds the soul that should be free,Trodden the dusty road of common sense,While all the forest sang of liberty,Not marking how the spotted hawk in flightPassed on wide pinion through the lofty air,To where some steep untrodden mountain heightCaught the last tresses of the Sun God's hair.Or how the little flower he trod upon,The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sunContent if once its leaves were aureoled.But surely it is something to have beenThe best beloved for a little while,To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seenHis purple wings flit once across thy smile.Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feedOn my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars,Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeedThe Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Morning Comes Before The Sun by Susan CoolidgeSlow buds the pink dawn like a roseFrom out night's gray and cloudy sheath;Softly and still it grows and grows,Petal by petal, leaf by leaf;Each sleep-imprisoned creature breaksIts dreamy fetters, one by one,And love awakes, and labor wakes,--The morning comes before the sun.What is this message from the lightSo fairer far than light can be?Youth stands a-tiptoe, eager, bright,In haste the risen sun to see;Ah! check thy lunging, restless heart,Count the charmed moments as they run,It is life's best and fairest part,This morning hour before the sun.When once thy day shall burst to flower,When once the sun shall climb the sky,And busy hour by busy hour,The urgent noontide draws anigh;When the long shadows creep abreast,To dim the happy task half done,Thou wilt recall this pause of rest,This morning hush before the sun.To each, one dawning and one dew,One fresh young hour is given by fate,One rose flush on the early blue.Be not impatient then, but wait!Clasp the sweet peace on earth and sky,By midnight angels woven and spun;Better than day its prophecy,--The morning comes before the sun.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Road That Has No EndBy Joseph BurrowsHast ever tramped along the roadThat has no end?The far brown winding road, your oneFast friendA tattered weather-beaten swag,A silent mateTo sendHis dumb warm comfort to the heart,A fount where dreams ascend.There's wondrous freedom on the roadThat has no end;A man's heart glows, his spirit leapsTo blendIts joy of life with fierce wind's gustUpon his face:To lendIts cry to Nature's tumult, fullAnd shrill, as twilight shades descend.The flowers bloom along the roadThat has no endCool breezes blow, the gum trees swayAnd bend;The wild doves woo, and softly cooTheir soothing notes,And mendHeart's throbbing pain to sweet content,And peace lights on the mind's sad trendThere's pain and toil along the roadThat has no end;A sinking heart, and weary feetThat spendTheir strength, and lag and crave respite;And dim tired eyesThat tendTo close their heavy lids uponThe stinging dusts that upward wend.There are sweet still hours along the roadThat has no end'Neath twinkling stars when night's deep shadesO'erpend;A man's eyes shine with gathered tears,And memories comeTo rendHis straining heart strings, while aboveThe paling lights his mood commend.I love the road, the swagman's roadThat has no end;I love its joys, that pains and toilsTranscend;It is my dreams, the life that fills my heartAnd when death comes and wouldMy peacefulnessAmend,I pray that God may let my soul departWith my tattered swag beside me,'Mid my friends that never chide me,And my face towards the distant clouded hill,Where leads the far brown winding roadThat has no end.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Fringford Brook by Violet JacobThe willows stand by Fringford brook,From Fringford up to Hethe,Sun on their cloudy silver heads,And shadow underneath.They ripple to the silent airsThat stir the lazy day,Now whitened by their passing hands,Now turned again to grey.The slim marsh-thistle's purple plumeDroops tasselled on the stem,The golden hawkweeds pierce like flameThe grass that harbours them;Long drowning tresses of the weedsTrail where the stream is slow,The vapoured mauves of water-mintMelt in the pools below;Serenely soft September shedsOn earth her slumberous look,The heartbreak of an anguished worldThrobs not by Fringford brook.All peace is here. Beyond our range,Yet 'neath the selfsame sky,The boys that knew these fields of homeBy Flemish willows lie.They waded in the sun-shot flow,They loitered in the shade,Who trod the heavy road of death,Jesting and unafraid.Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peaceLies at the heart of pain,For respite, ere the spirit's loadWe stoop to lift again.O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,Of patient, quenchless will,Till God shall ease us of your weightWe'll bear you higher still!O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,'Tis more than peace you give,For you, who knew so well to die,Shall teach us how to live.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Adam by Federico García LorcaA tree of blood soaks the morningwhere the newborn woman groans.Her voice leaves glass in the woundand on the panes, a diagram of bone.The coming light establishes and winswhite limits of a fable that forgetsthe tumult of veins in flighttoward the dim cool of the apple.Adam dreams in the fever of the clayof a child who comes gallopingthrough the double pulse of his cheek.But a dark other Adam is dreaminga neuter moon of seedless stonewhere the child of light will burn.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Requiescat by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills WildeTread lightly, she is nearUnder the snow,Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow.All her bright golden hairTarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust.Lily-like, white as snow,She hardly knewShe was a woman, soSweetly she grew.Coffin-board, heavy stone,Lie on her breast,I vex my heart alone,She is at rest.Peace, Peace, she cannot hearLyre or sonnet,All my life's buried here,Heap earth upon it.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Tiger by William BlakeTiger Tiger, burning bright,In the forests of the night;What immortal hand or eye,Could frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skies.Burnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand, dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand? and what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread grasp,Dare its deadly terrors clasp!When the stars threw down their spearsAnd water’d heaven with their tears:Did he smile his work to see?Did he who made the Lamb make thee?Tiger Tiger burning bright,In the forests of the night:What immortal hand or eye,Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Part IIIShowing how they met by appointment in a grove, where she obliged him to fight or wed her.Early on a summer's morning,When bright Phoebus was adorningEvery bower with his beams,The fair lady came, it seems.At the bottom of a mountain,Near a pleasant crystal fountain,There she left her gilded coach,While the grove she did approach.Covered with her mask, and walking,There she met her lover talkingWith a friend that he had brought;So she asked him whom he sought.'I am challenged by a gallant,Who resolves to try my talent;Who he is I cannot say,But I hope to show him play.''It is I that did invite you,You shall wed me, or I'll fight you,Underneath those spreading trees;Therefore, choose you which you please.'You shall find I do not vapour,I have brought my trusty rapier;Therefore, take your choice,' said she,'Either fight or marry me.'Said he, 'Madam, pray what mean you?In my life I've never seen you;Pray unmask, your visage show,Then I'll tell you aye or no.''I will not my face uncoverTill the marriage ties are over;Therefore, choose you which you will,Wed me, sir, or try your skill.'Step within that pleasant bower,With your friend one single hour;Strive your thoughts to reconcile,And I'll wander here the while.'While this beauteous lady waited,The young bachelors debatedWhat was best for to be done:Quoth his friend, 'The hazard run.'If my judgment can be trusted,Wed her first, you can't be worsted;If she's rich, you'll rise to fame,If she's poor, why! you're the same.'He consented to be married;All three in a coach were carriedTo a church without delay,Where he weds the lady gay.Though sweet pretty Cupids hoveredRound her eyes, her face was coveredWith a mask, - he took her thus,Just for better or for worse.With a courteous kind behaviour,She presents his friend a favour,And withal dismissed him straight,That he might no longer wait.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Part IVShowing how they rode together in her gilded coach to her noble seat, or castle, etc.As the gilded coach stood ready,The young lawyer and his ladyRode together, till they cameTo her house of state and fame;Which appeared like a castle,Where you might behold a parcelOf young cedars, tall and straight,Just before her palace gate.Hand in hand they walked together,To a hall, or parlour, rather,Which was beautiful and fair, -All alone she left him there.Two long hours there he waitedHer return; - at length he fretted,And began to grieve at last,For he had not broke his fast.Still he sat like one amazed,Round a spacious room he gazed,Which was richly beautified;But, alas! he lost his bride.There was peeping, laughing, sneering,All within the lawyer's hearing;But his bride he could not see;'Would I were at home!' thought he.While his heart was melancholy,Said the steward, brisk and jolly,'Tell me, friend, how came you here?You've some bad design, I fear.'He replied, 'Dear loving master,You shall meet with no disasterThrough my means, in any case, -Madam brought me to this place.'Then the steward did retire,Saying, that he would enquireWhether it was true or no:Ne'er was lover hampered so.Now the lady who had filled himWith those fears, full well beheld himFrom a window, as she dressed,Pleased at the merry jest.When she had herself attiredIn rich robes, to be admired,She appeared in his sight,Like a moving angel bright.'Sir! my servants have related,How some hours you have waitedIn my parlour, - tell me whoIn my house you ever knew?''Madam! if I have offended,It is more than I intended;A young lady brought me here:' -'That is true,' said she, 'my dear.'I can be no longer cruelTo my joy, and only jewel;Thou art mine, and I am thine,Hand and heart I do resign!'Once I was a wounded lover,Now these fears are fairly over;By receiving what I gave,Thou art lord of what I have.'Beauty, honour, love, and treasure,A rich golden stream of pleasure,With his lady he enjoys;Thanks to Cupid's kind decoys.Now he's clothed in rich attire,Not inferior to a squire;Beauty, honour, riches' store,What can man desire more?Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your

Part IIShowing the Lady's letter of a challenge to fight him upon his refusing to wed her in a mask, without knowing who she was.Night and morning, for a season,In her closet would she reasonWith herself, and often said,'Why has love my heart betrayed?'I, that have so many slighted,Am at length so well requited;For my griefs are not a few!Now I find what love can do.'He that has my heart in keeping,Though I for his sake be weeping,Little knows what grief I feel;But I'll try it out with steel.'For I will a challenge send him,And appoint where I'll attend him,In a grove, without delay,By the dawning of the day.'He shall not the least discoverThat I am a virgin lover,By the challenge which I send;But for justice I contend.'He has caused sad distraction,And I come for satisfaction,Which if he denies to give,One of us shall cease to live.'Having thus her mind revealed,She her letter closed and sealed;Which, when it came to his hand,The young man was at a stand.In her letter she conjured himFor to meet, and well assured him,Recompence he must afford,Or dispute it with the sword.Having read this strange relation,He was in a consternation;But, advising with his friend,He persuades him to attend.'Be of courage, and make ready,Faint heart never won fair lady;In regard it must be so,I along with you must go.'Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.