Radio by Therese Lindsey

Radio

by Therese Lindsey

We have picked the pocket of silence. By this feat

Is set another pace for light to beat.

With coil of silk-covered wire to snare a song

Between whose breaths a thousand miles belong!

We brand our sounds and loose them pigeon-free

And practice on them some new falconry.

One of you is lying.

Oh, the woes of the bibliophile.  I am in a used book shop where the books are very cheap.  I see The Portable Dorothy Sayer.  I leaf through it quickly - a collection of her non-Wimsey writings.  Excellent.  I only moderately enjoy her mystery writing but I usually enjoy her essays.  In the stack it goes.

I get home and I sit down to sample it a bit to determine whether it goes into the "Read right now" stack or the "Soon" stack, possibly even the "Maybe in a while" stack.  

I am a page into the reasonably oblique and abstract Introduction when I begin to sense something is wrong.  The sketched life story does not match what I know of Sayer's life.  Hmm.  

Another half page and the mystery is solved.  This is the The Portable Dorothy Parker.  I would have significantly preferred Sayer but Parker, well, at a couple of bucks, I am sure I will get my money's worth.

For example:

By the time you swear you're his,

Shivering and sighing.

And he swears his passion is,

Infinite, undying - 

Lady make note of this:

One of you is lying.

History

Before we had the AC-130 we had the AC-47 also known as "Spooky Goon" or "Puff, the Magic Dragon". It had three gatling guns and a crew with balls the size of Texas. Just going on a close air support aircraft journey. Carry on.🤘😎 pic.twitter.com/7vatmirl4t

— Tim Farmer (@timfarmer) February 8, 2025

 

An Insight

Yep pic.twitter.com/3LDvOntL4o

— Lokert (@Lokert17) February 6, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Indigo Bunting serenades a nearby female under a sunflower

📹 Daniel Riddle
pic.twitter.com/2jzdapBKnH

— Science girl (@gunsnrosesgirl3) February 8, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

pic.twitter.com/DomFRDhZL2

— 𝗠3MPH1S-B3113 (@M3mph1sB) February 7, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

💯💯 pic.twitter.com/iHfluRnvFL

— Rothmus 🏴 (@Rothmus) February 15, 2025

 

Data Talks

Secretary-General wrong in claiming that cheap renewables will make "the end of the fossil fuel age inevitable"
Reality: we've reduced fossil fuels almost nothing: 2000: 81.2%, now 81%
On current trends, zero first in 4-9 centurieshttps://t.co/5u98U9l7aH https://t.co/SrERFOZFwW pic.twitter.com/M7xPVWwN7w

— Bjorn Lomborg (@BjornLomborg) February 6, 2025

 

A Winter Walk by Hester Cox

A Winter Walk by Hester Cox (England)

Click to enlarge.

History

Estimated size of surviving ancient text corpora in various languages pre-300 A.D.
There are 57 million words in Greek, 10 million in Latin, 9.9 million in Akkadian Cuneiform, and 5 million in Ancient Egyptian. It's notable how much larger the ancient Greek corpus is compared to… pic.twitter.com/mbXlpISY6L

— LiorLefineder (@lefineder) February 8, 2025

 

An Insight

Democrats cannot get around the fact that in trying to defend their taxpayer-funded ideological slush fund they are also telling everyone that they’ve had one for the past 3 decades ha ha ha

— Inez Stepman ⚪️🔴⚪️ (@InezFeltscher) February 5, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Take thirty seconds and watch Europa and Io serenely sail by, massive Jupiter their background. pic.twitter.com/30Vw43lWJ2

— Curiosity (@MAstronomers) February 4, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

"Democracy dies in darkness."

"Okay well let's shine a light on all the USAID spending then."

"No not like that." https://t.co/hGzPaJuPsI

— Stephen L. Miller (@redsteeze) February 5, 2025

 

Data Talks

This is the tree of 501c3's that end at the Brite Divinity School... It's interesting..... I think this data set will stimulate lots of conversation pic.twitter.com/ezNhtEIgMf

— Woody Huffines (@WoodyHuffines) February 5, 2025

 

The Old Farmyard, Findon Place by S. R. Badmin

The Old Farmyard, Findon Place by S. R.  Badmin (England, 1906-1989)

Click to enlarge.

History

Still pretty impressive that until 1967 Canada had 12 squadrons of fighters stationed in Europe. https://t.co/FHRf8LMDkL pic.twitter.com/EMK1omCnwL

— Simon Harley (@simonharley) February 8, 2025

 

An Insight

Mistake-making ability is limited by mistake-fixing capability. Orgs that have no real leadership have to be incredibly careful, because mistakes they make are forever. Orgs led by live players can afford to be adventurous because they can course-correct in real-time as needed. https://t.co/Vb6p4akdnZ

— Alexandros Marinos 🏴‍☠️ (@alexandrosM) February 5, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Gazelles and their shadows, galloping over the Namib sands.

[📸 Solly Levi] pic.twitter.com/GsyH6eegeZ

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) February 6, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Elon was happily tinkering with his rockets and electric cars in democrat-controlled California.

Then they tried to stop him from working during covid.

And now he's dismantling the entire deep state as a side hustle.

Has a single tweet ever backfired so hard? pic.twitter.com/Oou2MUspab

— Stack Hodler (@stackhodler) February 3, 2025

 

Data Talks

🚨 New Research: The American Dream is Dying in Big Cities

Cities used to be ladders of opportunity for their residents. Not anymore. Our new paper shows smaller cities & towns outperform major metros for kids born into poverty.https://t.co/jlI3emY0Zg

1/8 pic.twitter.com/T4BY0kgiyG

— Dylan Connor (@Dylligent) February 5, 2025

 

Moonlit Owl by Takashi Kanazawa

Moonlit Owl by Takashi Kanazawa (Japan, 1986 - )

Click to enlarge.

History

Around 4,300 years ago, an Egyptian artisan carved a little frog, a grasshopper, and a dragonfly.

Lovely details from nature depicted on a wall relief in the Tomb of Kagemni at Saqqara, Egypt. Old Kingdom, Dynasty 6, c. 2345-2323 BC. Photo by me.#ReliefWednesday#Archaeology pic.twitter.com/eDqEitUJJx

— Alison Fisk (@AlisonFisk) February 5, 2025

 

An Insight

You’ve never had a job outside government, and yet you’re somehow a multi-millionaire with three homes. Sit down. https://t.co/ApbrzVyIXS

— Sean Davis (@seanmdav) February 4, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Someone is jealous.. 😅 pic.twitter.com/apDxnKZOdW

— Buitengebieden (@buitengebieden) February 5, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

pic.twitter.com/VBhSTrQvRy

— Margot Cleveland (@ProfMJCleveland) February 4, 2025

 

Data Talks

NEW: Large study of Montreal schools. NO association between ventilation/CO2 levels and school-acquired Covid cases.

This upends what we were told for years in the pandemic. All the experts demanding HVAC upgrades & tweeting pics of CO2 levels may have been mistaken.

/1 pic.twitter.com/Hvzvd86dV9

— David Zweig (@davidzweig) January 31, 2025

 

Blue Moon, 2020 by Wilf Perreault

Blue Moon, 2020 by Wilf Perreault (Canada, 1947 - )

Click to enlarge.

History

A Roman Super Bowl. This utterly dazzling mosaic glass bowl was once assumed to have been a 19th century creation, until scientific analysis of its chemical composition in 1999 confirmed its Roman origins. From Italy, 1st-2nd century AD. The Victoria and Albert Museum pic.twitter.com/28YJpHsi3Z

— Gareth Harney (@OptimoPrincipi) February 9, 2025

 

An Insight

This is an interesting methods point. Per the graphic and Kirkegaard's comment, one major reason that population diversity has an overall negative impact on trust is not that groups begin to dislike one another, but simply that different groups have different baseline/starting… https://t.co/Wy5iYseFZC

— Wilfred Reilly (@wil_da_beast630) February 4, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Goat in Nepal inhaling and exhaling incense smoke.pic.twitter.com/Xg2nclu2i5

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) February 5, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

DC right now pic.twitter.com/0k7AYLs5VW

— David Burge (@iowahawkblog) February 4, 2025

 

Data Talks

Hey remember when Florida hosted the Super Bowl in 2021 and nobody wore masks so the media said COVID cases were going to explode and instead two weeks later they had dropped dramatically so the media just completely ignored it instead of admitting they were wrong about masks? pic.twitter.com/j9SqpTDN4X

— Ian Miller (@ianmSC) February 4, 2025

 

Mill Houses by A. J. Casson

Mill Houses by A. J. Casson (Canada, 1898 – 1992)

Click to enlarge.

History

A tiny (48 mm) Greek owl carved in purple fluorite. The wise owl was the symbol of the goddess Athena and by extension the city of Athens. The small precious stone sculpture was likely carried as a votive idol or protective amulet, c.4th century BC, Bertolami Fine Art. pic.twitter.com/lmwlTkEAhl

— Gareth Harney (@OptimoPrincipi) February 5, 2025

 

An Insight

OMG BY LOOKING AT THE OPM FILES ELON HAS OUR SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBERS!!!
Oh come on. If Elon really wanted my SS# he could have just bought it off the Chinese from the last time OPM leaked all our data.

— Larry Correia (@monsterhunter45) February 3, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Only in Japan.

Japan is a country where people feel absolutely privileged to lend a helping hand to each other. So this can actually happen.pic.twitter.com/qpRJNpkTEK

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) February 5, 2025

 

Data Talks

Married men, esp married dads, are the happiest: https://t.co/R41M34Tn7O pic.twitter.com/I8mmiIcF10

— Brad Wilcox (@BradWilcoxIFS) February 4, 2025

 

Long-Tailed Titmice and Crocuses, 1947 by Sir Cedric Morris

Long-Tailed Titmice and Crocuses, 1947 by Sir Cedric Morris (England, 1889-1982)

Click to enlarge.

What happens when all the evidence is on the side which experts reject?

Emily Oster provides another example of the dangers of "experts" in her article, What Is the Best Way to Teach Reading.  She is summarizing the status of the long running battle between phonics (teaching children to read on a basis of sounding out words) and whole language or whole word (memorizing patterns of words.)  

Whole word came to prominence in the 1980s and now has nearly fifty years of embedded financial stakes (curricula sold to school districts) and reasonably strong and enthusiastic support from the education establishment (Teachers Unions and Education School/Departments in Universities).  In other words from the "experts."

Whole word also has fifty years of opposition from parents and no credible empirical evidence from studies.  In fact, it is worse than that.  There is a vast literature to the effectiveness of the tried and tested phonics approach.  There is little evidence to the effectiveness of whole language.  And there is material evidence that those most educationally marginalized are those who perform the worst under the whole language approach.  

The experts inflicted whole language on parents and children without the evidence of its effectiveness and have stood in opposition as the evidence to its harm has accumulated for nearly fifty years.  This is experts being profoundly wrong.  

Oster has a good high level discussion with some important nuance.  After a base established through phonics, we don't really have any evidence for the effectiveness various supplemental approaches to reading.  Free reading has its advocates.  Story-telling and narrative development probably have roles.  But so far there is little evidence of how much of which in what sequence yields what results.

Oster concludes:

• Research shows that phonics (linking letters to sounds) is an essential part of an effective reading curriculum. Programs that deemphasize phonics are less effective, especially for readers who are struggling.

• There is still a lot we don’t know about the best methods for teaching reading. More research directly comparing approaches is needed, especially if it focuses on the group of kids who need more support. 

• Parents can ask their child’s school about their reading curriculum, particularly whether there is a focus on phonics. To support reading at home, parents can use various programs and resources, but the most important thing to do is regularly read aloud to their child. 

Its all there in the first bullet.  After fifty years of debate and in opposition to the position of education establishment experts, phonics works and it works better than any known alternatives.  And it works better for the broadest spectrum of student abilities.

The second bullet is true but daunting.  If it has taken fifty years to begin, only begin, to displace the expert recommendation of whole language, it suggests the education establishment is not good at conducting research and/or is not good at acting on the evidence.

The third bullet can only have been written with a blind eye to the continuing failure of the education establishment and legions of misinformed education "experts" and with an unwarranted confidence in the effectiveness and credibility of the education establishment.  Parents can ask whether their schools whether the schools are using the one proven technique (phonics)?  That seems to misplace roles and responsibilities.  

Forget asking about whether asking whether schools are doing the bare minimum of using the one approach known to work.  Parents should insist on phonics and then turf out any school boards who refuse. 

These are not the times to make an argument based on self-claimed establishment "expert" status

There is one simple test to see whether someone has even the most basic understanding of the process of winning and losing wars. If they say "Russia cannot be defeated by Ukraine", all they are revealing is that they don't know what they are talking about.

— Phillips P. OBrien (@PhillipsPOBrien) March 3, 2025

I am sorry for the testy response but this is the third vacuous assertion from a nominal "expert" first thing in the early hours of the morning.  All this is empty posturing.  

OBrien asserts that "Russia cannot be defeated by Ukraine" is a patently false argument and that anyone who does not know this is ignorant.

Clearly, on the other hand, we have three years of war and hundreds of thousands of deaths which should have been averted were it true that Russia can be defeated by Ukraine.  

"Russia cannot be defeated by Ukraine" is an argument that can be made with logic, reason and empirical evidence.  Three years of evidence suggests it is (so far) a true statement.  Russia (the instigator) has not so far been defeated by Ukraine. 

Will it remain true for another three years?  Who knows? It is conceivable.  

On the other hand, Russia has suffered gross losses in men and armaments in the three years.  There seems to have been a mass outmigration of men in their most productive ages.  The financial burden of prosecuting the war seems, by some measures, to be unsustainable.  

Can Ukraine defeat Russia?  That is obviously conceivable and a plausible argument can be made.  

But Ukraine has also suffered in terms of manpower losses, in civilian losses, in losses of territory, and in terms of the catastrophic impact on the economy.

Two battlers have gone three rounds and beaten each other to a bloody standstill.  I believe it is possible to make perfectly plausible arguments that either might still win the current war.  

I also suspect that with adequate funding and armaments from Western nations, it would become much more likely that Ukraine can defeat Russia.  

But it remains, based on logic, reason, and empirical evidence, perfectly feasible to make a plausible argument that "Russia cannot be defeated by Ukraine".  

OBrien is simply trying to shut down an argument that stands in the way of his own opinion or objectives.  The unstated, and unwarranted, supposition is that he is an "expert" who knows better than those with a different opinion than he has.  It is simple, baseless bullying.

And, given the poor credibility of "experts" after the past five years of "expert" failure across many fields (education, public health, economics, foreign policy, politics, etc.), basing your argument on your status as an "expert" reflects poorly on your ability to make a credible argument.

Lots of posturing opinions masquerading as evidence-based insight going around these days.  All amounting to cognitive pollution.  

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

by T. S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,

Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo

Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,

Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

               And should I then presume?

               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

History

4 Feb 1789: The Electoral College unanimously elects George Washington to be the first president of the United States and John Adams as Vice President. 10 states cast electoral votes. New York didn't field electors nor did Rhode Island and North Carolina, since they hadn't… pic.twitter.com/yJXbrqB5Dd

— Today In History (@URDailyHistory) February 4, 2025

 

An Insight

Pretty much every day when deployed on active duty, I put my life and the life of my Sailors in the very capable hands of young men and women even younger than these guys.

We’ll be just fine, probably great. https://t.co/yRjl6VFb1L

— cdrsalamander (@cdrsalamander) February 3, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Flying squirrels glide between treespic.twitter.com/TwEWXcsXaC

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) February 4, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

What Democrats see as men
⬇️ What Democrats see as "little boys."⬇️ pic.twitter.com/cFzAxHuHeC

— Margot Cleveland (@ProfMJCleveland) February 3, 2025

 

Data Talks

New Survey: "Most Single Women Believe They Are Happier than Married Women"

Data: Married women, esp. married moms, are markedly happier than single women in 🇺🇸 pic.twitter.com/eMfco2jhE3

— Brad Wilcox (@BradWilcoxIFS) February 3, 2025

 

In for the Night by William H. Hays

In for the Night by William H. Hays (America, 1956 - )

Click to enlarge.

Alas, So Long! by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Alas, So Long!

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti  

AH! dear one, we were young so long,

It seemed that youth would never go,

For skies and trees were ever in song

And water in singing flow

In the days we never again shall know.

Alas, so long!

Ah! then was it all Spring weather?

Nay, but we were young and together.

Ah! dear one, I've been old so long,

It seems that age is loth to part,

Though days and years have never a song,

And oh! have they still the art

That warmed the pulses of heart to heart?

Alas, so long!

Ah! then was it all Spring weather?

Nay, but we were young and together.

Ah! dear one, you've been dead so long,—

How long until we meet again,

Where hours may never lose their song

Nor flowers forget the rain

In glad noonlight that never shall wane?

Alas, so long!

Ah! shall it be then Spring weather,

And ah! shall we be young together?

History

The Nazca Lines were created between 500 BCE and 500 CE

Although the lines were partially visible from nearby hills, the first to report them in the XX century were Peruvian military and civilian pilots

The length of all the lines is more than 1,300 kmhttps://t.co/l2fKSEH6Xh

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) February 4, 2025

 

An Insight

"Hunger in America" is simply not a very plausible storyline given "weight in America." https://t.co/jxZpfeRdss

— Wilfred Reilly (@wil_da_beast630) February 2, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Winter wonder 🦝❄pic.twitter.com/l16kjXZ7AO

— Cosmic Gaia (@CosmicGaiaX) February 4, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Who’s ready for another exciting week in the Golden Era? pic.twitter.com/LoWQNpiJea

— Benny Johnson (@bennyjohnson) February 3, 2025

 

Data Talks

Between 1972 and 1988, the share of young adults who never attended religious services was incredibly steady.

Right about 15%.

By 2000, it was 20%.
By 2013, it was 30%.
By 2022, it was 40%. pic.twitter.com/uhMZ793wzV

— Ryan Burge 📊 (@ryanburge) February 3, 2025

 

Appalachian Sunset, 2025 by Jef Bourgeau

Appalachian Sunset, 2025 by Jef Bourgeau (America)

Click to enlarge.

Envoys From Alexandria By C.P. Cavafy

Envoys From Alexandria

By C.P. Cavafy

Translated by Rae Dalven

They had not seen, for ages, such lovely gifts in Delphi 

as these which had been sent by the two brothers, 

the two rival Ptolemaic kings. After they had received 

the gifts, however, the priests were uneasy about the oracle. 

They will need all their experience to compose with astuteness, 

which of the two, which of such two will be displeased. 

And they sit in council in secret at night 

and discuss the family affairs of the Lagidae. 

But see, the envoys have come back. They are saying farewell. 

They are returning to Alexandria, they say. They do not seek 

any oracle whatever. And the priests hear this with joy 

(it is understood they keep the remarkable gifts), 

but they are also bewildered in the extreme, 

not understanding what this sudden indifference means. 

For they are unaware that yesterday grave news reached the envoys. 

The oracle was pronounced in Rome; the division took place there. 

 

The Automobile by Percy MacKaye

The Automobile 

by Percy MacKaye

Fluid the world flowed under us: the hills

Billow on billow of umbrageous green

Heaved us, aghast, to fresh horizons, seen

One rapturous instant, blind with flash of rills

And silver-rising storms and dewy stills

Of dripping boulders, till the dim ravine

Drowned us again in leafage, whose serene

Coverts grew loud with our tumultuous wills.

Then all of Nature’s old amazement seemed

Sudden to ask us: “Is this also Man?

This plunging, volant, land-amphibian

What Plato mused and Paracelsus dreamed?

Reply!” And piercing us with ancient scan,

The shrill, primeval hawk gazed down — and screamed.

History

Basilica Cistern in Constantinople (Istanbul 🇹🇷), an underground water storage facility built in the 6th century, contains two enigmatic Medusa heads, one placed upside down and the other sideways, possibly to neutralize the power of her gaze as per mythology.

Largely forgotten… pic.twitter.com/YxtycrHQUi

— Dr. M.F. Khan (@Dr_TheHistories) January 17, 2025

 

An Insight

If you take positions with too much certainty, and turn out to be wrong, you’ll feel too embarrassed to change your mind. So express risky beliefs humbly; talk in possibilities instead of certainties. This will give your views space to grow.

— Gurwinder (@G_S_Bhogal) January 14, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Jamón Iberico de Bellota, among the most prized foods in Spain

[📹 bonappetitmag]pic.twitter.com/zIH7yAGqoJ

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) January 18, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

 

Click to enlarge.

Data Talks

Incels rising international edition is now out.

- The US is not the world.
- Age of first sexual intercourse has declined.
- Total lifetime partner count is up.
- Sexual frequency is declining!
- Declining marriage responsible?

— uncorrelated (@uncorrelated_) January 16, 2025

 

House, 2016 by Philip Geiger

House, 2016 by Philip Geiger (America, 1956 - )

Click to enlarge.

And Yet Fools Say by George S. Holmes

And Yet Fools Say 

by George S. Holmes

He captured light and caged it in a glass,

Then harnessed it forever to a wire;

He gave men robots with no backs to tire

In bearing burdens for the toiling mass.

He freed the tongue in wood and wax and brass,

Imbued dull images with motions’ fire,

Transmuted metal into human choir —

These man-made miracles he brought to pass.

Bulbs banish night along the Great White Way,

Thin threads of copper throb with might unseen;

On silver curtains shadow-actors play

That walk and talk from magic-mouthed machine,

While continents converse through skies o’erhead —

And yet fools say that Edison is dead!

History

Something lovely for the weekend!

This Hellenistic mosaic glass bowl looks so modern, yet it was made over 2,000 years ago!

Ancient glassmakers created the tiny flower pattern using a technique now known as ‘millefiori’ (thousand flowers). A timeless design still made by… pic.twitter.com/wviE1dAIf3

— Alison Fisk (@AlisonFisk) January 4, 2025

 

An Insight

Women choose courtship, men pick wives.

Women are conservative with who they date, men are conservative with who they marry.

Women are picky when it comes to sex, men are picky when it comes to commitment.

To be a wife you have to be selected.

We need Fathers to teach this.

— Theron Bassett (@Improveordeath) May 21, 2024

 

I see wonderful things

South pole summer solstice 🌞💫🌌pic.twitter.com/i4HWyCMcj5

— Cosmic Gaia (@CosmicGaiaX) January 17, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

In Canada the Muslims are upset at some enhanced graffiti. pic.twitter.com/fDHKmTG9Zs

— David Atherton (@DaveAtherton20) January 16, 2025

 

Data Talks

Why are Sub-Saharan Africa and Central Asia outliers on fertility?

Btw, Botswana is richer than India, Kazakhstan is richer still. Both have a much higher fertility rates...

That should be my exam question next year... 🙃 pic.twitter.com/jxz9jjn6fn

— Alice Evans (@_alice_evans) January 16, 2025

 

Reflections, 1916 by Harold Harvey

Reflections, 1916 by Harold Harvey (England, 1874-1941) 

Click to enlarge

The Sack of Old Panama by Dana Burnet

The Sack of Old Panama

by Dana Burnet

They sat in a tavern in wicked Port Royal,

Grim Morgan and Brodley and one or two others,

A flagon of rum on the table between them

And villainy binding them closer than brothers.

And Morgan dropped hint of Old Panama’s riches;

Said little, but said it with evil suggestion,

Till Brodley swayed up, with his glass in his fingers,

And swore that a Don was an aid to digestion!

But Morgan said, idly, “’ would be a long journey” —

Cried Brodley: “What odds, when the end of it’s yellow?

I mind me the pockets of dead men I lightened

That year of our Lord when we sacked Porto Bello!”

Then Morgan stood straight, with his face of dark smiling:

“I'll rake them once more — then I’ll stop all such capers;

Come home and be Governor! Aye, but I will, though,

And hang every master that can’t show his papers.

“I'll have me a house that will front the blue water,

And devil a pirate shall sit at my table;

But now, and once more, I’ve a will to go courting,

To dance with a Don while I’m hearty and able.”

He laughed and drew breath; and they tipped up the flagon,

And fashioned his words in a stormy sea ditty.

Then swiftly fell silent, with dream-darkened faces,

And thought of their hands at the throat of a city....

* * *

The sea was as blue as the breast of the morning

When Morgan went down to his last buccaneering;

His sails were like low-fallen clouds in the distance,

Blown onward, and fading, and slow disappearing.

And so he put out — and was part of the distance,

A blur of slow wings on the blue ring of heaven,

With two thousand devils adream below hatches,

And steel, and dry powder, and ships thirty-seven.

And all down the decks there was talk of the venture —

How Morgan had wind of unthinkable treasure;

How Panama’s streets were the sweetness of silver,

Where men in gold gutters threw pearls for their pleasure!

And Brodley went forward and took San Lorenzo,

With patience and passion, as men take a woman,

And Morgan came up, with his face of dark smiling,

And saw the sword’s kiss on the heart of the foeman.

* * *

The dawn saw them marching — twelve hundred brown devils,

With steel and dry powder and gay crimson sashes;

And so they put on... and were dead in the jungle

Of great shaking fevers and little barbs’ gashes.

* * *

The tenth day was sleeping in tents of red splendor

When Morgan crept up to the walls of the city —

Behind him his madmen came shouting and sobbing,

And mouthing the words of an old pirate ditty.

Their souls were in tatters! And still they came singing,

Till all the hushed foreland was waked from its dreaming,

And high in their towers the sweet bells of vesper

Were drowned and made dim by the mad, measured screaming.

A gun roared, and deep in the heart of the city

Wild pulses began.... A young mother ran crying,

“The English are on us!” Swords silvered the twilight,

And priests turned their books to the prayers for the dying.

Then out from his gates came the desperate Spaniard;

The swords were like flame, and the towers were ringing!

But Morgan’s men waited; lay down with choked muzzles,

And dealt out their death to the pulse of their singing.

Their volleys belched forth like a chorus of thunder,

A great whining Song that went on without pity,

Till night drew her veil ... then they rose from their bellies,

And spat at the dead — and went into the city.

* * *

The Governor sat in his window at evening,

His window that looked on the star-furrowed water;

A ship had come into the clasp of the harbor,

Clear-lined from the darkness the bright moon had wrought her.

* * *

He clapped his fat hands; and a black lad stood bowing.

“Bring candles — and rum,” said the Governor, grinning.

And then he sat down with his boots on the table,

And dozed until Morgan should come from his sinning....

He came, with an oath, in his great greasy sea-boots,

A sash at his waist, and a pistol stuck in it,

His beard to his throat, and his little eyes leering —

“Your voice,” said Sir Thomas, “is sweet as a linnet!”

“My pockets are sweeter,” said Morgan; and, winking,

He drew from his sash a creased bag of black leather,

Unloosed it and spilled on the bare wooden table

Red jewels that kindled like swords struck together!

* * *

The jewels lay warm in the dusk of the candles,

Like soulless red eyes that no tears might set blinking...

And Thomas Sir Modyford crooked his hot fingers,

And chose the King’s profit, whilst Morgan sat drinking.

“Sweet baubles! Sweet pretties! They’ve blinded my candles.

They’re flame, Pirate, flame! See my hand, how they’ve burned it.”

He laughed, and drew forth from his pocket a parchment —

“It’s yours, by our bargain; and damme, you’ve earned it.”

They spread out the parchment between them. Said Morgan:

“God’s name! I’m respectable!” “Aye,” said Sir Thomas,

“ Ye’re Leftenant-Governor, lately appointed

By will of the Crown — in accord with our promise!”

* * *

Day broke... and the throat of the harbor was clouded

With sail. ”Twas the fleet of the pirates returning —

But down their grim ports no black muzzles peered frowning,

Nor naked steel leaped for the dawn to set burning.

They came as calm merchantmen, shriven with morning

(For in the King’s harbors the law is hard-fisted!)

And so they stole in, like whipped hounds to a kennel,

Their loosed anchors lolling like tongues when they listed.

The candles were dead in the Governor’s chamber;

And in at the window the young light came creeping —

Asprawl at the table sat Morgan the Pirate,

And under his boot-heels Sir Thomas lay sleeping.

The anchors splashed down in the ruffled blue water,

The great wings were furled with a rattle of gearing;

But Morgan sat clutching a folded gray parchment,

A glass at his lips, and his little eyes leering. 

History

What explains the rise of Christianity?

Was it because we were so nice that everybody converted?

In a new post responding to Astral Codex Ten's recent pieces, I argue, no. Christianity won because we had babies and killed infidels. pic.twitter.com/6hk65AVS0F

— Lyman Stone SF Mar 10-13, SLC Mar 13-14 石來民 🦬🦬🦬 (@lymanstoneky) January 8, 2025

 

An Insight

Popper used to begin his lecture course on the philosophy of science by asking the students simply to ‘observe’. Then he would wait in silence for one of them to ask what they were supposed to observe. This was his way of demonstrating one of many flaws in the empiricism that is…

— Deutsch Explains (@DeutschExplains) October 5, 2024

 

I see wonderful things

Watch as a group of mountaineers dodge a huge boulder rolling away.pic.twitter.com/7s2l1rxyqc

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) January 9, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Government solving problems https://t.co/Jjjkmc2p3Q pic.twitter.com/IZMa9c3Xza

— Kate Hyde (@KateHydeNY) January 17, 2025

 

Data Talks

Of course.

Male attractiveness is mostly behavioral. Men are attractive based on what they can do.

A good rule of thumb is that a man's attractiveness is roughly correlated to how useful he would be in a zombie apocalypse.

This means a woman can't just look at you and see… https://t.co/BdaAkuyWdD pic.twitter.com/7TSYUkGcRB

— Devon Eriksen (@Devon_Eriksen_) January 8, 2025

 

My Studio, 1952 by John Koch

My Studio, 1952 by John Koch (America, 1909-1978)

Click to enlarge.

The Mountain Whippoorwill by Stephen Vincent Benét

The Mountain Whippoorwill

Or, How Hill-Billy Jim Won The Great Fiddler’s Prize

(A Georgia Romance)

by Stephen Vincent Benét

Up in the mountains, it's lonesome all the time,

(Sof win' slewin' thu' the sweet-potato vine).

Up in the mountains, it's lonesome for a child,

(Whippoorwills a-callin' when the sap runs wild).

Up in the mountains, mountains in the fog,

Everything as lazy as an old houn' dog.

Born in the mountains, never raised a pet,

Don't want nuthin' an' never got it yet.

Born in the mountains, lonesome-born,

Raised runnin' ragged thu' the cockleburrs and corn.

Never knew my pappy, mebbe never should.

Think he was a fiddle made of mountain laurel-wood.

Never had a mammy to teach me pretty-please.

Think she was a whippoorwill, a-skitin' thu' the trees.

Never had a brother ner a whole pair of pants,

But when I start to fiddle, why, yuh got to start to dance!

Listen to my fiddle Kingdom Come—Kingdom Come!

Hear the frogs a-chunkin’ "Jug o’ rum, Jug o' rum!"

Hear that mountain-whippoorwill be lonesome in the air.

An’ I’ll tell yuh how I traveled to the Essex County Fair.

Essex County has a mighty pretty fair,

All the smarty fiddlers from the South come there.

Elbows flyin' as they rosin up the bow

For the First Prize Contest in the Georgia Fiddlers' Show.

Old Dan Wheeling, with his whiskers in his ears,

King-pin fiddler for nearly twenty years.

Big Tom Sargent, with his blue wall-eye,

An' Little Jimmy Weezer that can make a fiddle cry.

All sittin’ roun’, spittin’ high an’ struttin’? proud,

(Listen, little whippoorwill, yuh better bug yore eyes!)

Tun-a-tun-a-tunin’ while the jedges told the crowd

Them that got the mostest claps'd win the bestest prize.

Everybody waitin’for the first tweedle-dee,

When in comes a-stumblin'—hill-billy me!

Bowed right pretty to the jedges an' the rest,

Took a silver dollar from a hole inside my vest,

Plunked it on the table an' said, "There's my callin' card!

An' anyone that licks me well, he's got to fiddle hard!"

Old Dan Wheeling, he was laughin' fit to holler,

Little Jimmy Weezer said, ''There's one dead dollar!"

Big Tom Sargent had a yaller-toothy grin,

But I tucked my little whippoorwill spang underneath my chin,

An' petted it an' tuned it till the jedges said, "Begin!"

Big Tom Sargent was the first in line;

He could fiddle all the bugs off a sweet-potato vine.

He could fiddle down a possum from a mile-high tree.

He could fiddle up a whale from the bottom of the sea.

Yuh could hear hands spankin' till they spanked each other raw,

When he finished variations on "Turkey in the Straw."

Little Jimmy Weezer was the next to play;

He could fiddle all night, he could fiddle all day.

He could fiddle chills, he could fiddle fever,

He could make a fiddle rustle like a lowland river.

He could make a fiddle croon like a lovin' woman.

An’ they clapped like thunder when he'd finished strummin'.

Then came the ruck of the bob-tailed fiddlers,

The let's go-easies, the fair-to-middlers.

They got their claps an' they lost their bicker,

An' settled back for some more corn-licker.

An' the crowd was tired of their no-count squealing,

When out in the center steps Old Dan Wheeling.

He fiddled high and he fiddled low,

(Listen, little whippoorwill; yuh got to spread yore wings!)

He fiddled with a cherrywood bow.

(Old Dan Wheelings got bee-honey in his strings.)

He fiddled the wind by the lonesome moon,

He fiddled a most almighty tune.

He started fiddling like a ghost,

He ended fiddling like a host.

He fiddled north an' he fiddled south,

He fiddled the heart right out of yore mouth.

He fiddled here an' he fiddled there.

He fiddled salvation everywhere.

When he was finished, the crowd cut loose,

(Whippoorwill, they's rain on yore breast.)

An’ I sat there wondering "What's the use?"

(Whippoorwill, fly home to yore nest.)

But I stood up pert an' I took my bow,

An' my fiddle went to my shoulder, so.

An' they wasn't no crowd to get me fazed

But I was alone where I was raised.

Up in the mountains, so still it makes yuh skeered.

Where God lies sleepin' in his big white beard.

An" I heard the sound of the squirrel in the pine,

An' I heard the earth a-breathin' thu' the long night-time.

They've fiddled the rose, an' they've fiddled the thorn,

But they haven't fiddled the mountain-corn.

They've fiddled sinful an' fiddled moral,

But they haven't fiddled the breshwood-laurel.

They've fiddled loud, an' they've fiddled still,

But they haven't fiddled the whippoorwill.

I started off with a dump-diddle-dump,

(Oh, hell’s broke loose in Georgia!)

Skunk-cabbage growin' by the bee-gum stump,

(Whippoorwill, yo're singin’ now!)

Oh, Georgia booze is mighty fine booze,

The best yuh ever poured yuh,

But it eats the soles right offen yore shoes,

For Hell's broke loose in Georgia.

My mother was a whippoorwill pert,

My father, he was lazy,

But I'm Hell broke loose in a new store shirt

To fiddle all Georgia crazy.

Swing yore partners up an' down the middle!

Sashay now—oh, listen to that fiddle!

Flapjacks flippin' on a red-hot griddle,

An' hell broke loose,

Hell broke loose,

Fire on the mountains snakes in the grass.

Satan's here a-bilin'—oh, Lordy, let him pass!

Go down Moses, set my people free,

Pop goes the weasel thu' the old Red Sea!

Jonah sittin' on a hickory-bough,

Up jumps a whale—an' where's yore prophet now?

Rabbit in the pea-patch, possum in the pot,

Try an' stop my fiddle, now my fiddle's gettin' hot!

Whippoorwill, singin' thu' the mountain hush,

Whippoorwill, shoutin' from the burnin' bush,

Whippoorwill, cryin' in the stable-door,

Sing to-night as yuh never sang before!

Hell's broke loose like a stompin' mountain-shoat,

Sing till yuh bust the gold in yore throat!

Hell's broke loose for forty miles aroun'

Bound to stop yore music if yuh don't sing it down.

Sing on the mountains, little whippoorwill,

Sing to the valleys, an' slap 'em with a hill,

For I'm struttin' high as an eagle's quill,

An' Hell's broke loose,

Hell's broke loose,

Hell's broke loose in Georgia!

They wasn't a sound when I stopped bowin',

(Whippoorwill, yuh can sing no more.)

But, somewhere or other, the dawn was growing

(Oh, mountain whippoorwill!)

An' I thought, "I've fiddled all night an' lost.

Yo're a good hill-billy, but yuh've been bossed.

So I went to congratulate old man Dan,

—But he put his fiddle into my han'—

An' then the noise of the crowd began.

History

The St. Brice’s Day Massacre, which occurred on November 13, 1002, remains one of the most controversial and brutal moments in England's history. King Æthelred II, often known as Æthelred Unræd (meaning "Æthelred the Unready" or "poorly advised"), ordered the massacre of all… pic.twitter.com/ayBR4dtX2d

— Archaeo - Histories (@archeohistories) January 6, 2025

 

An Insight

Within only a span of 10 days, the New York Times published these two headlines.

1. "The End of Snow"
2. "How can a warming climate increase snowfall?"

How can anyone take these climate fanatics seriously? pic.twitter.com/2YRS9k643J

— Stephen Moore (@StephenMoore) January 18, 2024

 

I see wonderful things

This is the way ❤️🇺🇸💪🏼 https://t.co/4zEKH3M5cb

— ZitoSalena (@ZitoSalena) January 7, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Mozart - Rondo Alla Turcapic.twitter.com/cZHzsglMhH

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) January 16, 2025

 

Data Talks

For most Americans currently in poverty, being poor will be a temporary thing🧵

Take people in poverty in different years, and you'll see that each year's batch follows a similar trajectory:

After a year, almost half of the poor are no longer poor. After two years, >50% churn! pic.twitter.com/SBqfEbQG5j

— Crémieux (@cremieuxrecueil) January 8, 2025

 

Paddington Station at Night, 1992 by Doreen Fletcher

Paddington Station at Night, 1992 by Doreen Fletcher (England, 1952 - )

Click to enlarge.

The Raven By Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven

By Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!