Thanksgiving

When all thy mercies, O my God,

my rising soul surveys,

transported with the view, I'm lost

in wonder, love, and praise.

Unnumbered comforts to my soul

thy tender care bestowed,

before my infant heart conceived

from whom those comforts flowed.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

my daily thanks employ;

nor is the least a cheerful heart

that tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life

thy goodness I'll pursue;

and after death, in distant worlds

the glorious theme renew.

Through all eternity to thee

a joyful song I'll raise;

for O, eternity's too short

to utter all thy praise! Amen.

Joseph Addison, 1672-1719

"Tell the truth, now and evermore. Truth is generally amusing, if it's nothing else!"

Lady Harriet

Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell

The Tyger

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tyger Tyger, 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, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & 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 spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears: 

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 

In the forests of the night: 

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

Songs of Innocence and Experience

"The Tyger"

by William Blake

It begins to look as if there were an art, or a gift, which criticism has largely ignored. It may even be one of the greatest arts; for it produces works which give us (at the first meeting) as much delight and (on prolonged acquaintance) as much wisdom and strength as the works of the greatest poets. It is in some ways more akin to music than to poetry-or at least to most poetry. It goes beyond the expression of things we have already felt. It arouses in us sensations we have never had before, never anticipated having, as though we had broken out of our normal mode of consciousness and "possessed joys not promised to our birth." It gets under our skin, hits us at a level deeper than our thoughts or even our passions, troubles oldest certainties till all questions are reopened, and in general shocks us more fully awake than we are for most of our lives.

C.S. Lewis on George MacDonald

Princesses

"THERE was once a little princess who—
"But Mr. Author, why do you always write about princesses?"
"Because every little girl is a princess."
"You will make them vain if you tell them that."
"Not if they understand what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
"What do you mean by a princess?"
"The daughter of a king."

The Princess and the Goblin
~George MacDonald