Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
William Butler Yeats
"cellar door"
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cellar_door
The English compound cellar door... plays a certain role in discussions of phonoaesthetics; a widely repeated claim first put forward by J. R. R. Tolkien in his essay English and Welsh (1955) holds its sound is intrinsically beautiful.
Cellar door is a combination of words in the English language once characterized by J. R. R. Tolkien to have an especially beautiful sound. In his 1955 essay "English and Welsh", commenting on his affection towards the Welsh language, Tolkien wrote:
"Most English-speaking people...will admit that cellar door is 'beautiful', especially if dissociated from its sense (and from its spelling). More beautiful than, say, sky, and far more beautiful than beautiful. Well then, in Welsh for me cellar doors are extraordinarily frequent, and moving to the higher dimension, the words in which there is pleasure in the contemplation of the association of form and sense are abundant."
This is mentioned in the film "Donnie Darko"
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea.
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap.
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed.
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn.
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care.
No children run to lisp their sire's return
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield.
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke.
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil;
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour:—
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault.
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood.
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of listening senates to command.
The threats of pain and ruin to despise.
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones, from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse.
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies.
Some pious drops the closing eye requires.
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries.
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,—
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say:
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove.
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
"One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree.
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he.
"The next with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,—
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 115
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
THE EPITAPH
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere.
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
-Moves my bones! 😉
Proper English? What proper English?
English was shoved down our throats and became the international
language, the defeater of Esperanto *unfortunately* so now the
world is making business in English, meeting in English, doing
international relations in English, closing family ties in English, and
making movies and commerciales in English, writing in English, etc.
Therefore, English is no longer property of the U.S. or the U.K., it
belongs to us all, and it is becoming *thank heaven* neutral, and
an asset of the world.
Proper English? Bah! As long as we all understand each other, grammar
Nazis in English can come and kiss our ***.
Sincerely,
Bastardized English Speakers of the World (unite and takeover)
Originally posted by SeitseEnglish is an Ocean not a canal. But Heaps of Monolingualists go on and on about their language...e. English and how it should be written or spoken when in fact most rules and punctuation for writing in a language are quite arbitrary if you study a little
Proper English? What proper English?
English was shoved down our throats and became the international
language, the defeater of Esperanto *unfortunately* so now the
world is making business in English, meeting in English, doing
international relations in English, closing family ties in English, and
making movies and commerciales in English, writing in ...[text shortened]... and kiss our ***.
Sincerely,
Bastardized English Speakers of the World (unite and takeover)
Originally posted by Seitsei have heard a bit of Finglish but forgot it now. I lived in Moscow for many years. Popped over to Helsinki a lot. Only Know Kiitos..But that word gets me quite far... same as Pazhalsta in Russian. Plus Finland has good beer, great women. and beautiful countryside. Suomi RULES
Agreed.
By the way, Finnglish & Spanglish are my favorites 😉
Originally posted by Seitsethe conquered learn the language of the conquerer. the nations defeated by Rome, for example, learned Latin, which mutated over time into the various 'Romance' languages.
Therefore, English is no longer property of the U.S. or the U.K., it
belongs to us all, and it is becoming *thank heaven* neutral, and
an asset of the world.
every word of English you speak or write only furthers the cultural hegemony of the English-speaking powers.
Originally posted by Iron MonkeySo why is the beauty of Thomas Grey still so beautiful??
the conquered learn the language of the conquerer. the nations defeated by Rome, for example, learned Latin, which mutated over time into the various 'Romance' languages.
every word of English you speak or write only furthers the cultural hegemony of the English-speaking powers.
Because he could, and we couldn't!
Originally posted by MissOleumYou have broken your own rule.
No grammar, spelling or punctuation errors welcome in this thread.
So if your English is not up to standard, prepare it elsewhere and use "cut-and-paste" to insert your polished prose here.
Quotations (attributed) and original work accepted.
Originally posted by Iron MonkeyRoma victa!
the conquered learn the language of the conquerer. the nations defeated by Rome, for example, learned Latin, which mutated over time into the various 'Romance' languages.
every word of English you speak or write only furthers the cultural hegemony of the English-speaking powers.
🙂
The empire shall fall, yet it shall live in its linguistic heritage
throughout the centuries of existence of its conquered.
But hey, such is life, isn't it?
aliena nobis, nostra plus aliis placent.