‘I know, I know, I know, I know,’ he said,

‘but you have to try to make sense of what comes.

Remember everything and keep your head.’


Seamus Heaney, in Station Island II



Seamus Heaney

And some time make the time to drive out west

Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,

In September or October, when the wind

And the light are working off each other

So that the ocean on one side is wild

With foam and glitter, and inland among stones

The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit

By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,

Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,

Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads

Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.

Useless to think you’ll park and capture it

More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,

A hurry through which known and strange things pass

As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways

And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.




Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought —

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’

He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.



Child of the pure unclouded brow

And dreaming eyes of wonder!

Though time be fleet, and I and thou

And half a life asunder,

They loving smile will surely hail

The love-gift of a fairy-tale.


I have not seen thy sunny face,

Nor heard thy silver laughter;

No thought of me shall find a place

In thy young life’s hereafter –

Enough that now thou wilt not fail

To listen to my fairy-tale.


A tale begun in other days,

When summer suns were glowing –

A simple chime, that served to time

The rhythm of our rowing –

Whose echoes live in memory yet,

Though envious years would say ‘forget’.


Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,

With bitter tidings laden,

Shall summon to unwelcome bed

A melancholy maiden!

We are but older children, dear,

Who fret to find our bedtime near.


Without, the frost, the blinding snow,

The storm-wind’s moody madness –

Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,

And childhood’s nest of gladness.

The magic words shall hold thee fast:

Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.


And though the shadow of a sigh

May tremble through the story,

For ‘happy summer days’ gone by,

And vanish’d summer glory –

It shall not touch with breath of bale

The pleasance of our fairy-tale.

Lewis Carroll




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