Wednesday Victorian Poem.

Kipling is a rich vein of poetry, but he was not the only popular poet of the time. Stevenson was as or more popular as a novelist. This is Victorian sentimentality: much more realist than most moderns can tolerate.

I’m quite aware that the dogs think they own the home. As they ought.

My House, I Say

My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves
That make my roof the arena of their loves,
That gyre about the gable all day long
And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:
Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares
And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;
And mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath
If any alien foot profane the path.
So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces,
Our whilom gardener, called the garden his;
Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode
And his late kingdom, only from the road.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Those who hate the bourgoise should consider the fate of the gardener. When times are hard, the contractors lose their jobs. It is much better to aim for times of peace, where we can live a quiet and sober life, and when historians are bored. (Sadly, were were not born into such a time).

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Do not be passive. Do not hide. The time for action is now.

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