ODE – Arthur O’Shaughnessy

We are the music makers,
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams; --
World-losers and world-forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
    Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
    And out of a fabulous story
    We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
    Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
    Can trample a kingdom down.

We, in the ages lying,
    In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
    And Babel itself in our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
    To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
    Or one that is coming to birth.

A breath of our inspiration
Is the life of each generation;
    A wondrous thing of our dreaming
    Unearthly, impossible seeming --
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
    Are working together in one,
Till our dream shall become their present,
    And their work in the world be done.

They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising;
    They had no divine foreshowing
    Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man's soul it hath broken,
    A light that doth not depart;
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
    Wrought flame in another man's heart.

And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling;
    And the multitudes are enlisted
    In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
    Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
    The dream that was scorned yesterday.

But we, with our dreaming and singing,
    Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory about us clinging
    Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
    O men! it must ever be
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
    A little apart from ye.

For we are afar with the dawning
    And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
    Intrepid you hear us cry --
How, spite of your human scorning,
    Once more God's future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
    That ye of the past must die.

Great hail! we cry to the comers
    From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers;
    And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
    And things that we dreamed not before:
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
    And a singer who sings no more.

Passage from The Horse and His Boy

“I do not call you unfortunate,” said the Large Voice.
“Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?” said Shasta.
“There was only one lion,” said the Voice.
“What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and-“
“There was only one: but he was swift of foot.”
“How do you know?”
“I was the lion.” And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. “I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you.”
"Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I"
"But what for?"
"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own."
"Who are you?" asked Shasta.
"Myself," said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again "Myself", loud and clear and gay: and then the third time "Myself", whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all round you as if the leaves rustled with it.
The Horse and His Boy – Chapter 11

I love this passage. It's a reminder that God has his hand in all things/is all things/controls all things and that it is not for us to be concerened with how or why. We only have to trust that God has planned out for each of us a unique path.

"Oh, of course there's a risk in marrying anybody, but, when it's all said and done, there's many a worse thing than a husband."
— L.M. Montgomery (Anne of Avonlea)

I'm Allergic to Work

I've decided that I am definitely, undoubtedly allergic to work.

I come to work with a clean slate each morning, feeling fine. By 10:00 a.m., I have a sneezing fit. By lunch time, I've got watery eyes and the sniffles. By approximately 1:30 p.m., I have a terrible sinus headache. I'd like to note that this problem only occurs during the work week. It's not an every single day occurence but it is a problem 2 to 3 days out of the 5 work days in a week.

When I first noticed this pattern several months ago, I thought perhaps I was allergic to something that someone in the office wears, a cologne or particular fabric softener or something of that sort. It is, of course, still a destinct possibility. However, the office I work in consists mostly of technicians and project managers who are in or out out the office at varying times and days of the week. I often go days without seeing some of them, so, it would be nearly impossible to determine who or what exactly is causing this irritation. Instead, I prefer to believe that I am allergic to work and that any attempt at overexcertion, would be potentially lethal.

This will likely be my excuse to retire early and spend the rest of my days (I'm hoping to retire at 40.) sipping Mia Tais on some beach. Untill then, I will have to invest in bigger bottles of Dimetap.