off the thread again but Sozobe - have you seen Roadl Dahls Revolting Rhymes? The Sozlet would love them. They retell the fairy tales - a favourite line from Red Riding Hood (who ends up with a wolfskin coat and pigskin bags ... the 3 pigs having intruded later in the poem!) was something about 'her eyelid never flickers, she pulls a pistol from her knickers...' (... one wolfskin coat coming up..) I must see if we still have the book and post a longer piece
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dyslexia
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Wed 23 Jul, 2003 01:54 pm
...And Then the Prince Knelt Down and Tried to Put the Glass Slipper on Cinderella's Foot
by Judith Viorst
I really didn't notice that he had a funny nose.
And he certainly looked better all dressed up in fancy clothes.
He's not nearly as attractive as he seemed the other night.
So I think I'll just pretend that this glass slipper feels too tight.
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dlowan
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Wed 23 Jul, 2003 03:44 pm
MISQUOTING "The Raven"?! AND teaching the wrong version to the Sozlet?
My guess is EG better run - and fast - or Craven will make a deceased parrot of him! Teach him to pine for the fjords in earnest, he will....
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patiodog
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Wed 23 Jul, 2003 05:04 pm
and now for something completely different
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sozobe
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Wed 23 Jul, 2003 05:12 pm
This is his version... suddenly you are all much less impressed:
Quote:
once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered weak and weary,
over many a quaint and curious tome of forgotten lore, i heard
a rapping, tapping at my chamber door. it was a raven and
he said nevermore. (that last sentence is improvised each time)
(I thought it was two stanzas...)
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Setanta
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Wed 23 Jul, 2003 05:56 pm
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!
The Sozlet has a lot of memorizin' to do . . .
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Setanta
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Wed 23 Jul, 2003 05:59 pm
By the by, those 'Mericans familiar with the PBS series Mystery will know Edward Gorey, even if they don't know they know him--he does the title illustrations for the beginning and end of the program. He has several wonderfully bizarre books, and here's a sample:
To his club-footed son said Lord Stipple
As he sipped his post-prandial tipple
Your mother's behavior
Gave pain to our Savior
And that's why he's made you a cripple
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sozobe
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Wed 23 Jul, 2003 06:24 pm
Eeyyyyyyeahh... That's the version I found and thought "ya know, that's not quite what I remember her reciting..."
Love Gorey! Gashleycrumb tinies.
(Joel, sincere apologies for my role in the waywardness of this thread. Hope that you are getting some of the info you were looking for amidst the off-topic silliness.)
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julieanne2800
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Sat 17 Apr, 2004 09:22 am
author of be still my beating heart
what kind of answers did you get? who is the author of that quote I am interested in the answer....
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joel
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Sat 17 Apr, 2004 08:35 pm
nobody has come up with an answer
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ljs135
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Tue 26 Jul, 2011 01:09 pm
@Craven de Kere,
'tis the wind and nothing more.
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chai2
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Tue 26 Jul, 2011 02:29 pm
This is one of my favorite songs by sting. the piano, drums voice
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notshakespeare
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Sun 20 Nov, 2011 12:25 am
@joel,
The earliest citation of the full 'be still, my beating heart' comes from William Mountfort's Zelmane, 1705:
