Epigraphy

The Charge of the Light BrigadeBY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSONIHalf a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred.“Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!” he said.Into the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred.II“Forward, the Light Brigade!”Was there a man dismayed?Not though the soldier knew   Someone had blundered.   Theirs not to make reply,   Theirs not to reason why,   Theirs but to do and die.   Into the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred.IIICannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of them   Volleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of hell   Rode the six hundred.IVFlashed all their sabres bare,Flashed as they turned in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, while   All the world wondered.Plunged in the battery-smokeRight through the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReeled from the sabre stroke   Shattered and sundered.Then they rode back, but not   Not the six hundred.VCannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind them   Volleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell.They that had fought so wellCame through the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of hell,All that was left of them,   Left of six hundred.VIWhen can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!   All the world wondered.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,   Noble six hundred!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM.

The Oakby Alfred Lord TennysonLive thy Life,Young and old,Like yon oak,Bright in spring,Living gold;Summer-richThen; and thenAutumn-changedSoberer-huedGold again.All his leavesFall'n at length,Look, he stands,Trunk and boughNaked strength.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM.

The CatsBy H. P. LovecraftBabels of blocks to the high heavens tow’ring,Flames of futility swirling below;Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flow’ring,Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,Cobwebs of cable by nameless things spun;Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos deliversStreams of live foetor, that rots in the sun.Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,Shrieking and ringing and scrambling insane,Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal,Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,Yelling the burden of Pluto’s red rune.Tall tow’rs and pyramids ivy’d and crumbling,Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber’d streets;Bleak broken bridges o’er rivers whose rumblingJoins with no voice as the thick tide retreats.Belfries that blackly against the moon totter,Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac’d,And living to answer the wind and the water,Only the lean cats that howl in the waste!Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM.

Sonnet 135: Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy WillBY WILLIAM SHAKESPEAREWhoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;More than enough am I that vex thee still,To thy sweet will making addition thus.Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?Shall will in others seem right gracious,And in my will no fair acceptance shine?The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,And in abundance addeth to his store;So thou being rich in Will add to thy WillOne will of mine, to make thy large Will more.   Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;   Think all but one, and me in that one Will.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM.

The Dying LoverI cannot change, as others do,Though you unjustly scorn;Since that poor swain that sighs for you,For you alone was born.No, Phyllis, no, your heart to moveA surer way I'll try:And to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on, will still love on, and die.When, killed with grief, Amintas liesAnd you to mind shall call,The sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall,That welcome hour that ends this smartWill then begin your pain;For such a faithful tender heartCan never break, can never break in vain.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM.

Change Brought On Doves' Wings by Jason GellerFind us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM.