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Poem of the day
Binsley Poplars
felled 1879
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and following folded rank
Not spared, not one
That dandled a sandalled
Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank.
O if we but knew what we do
When we delve or hew —
Hack and rack the growing green!
Since country is so tender
To touch, her being só slender,
That, like this sleek and seeing ball
But a prick will make no eye at all,
Where we, even where we mean
To mend her we end her,
When we hew or delve:
After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.
Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve
Strokes of havoc unselve
The sweet especial scene,
Rural scene, a rural scene,
Sweet especial rural scene.
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Again, we’re doomed
For now, complex life flourishes on our planet thanks to its supply of oxygen.
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An ICE officer might be a white supremacist? That’s dog-bites-man non-news
The valknot is a trio of interlocking triangles associated with Norse mythology and white supremacy. It was also visible on an agent participating in the recent immigration raid on Martha's Vineyard.
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We’re doomed
A passing star might be all it takes to throw our planet into chaos. Here?s what astronomers have just discovered.
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We don’t need no stinking due process!
A Mother Jones investigation based on firsthand accounts from ICE detainees in Texas reveals how Venezuelans were nearly removed from the country under the Alien Enemies Act without a chance to contest the allegations against them.
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Men at play or Another advance in modern medicine
A man managed to get a large flashing kids' toy stuck in his bottom - forcing hospital doctors to come up with a genius plan to finally get the "anorectal foreign body" out for good
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Science in action
Egg-drop challenges are popular science-engagement activities, but they often foster a misconception about the most impact-resistant part of an egg.
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Poem of the day
The Ebb and Flow
by Edward Taylor (c. 1642-1729)
When first thou on me, Lord, wrought’st thy sweet print,
My heart was made thy tinder box.
My ’ffections were thy tinder in’t:
Where fell thy sparks by drops.
Those holy sparks of heavenly fire that came
Did ever catch and often out would flame.
But now my heart is made thy censer trim,
Full of thy golden altar’s fire,
To offer up sweet incense in
Unto thyself entire:
I find my tinder scarce thy sparks can feel
That drop out from thy holy flint and steel.
Hence doubts out bud for fear thy fire in me
’S a mocking Ignis Fatuus;
Or lest thine altars fire out be,
It’s hid in ashes thus.
Yet when the bellows of thy spirit blow
Away mine ashes, then thy fire doth glow.
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Game of the week
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