“Mulvaney’s careful campaign of deconstruction offers a case study in the Trump administration’s approach to transforming Washington, one in which strategic neglect and bureaucratic self-sabotage create versions of agencies that seem to run contrary to their basic premises.”
Basically, you pour glass shards down the victim’s throat and the victim dies from a thousand little internal cuts.
Views: 41
Meet We No Angels, Pansie
by Thomas Ashe (1836-1889)
Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet,
In white, to find her lover;
The grass grew proud beneath her feet,
The green elm-leaves above her:—
Meet we no angels, Pansie?
She said, “We meet no angels now;”
And soft lights streamed upon her;
And with white hand she touched a bough;
She did it that great honour:—
What! meet no angels, Pansie?
O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes
Down-dropped brown eyes so tender!
Then what said I?—Gallant replies
Seem flattery, and offend her:—
But,—meet no angels, Pansie?
Views: 36
A shrinking population is an economic disaster (especially if it’s aging also).
Views: 57
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Easter Wings
by George Herbert (1593-1633)
Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poor:
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
My tender age in sorrow did begin:
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thou didst so punish sin,
That I became
Most thin.
With thee
Let me combine
And feel this day thy victory
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
Views: 33
Impeachment is as much a political process as a legal process. Expect the Democratic leadership in Congress to tread very, very carefully, whatever the left wing wants.
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The Boat of My Lover
by Dinah Clark (1826-1887)
O boat of my lover, go softly, go safely;
O boat of my lover, that bears him from me!
From the homes of the clachan, from the burn singing sweetly,
From the loch and the mountain, that he’ll never more see.
O boat of my lover, go softly, go safely;
Thou bearest my soul with thee over the tide.
I said not a word, but my heart it was breaking,
For life is so short, and the ocean so wide.
O boat of my lover, go softly, go safely;
Though the dear voice is silent, the kind hand is gone:
But oh, love me, my lover! and I’ll live till I find thee;
Till our parting is over, and our dark days are done.
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Euthanasia
by Lord Byron (1788-1824)
When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o’er my dying bed!
No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
But silent let me sink to Earth,
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle Friendship with a fear.
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives, and him who dies.
’Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last
Thy features still serene to see:
Forgetful of its struggles past,
E’en Pain itself should smile on thee.
But vain the wish—for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
And Woman’s tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.
Then lonely be my latest hour,
Without regret, without a groan;
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower,
And pain been transient or unknown.
“Aye but to die, and go,” alas!
Where all have gone, and all must go!
To be the nothing that I was
Ere born to life and living woe!
Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o’er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
’Tis something better not to be.
Views: 43
