At Gulliver's tomb in St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin
"O lente, lente currite, noctis equi!"*
It’s admitting muteness that one hates,
and the jockeys at the gates,
mounted monkeys—bad, bad, bad—
who drove us mad.
It’s admitting muteness that one hates.
Hansom cabs I don't recall.
How awful, to go there at all!
It's a monody that grates.
It’s admitting muteness . . . that one hates.
At Salonika, she had to learn
(in World War I)
the wage is oats, that horses earn.
It’s admitting muteness that one hates,
and the harnesses we face,
plucked from those untrammeled states
intrinsic to this bunch of grace.
H-O-U-Y-H-N-H-N-M
* "O slowly, run slowly, horses of the night!"—Christopher Marlowe, The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus (1592–93).
Ever since first reading this tremendous line (quoted by Marlowe from a very different context in Ovid's Amores) at my high school, the Hoërskool De Aar—over seventy years ago—I've itched to quote it, and now here's another opportunity.
December 1, 2024
Ok