Those who want friends to whom to open their griefs, are cannibals of their own hearts.
Diejenigen, die Freunde suchen, denen sie ihren Kummer offenbaren können, sind Kannibalen ihrer eigenen Herzen.
Francis Bacon
Franchis Bacon, Bacon von Verulam (1561 – 1626), englischer Philosoph, Jurist, Staatsmann. Wegbereiter des Empirismus
aus: „The essays or Counsels, civil and moral of Francis Bacon“ [first published in 1597, and as he left them newly written and published in 1625] including also his Apophthegms, Elegant sentences and Wisdom of the ancients. Verlag: Chicago, Donohue, Henneberry & Co. Seite 422
Mora omnis ingrata est, sed facit sapientiam — All delay is unpleasant, but we are the wiser for it.
Mora omnis ingrata est, sed facit sapientiam – Jeder Aufschub ist unangenehm, aber wir sind um so klüger.
Francis Bacon
Franchis Bacon, Bacon von Verulam (1561 – 1626), englischer Philosoph, Jurist, Staatsmann. Wegbereiter des Empirismus
aus: „The essays or Counsels, civil and moral of Francis Bacon“ [first published in 1597, and as he left them newly written and published in 1625] including also his Apophthegms, Elegant sentences and Wisdom of the ancients. Verlag: Chicago, Donohue, Henneberry & Co. Seite 417
Facit gratum fortuna, quem nemo videt — The fortune which nobody sees makes a man happy.
Facit gratum fortuna, quem nemo videt – Das Glück, das niemand sieht, macht einen Menschen glücklich.
Francis Bacon
Franchis Bacon, Bacon von Verulam (1561 – 1626), englischer Philosoph, Jurist, Staatsmann. Wegbereiter des Empirismus
aus: „The essays or Counsels, civil and moral of Francis Bacon“ [first published in 1597, and as he left them newly written and published in 1625] including also his Apophthegms, Elegant sentences and Wisdom of the ancients. Verlag: Chicago, Donohue, Henneberry & Co. Seite 416
Cum vitia prosint, peccat qui recte facit — If vices were profitable, the virtuous man would be the sinner.
Cum vitia prosint, peccat qui recte facit – Wenn Laster nützlich wären, wäre der Tugendhafte ein Sünder.
Francis Bacon
Franchis Bacon, Bacon von Verulam (1561 – 1626), englischer Philosoph, Jurist, Staatsmann. Wegbereiter des Empirismus
aus: „The essays or Counsels, civil and moral of Francis Bacon“ [first published in 1597, and as he left them newly written and published in 1625] including also his Apophthegms, Elegant sentences and Wisdom of the ancients. Verlag: Chicago, Donohue, Henneberry & Co. Seite 415
Love without end hath no end ; “ meaning, that if it were begun not upon particular ends it would last.
Liebe ohne Ende hat kein Ende; „was bedeutet, dass sie, wenn sie nicht auf bestimmte Ziele hin begonnen wird, andauern wird.
Francis Bacon
Franchis Bacon, Bacon von Verulam (1561 – 1626), englischer Philosoph, Jurist, Staatsmann. Wegbereiter des Empirismus
aus: „The essays or Counsels, civil and moral of Francis Bacon“ [first published in 1597, and as he left them newly written and published in 1625] including also his Apophthegms, Elegant sentences and Wisdom of the ancients. Verlag: Chicago, Donohue, Henneberry & Co. Seite 380
To and fro, to and fro
In my little boat I go
Sailing far across the sea
All alone, just little me.
And the sea is big and strong
And the journey very long.
To and fro, to and fro
In my little boat I go.
Sea and sky, sea and sky,
Quietly on the deck I lie,
Having just a little rest.
I have really done my best
In an awful pirate fight,
But we captured them all right.
Sea and sky, sea and sky,
Quietly on the deck I lie—
Far away, far away
From my home and from my play,
On a journey without end
Only with the sea for friend
And the fishes in the sea.
But they swim away from me
Far away, far away
From my home and from my play.
Then he cried "O Mother dear."
And he woke and sat upright,
They were in the rocking chair,
Mother's arms around him—tight.
Kathleen Mansfield
The town between the hills
The further the little girl leaped and ran,
The further she longed to be;
The white, white fields of jonquil flowers
Danced up as high as her knee
And flashed and sparkled before her eyes
Until she could hardly see.
So into the wood went she.
It was quiet in the wood,
It was solemn and grave;
A sound like a wave
Sighed in the tree-tops
And then sighed no more.
But she was brave,
And the sky showed through
A bird's-egg blue,
And she saw
A tiny path that was running away
Over the hills to—who can say?
She ran, too.
But then the path broke,
Then the path ended
And wouldn't be mended.
A little old man
Sat on the edge,
Hugging the hedge.
He had a fire
And two eggs in a pan
And a paper poke
Of pepper and salt;
So she came to a halt
To watch and admire:
Cunning and nimble was he!
"May I help, if I can, little old man?"
"Bravo!" he said,
"You may dine with me.
I've two old eggs
From two white hens
and a loaf from a kind ladie:
Some fresh nutmegs,
Some cutlet ends
In pink and white paper frills:
And—I've—got
A little hot-pot
From the town between the hills."
He nodded his head
And made her a sign
To sit under the spray
Of a trailing vine.
But when the little girl joined her hands
And said the grace she had learned to say,
The little old man gave two dreadful squeals
And she just saw the flash of his smoking heels
As he tumbled, tumbled,
With his two old eggs
From two white hens,
His loaf from a kind ladie,
The fresh nutmegs,
The cutlet-ends
In the pink and white paper frills.
And away rumbled
The little hot-pot,
So much too hot,
From the ton between the hills.
Katheen Mansfield
Into the world you sent her, mother,
Fashioned her body of coral and foam,
Combed a wave in her hair's warm smother,
And drove her away from home
In the dark of the night she crept to the town
And under a doorway she laid her down,
The little blue child in the foam-fringed gown.
And never a sister and never a brother
To hear her call, to answer her cry.
Her face shone out from her hair's warm smother
Like a moonkin up in the sky.
She sold her corals; she sold her foam;
Her rainbow heart like a singing shell
Broke in her body: she crept back home.
Peace, go back to the world, my daughter,
Daughter, go back to the darkling land;
There is nothing here but sad sea water,
And a handful of sifting sand.
Katherine Mansfield
When I was a bird
I climbed up the karaka tree
Into a nest all made of leaves
But soft as feathers.
I made up a song that went on singing all by itself
And hadn't any words, but got sad at the end.
There were daisies in the grass under the tree.
I said just to try them:
"I'll bite off your heads and give them to my little
children to eat."
But they didn't believe I was a bird;
They stayed quite open.
The sky was like a blue nest with white feathers
And the sun was the mother bird keeping it warm.
That's what my song said: though it hadn't any words.
Little Brother came up the patch, wheeling his barrow.
I made my dress into wings and kept very quiet.
Then when he was quite near I said: "Sweet, sweet!"
For a moment he looked quite startled;
Then he said: "Pooh, you're not a bird; I can see
your legs."
But the daisies didn't really matter,
And Little Brother didn't really matter;
I felt just like a bird.
