But I consort with long-haired things
In velvet collar-rolls,
Who talk about the Aims of Art,
And “theories” and “goals,”
And moo and coo with women-folk
About their blessed souls.
But that they call “psychology”
Is lack of liver pill,
And all that blights their tender souls
Is eating till they’re ill,
And their chief way of winning goals
Consists of sitting still.
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
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Thursday, November 06, 2025
Tender Souls
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), "In Partibus," stanzas 10-11: