#george arnold

[nostalgicacademia]

“O sweet September, thy first breezes bring  The dry leaf’s rustle and the squirrel’s laughter, The cool fresh air whence health and vigor spring  And promise of exceeding joy hereafter.”

— George Arnold, September Days

[man-reading]

Twelve months - September by Yannis Tsarouchis [1972]

“O sweet September, thy first breezes bring The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter, The cool fresh air whence health and vigor spring And promise of exceeding joy hereafter.”

George Arnold

[brigantias-isles]

Yet, though our Summers change and pass away  Though dies the beauty of the hill and plain  Though warmth and colour fade with every day  Hope passes not, and something seems to say That all our brightest joys shall come again.

George Arnold ~ October

[thefugitivesaint]

'The Modern Mithridates' by George Arnold, from ''Vanity Fair'', Dec., 31, 1859 Source

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Beer --George Arnold

Here, With my beer I sit, While golden moments flit: Alas! They pass Unheeded by: And, as they fly, I, Being dry, Sit, idly sipping here My beer.

O, finer far Than fame, or riches, are The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar! Why Should I Weep, wail, or sigh? What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead,—   My pleasures fled? Have I not still My fill Of right good cheer,— Cigars and beer?

Go, whining youth, Forsooth! Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale, Weave melancholy rhymes On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,— But leave me to my beer! Gold is dross,— Love is loss,— So, if I gulp my sorrows down, Or see them drown In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, Then do I wear the crown, Without the cross!

[lisaboo83]

‘Beer’ by George Arnold

Here,     With my beer I sit, While golden moments flit:     Alas!     They pass Unheeded by: And, as they fly, I, Being dry,     Sit, idly sipping here     My beer.

O, finer far Than fame, or riches, are The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar!     Why     Should I     Weep, wail, or sigh?     What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead,—  My pleasures fled?     Have I not still     My fill Of right good cheer,— Cigars and beer?

   Go, whining youth,     Forsooth! Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale,     Weave melancholy rhymes     On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,— But leave me to my beer!     Gold is dross,—     Love is loss,— So, if I gulp my sorrows down, Or see them drown In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, Then do I wear the crown,     Without the cross!