“THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD", BY THOMAS HARDY

“O passenger, pray list and catch
Our sighs and piteous groans,
Half stifled in this jumbled patch
Of wrenched memorial stones!

“We late-lamented, resting here,
Are mixed to human jam,
And each to each exclaims in fear,
‘I know not which I am!’

“The wicked people have annexed
The verses on the good;
A roaring drunkard sports the text
Teetotal Tommy should!

“Where we are huddled none can trace,
And if our names remain,
They pave some path or p-ing place
Where we have never lain!

“There’s not a modest maiden elf
But dreads the final Trumpet,
Lest half of her should rise herself,
And half some local strumpet!

“From restorations of Thy fane,
From smoothings of Thy sward,
From zealous Churchmen’s pick and plane
Deliver us O Lord! Amen!”

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ARTHUR HUGHES' OPHELIA

It’s not as well known as Millais’ Ophelia, but personally I'm of the opinion that Arthur Hughes' depiction of the tragic girl is the best Ophelia to come from the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and its followers. It was first shown in the Royal Academy Exhibition of 1852, the same year at Millais’ Ophelia and the year Hughes turned twenty.

It hangs in the Manchester City Art Galley, where I saw it the first time. I believe I spent half an hour just staring at it.

Years later Hughes painted another Ophelia, but it is not as good by far.
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"AH, ARE YOU DIGGING ON MY GRAVE?", BY THOMAS HARDY

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? - planting rue?"
- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? - prodding sly?"
- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say - since I have not guessed!"
- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."

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AT THE END OF AN ERA

Today the sad news ticked in that Norwegian actor and comedian Dag Frøland is dead, a mere 64 years old. Frøland retreated from the theatre more than two decades ago and lived more or less as a recluse, but his genius is still very much remembered.

His parodies are among the funniest in Norwegian comedy, but The Dodologist happens to think that one of his greatest moments is this, a lamentation of the fall of European culture:



RIP
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GOODNIGHT KEITH MOON

The thing about spending too much time on Twitter, is that from time to time you come across some true oddities. Like the internet version of the not-exactly-children's book Goodnight Keith Moon. (Thanks, @Glinner.)

It's sad. It's funny. It's a gem. Go ahead, say goodnight to Keith.
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RIP EDWARD WOODWARD

Must watch out for the danger of YouTubeing. But still, there really is only one way to mark the death today of Edward Woodward. Sending you on, ladies and gentlemen, to The Death Scene from Wicker Man.
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THE DYING SPIDERS

The spiders in our basement are dying.

They are young males, I hear, gone astray on their search for a mate. And they are, at least for Norwegian spiders, big fellows. They show up every year, signalling the end of summer.

Mostly, it must be said, they are dying through unfortunate run ins with The Dodologists wife. But even if they manage to steer clear of The Wife – and whatever she may happen to, eh, drop upon them – they are dying.

We find them crouched up, with their legs pulled up underneath them; very, very dead. Which means autumn is coming to an end.

Not that I need the spiders to tell me winter is on its way. A week ago, the trees were yellow. Now it’s the ground underneath them that is. The trees are almost naked; skeletons awaiting the inevitable cold.

I like this time of year, even if I’m not all that fond of the spiders. It’s a time of death and decay. But it’s also a time of hibernating indoors, with a pot of tea and 39 Chesterton-books on my Kindle. It’s a good time.

Unless you’re a spider of course.
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