Foxgloves

The foxglove bells, with lolling tongue,
Will not reveal what peals were rung
In Faery, in Faery,
A thousand ages gone.
All the golden clappers hang
As if but now the changes rang;
Only from the mottled throat
Never any echoes float.
Quite forgotten, in the wood,
Pale, crowded steeples rise;
All the time that they have stood
None has heard their melodies,
Deep, deep in wizardry
All the foxglove belfries stand.
Should they startle over the land,
None would know what bells they be.
Never any wind can ring them,
Nor the great black bees that swing them—
Every crimson bell, down-slanted,
Is so utterly enchanted.

 

We have a monarch who is supposed to exercise reserve powers independently to protect Her People if needed when Her Government goes full on Pol Pot, and Parliament fails to do its job, but since she has failed in that duty up until now it is unlikely she will step up this time - too busy writing another trite, anodyne speech to patronise us on Christmas Day.

 In decisions of this kind, the search process is highly recursive. We adapt our preferences on the basis of what we find. We may think we want a garden flat in Fulham but once shown a penthouse in Rotherhithe we revisit our assumptions. A good salesman may know you better than you know yourself.

Most institutions should NOT have values. Morals are for us.

The moral is for the individual. Otherwise you get legislated moral uniformity, you get the imposition of a moral code, you get inquisition, you get burning.