Peom from Beetleguice
Hands vermillion, start of five
Bright colillion, ravens dive
Nightshades promise, spirit strive
To the living, let now the dead ... come alive
As sudden thunder, pieces night
As magic wonder, mad affright
Rives asunder, man's delight
Our ghost, our corpse and we rise to be
As flies the lizard, serpent fell
As goblin vizard, at the spell
The buried, dead and slain ... rise again.
Willy Wonka and the chocolate factory.
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining, is it snowing
Is a hurricane a-blowing
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of Hell a-glowing
Is the grisly reaper mowing
Yes, the danger must be growing
For the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing
The Taming of the Shrew
It’s not something I boast about. The attraction was simply
Overpowering. Every Thursday, two o'clock, the Hotel De Boulogne. We'd
arrive separately, climb the stairs, open the door... Ooh-la-la. Oh, what an
embrace!
Afterwards, it'd whisper to me, "There's something so sweet
in your eyes, and it Does me so much good"
Saving Private Ryan
Dear Madam,
I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the
Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of 5 sons who
have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless
must be any words of mine that would attempt to beguile you from the
grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to
you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic
they died to save. I pray that our heavenly father may assuage the
anguish of your bereavement and leave you only the cherished memory of
the loved and lost and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid
down so costly a sacrifice upon the alter of freedom.
Yours very sincerely and respectfully,
Abraham Lincoln
Four Wedding and a funeral.
W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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