Welcome: 08/18/11

As a Catholic 'Theory of Origin 3' makes a lot of sense.

~~~

Kick the bucket ~ From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

An excerpt from ~ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kick_the_bucket

To kick the bucket is an English idiom that is defined as "to die" in the Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue (1785). It is considered a euphemistic, informal, or slang term. Its origin remains unclear, though there have been several theories.

Theory of Origin 1:

A common theory is that the idiom comes from a method of execution such as hanging, or perhaps suicide, in the Middle Ages. A noose is tied around the neck while standing on an overturned bucket. When the pail is kicked away, the victim is hanged.

Theory of Origin 2:

Another theory relates to the alternate definition of a bucket as a beam or yoke that can be used to hang or carry things on. The "bucket" may refer to the beam on which slaughtered pigs are suspended. The animals may struggle on the bucket, hence the expression. The word "bucket" still can be used today to refer to such a beam in the Norfolk dialect. It is thought that this definition came from the French word trébuchet or buque, meaning balance. William Shakespeare used the word in this sense in his play Henry IV Part II where he says: "Swifter then he that gibbets on the Brewers Bucket." — William Shakespeare, Henry IV Part II

Theory of Origin 3:

A third theory suggests that the origin of the phrase comes from the Catholic custom of holy-water buckets: After death, when a body had been laid out ... and ... the holy-water bucket was brought from the church and put at the feet of the corpse. When friend came to pray... they would sprinkle the body with holy water ... it is easy to see how such a saying as "kicking the bucket " came about. Many other explanations of this saying have been given by persons who are unacquainted with Catholic custom — The Right Reverend Abbot Horne, Relics of Popery

Theory of Origin 4:

A fourth suggests that the phrase comes from a children's game. The person who kicks the bucket loses the game.

~~~

~~~.

Poetry by Lord Byron

George Gordon Byron (1788 - 1824)

http://users.telenet.be/gaston.d.haese/byron.html

~~~.

It is the hour ~ poem by Lord Byron

It is the hour when from the boughs

The nightingale's high note is heard;

It is the hour -- when lover's vows

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;

And gentle winds and waters near,

Make music to the lonely ear.

Each flower the dews have lightly wet,

And in the sky the stars are met,

And on the wave is deeper blue,

And on the leaf a browner hue,

And in the Heaven that clear obscure

So softly dark, and darkly pure,

That follows the decline of day

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

~~~.

She walks in beauty ~ poem by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade more, one ray less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

~~~.

So we'll go no more a roving ~ poem by Lord Byron

So we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And Love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon.

~~~.

When we two parted ~ poem by Lord Byron

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow-

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me-

Why were thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:-

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met-

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?-

With silence and tears.

~~~.

Remind me not, remind me not ~ poem by Lord Byron

Remind me not, remind me not,

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,

When all my soul was given to thee;

Hours that may never be forgot,

Till Time unnerves our vital powers,

And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget---canst thou forget,

When playing with thy golden hair,

How quick thy fluttering heart did move?

Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,

With eyes so languid, breast so fair,

And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,

As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire,

And still we near and nearer prest,

And still our glowing lips would meet,

As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,

And bid their lids each other seek,

Veiling the azure orbs below;

While their long lashes' darken'd gloss

Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,

Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return'd,

And, sooth to say, that very dream

Was sweeter in its phantasy,

Than if for other hearts I burn'd,

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam

In Rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,

Of hours which, though for ever gone,

Can still a pleasing dream restore,

Till Thou and I shall be forgot,

And senseless, as the mouldering stone

Which tells that we shall be no more.

~~~.

And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low ? ~ poem by Lord Byron

And wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again:

Yet if they grieve thee, say not so---

I would not give that bosom pain.

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast;

And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:

And for a while my sorrows cease,

To know thy heart hath felt for mine.

Oh lady! blessd be that tear---

It falls for one who cannot weep;

Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eyes no tear may steep.

Sweet lady! once my heart was warm

With every feeling soft as thine;

But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm

A wretch created to repine.

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again:

Yet if they grieve thee, say not so---

I would not give that bosom pain.

~~~.

I Speak Not ~ poem by Lord Byron

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;

There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;

But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart

The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,

Were those hours - can their joy or their bitterness cease?

We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain, -

We will part, we will fly to - unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!

Forgive me, adored one! - forsake if thou wilt;

But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,

And man shall not break it - whatever thou may'st.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,

This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,

With thee at my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,

Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove.

And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -

Thy lips shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

~~~.

Sonnet to Genevra ~ poem by Lord Byron

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,

My heart would wish away that ruder glow:

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes---but, oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,

And into mine my mother's weakness rush,

Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow.

For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,

The soul of melancholy Gentleness

Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;

At once such majesty with sweetness blending,

I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

~~~.

Maid Of Athens, Ere We Part ~ poem by Lord Byron

Zoë mou, sas agapo [My life, I love you]

Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh, give me back my heart!

Or, since that has left my breast,

Keep it now, and take the rest!

Hear my vow before I go,

Zoë mou, sas agapo.

By those tresses unconfined,

Woo'd by each Aegean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe

Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;

By those wild eyes like the roe,

Zoë mou, sas agapo.

By that lip I long to taste;

By that zone-encircled waist;

By all the token-flowers that tell

What words can never speak so well;

By love's alternate joy and woe,

Zoë mou, sas agapo.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:

Think of me, sweet! when alone.

Though I fly to Istambol,

Athens holds my heart and soul:

Can I cease to love thee? No!

Zoë mou, sas agapo.

~~~.

There be none of Beauty's daughters ~ poem by Lord Byron

Stanzas for Music

There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like Thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charméd ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep,

Whose breast is gently heaving

As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee

To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

~~~.

Welcome

Thursday, August 18, 2011

OrangeApple

English Idiom ~ Kick the bucket

Joke ~ Mum's Comedy Show & Cooking

GIF ~ Rabbit ~ from Output at Work (Mediacorp)

Singapore Presidential Election 2011 ~ ALL 4 Symbols

Poetry by Lord Byron ~ George Gordon Byron (1788 - 1824)

Art ~ Sand Art ~ Dragon Swallows the Sand Artist