Jalaal Hartley is being restructured.

  Until this metamorphosis is complete (whence this page will finally function as a sort of dark portal, permitting all that is evil and corrupt to gush into the world, with maybe the occasional cake recipe or some sudoku) here is some lovely olde Englishe verse.  If you know it, please join in.  (You won't)

 

  

I know more than Apollo,
For oft, when he lies sleeping
I see the stars at bloody wars
In the wounded welkin weeping.

    †

 
The moone embrace her shepherd
And the queen of Love her warrior,
While the first doth horne the star of morne,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.

With a host of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.

 

 †


By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summon'd am to tourney,
Ten leagues beyond the wild world's end.
Methinks it is no journey.

From "Tom o'Bedlam" (Trad.)