To the sick man the physician when he enters seems to have three
faces, those of a man, a devil, a god. When the physician first
comes and announces the safety of the patient, then the sick man
says: "Behold a God or a guardian angel!"
[Lat., Intrantis medici facies tres esse videntur
Aegrotanti; hominis, Daemonis, atque Dei.
Cum primum accessit medicus dixitque salutem,
En Deus aut custos angelus, aeger ait.]
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If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her
cunning.
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her
cunning.
All things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.
All things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.
It is sometimes expedient to forget who we are.
It is sometimes expedient to forget who we are.
God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we read more
God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
But my thoughts ran a wool-gathering; and I did like the
countryman, who looked for his ass while he read more
But my thoughts ran a wool-gathering; and I did like the
countryman, who looked for his ass while he was mounted on his
back.
The tumult and the shouting dies,
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
read more
The tumult and the shouting dies,
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
A humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet
Lest we forget,--lest we forget.
We may with advantage forget what we know.
We may with advantage forget what we know.
God and the Doctor we alike adore
But only when in danger, not before;
The danger o'er, read more
God and the Doctor we alike adore
But only when in danger, not before;
The danger o'er, both are alike requited,
God is forgotten, and the Doctor slighted.
We bury love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is a thing to weep for, not read more
We bury love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
