For an idea ever to be fashionable is ominous, since it must afterwards be always old-fashioned.
George Santayana in Winds of Doctrine (1913)
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Related quotes
In the Height of Fashion
SO at last a toll they’ll levy
For the passing fool who sings—
Take the harp grown dull and heavy
(With the dried blood on the strings)
Let us sing, and sing right gaily,
For the wreath is on our brow—
Are you hearin’, Victor Daley?
We are fashionable now!
Once the greatest earl could flout us,
And the meanest scribe could sneer—
Nought too bad to say about us,
Nought too hard for us to hear.
Slaves to journal-owning Neroes,
And we died—no matter how—
We’re sweet singers now and heroes,
We are fashionable now.
Once we suffered all save gaol, if
We’d no rich admirers near;
And our sole guest was the bailiff
And our only comfort beer.
Now we’ll dine with toffs and “ladies”,
Who shall clasp our hands and bow.
Let the pale muse go to Hades!
We are fashionable now.
Once we had to be contented
With the “Palace of the Mind”,
While our coats were washed and mended,
And our pants were patched behind;
Now by goose-knights we are measured,
While the lordly tailors bow;
And our worn-out pants are treasured—
We are fashionable now!
Once, when stony-broke and mournful,
We put our petition clear,
Then our country, cold and scornful,
Answered, “Go and get a beer!”
And it threw the tray bit at us
Just to stop our “silly row”,
Now it’s champagne spreads and—satis!
We are fashionable now.
Once our grandest lines were drivel,
And our wisest words were rot,
All our teachings false and evil,
To be sneered at and forgot;
Now our silliest clack delights ’em,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Problem of the Idea
The Philosopher:
'The Problem of the 21st century
is the problem of the Origins of the Idea.'
The Idea has driven much
of human history-
a major motivator
many taken together are
Articulators;
Ideas compose all Human Dreams.
But ask what is this Idea
and silence ensues;
ask where is it
in the human mind
and we'll get charts of its activity centers
but nothing about what it is
or where it comes from.
The Scientist:
Well, we don't have to know what a thing is
to utilize it.
We can identify behaviors and integrate
them-
harness them to purpose.
Philosopher:
Sure like the Atomic Bomb. It was built because
we could integrate various disciplines
and make things go bang
without thinking of Consequence.
technical Ideas-too have consequences.
Scientist:
So you would hold up all human progress
until the over-arching Idea comes along
before we act?
Philosopher:
Ah, but note that progress that destroys
the planet is not
progress at all
but only a blind mistake;
one I might add,
that did not have
an Idea or Clue
[...] Read more
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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I'm Old Fashioned
I am not such a clever one
About the latest fads
I admit I was never one
Adored by local lads
Not that I ever try to be a saint
I'm the type that they classify as quaint
Im old fashioned
I love the moonlight
I love the old fashioned things
The sound of rain
Upon a window pane
The starry song that april sings
This years fancies
Are passing fancies
But sighing sighs holding hands
These my heart understands
I know I'm old fashioned
But I don't mind it
That's how I want to be
As long as you agree
To stay old fashioned with me
(bridge)
I'm old fashioned
But I don't mind it
That's how I want to be
As long as you agree
To stay old fashioned with me
Oh won't you stay old fashioned with me
Oh please stay old fashioned with me
song performed by Ella Fitzgerald
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An Idea
An Idea can change the world, how many
things can be done from an idea, every piece
of object was an idea, sense the beginning of
time idea was the first thought created in the
mind, an idea is what surround’s every being.
But an idea is still only an idea and it can't be
felt, you cannot touch an idea or kiss it, or hold it,
ideas do not bleed or feel pain or love, an idea
cannot be seen or heard, its created in our thoughts,
but then again an idea can become real. An idea
can be what ever you which it to be, an idea can
be destructive, an idea can be brilliant, I've seen
people get killed in the name of ideas, ideas,
we walk around with a little
light bulb blinking in our thoughts, ideas.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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When You Rush To Judgement
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
None.
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
Not a one.
Oh, oh, oh...
When you rush to judgement,
Your emotions are your worst enemy.
When you rush to judgement,
Your emotions are your worst enemy.
When you rush to judgement,
Your emotions are your worst enemy.
When you rush to judgement.
Oh, oh, oh...
When you rush to judgement.
To pass your judgements,
When you rush to judgement.
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
None.
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
Not a one.
When you rush to judgement,
You have no idea.
No idea.
None.
When you rush to judgement,
No one has an idea...
What they've done.
When you rush to judgement,
What one does...
Affects more than one.
When you rush to judgement.
When you rush to judgement.
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
None.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Natural Thing
Winter and moonlight
Its an old-fashioned song
Julies in blue jeans
Now her love has gone
Shes an old-fashioned feelin
Shes an old-fashioned song
Julies in love now, but love has gone
Its a natural thing
Its a natural thing
I never knew her
I never tried
Julie would run by
Cryin, teary-eyed
She was old-fashioned feelin
She was old-fashioned song
Julies in blue lace
And love has gone
Her love has gone
Its a natural thing
Its a natural thing
Its a natural thing
Ohhhhhh, she was old-fashioned feelin
She was old-fashioned song, yes julie
Now julies in blue lace
And love has gone
Well, love has gone
Well, love has gone
Its a natural thing...
Julie...julie...
song performed by Journey
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The Ol' Tunes
YOU kin talk about yer anthems
An' yer arias an' sich,
An' yer modern choir-singin'
That you think so awful rich;
But you orter heerd us youngsters
In the times now far away,
A-singin' o' the ol' tunes
In the ol'-fashioned way.
There was some of us sung treble
An' a few of us growled bass,
An' the tide o' song flowed smoothly
With its 'comp'niment o' grace;
There was spirit in that music,
An' a kind o' solemn sway,
A-singin' o' the ol' tunes
In the ol'-fashioned way.
I remember oft o' standin'
In my homespun pantaloons—
On my face the bronze an' freckles
O' the suns o' youthful Junes—
Thinkin' that no mortal minstrel
Ever chanted sich a lay
As the ol' tunes we was singin'
In the ol'-fashioned way.
The boys 'ud always lead ,as,
An' the girls 'ud all chime in,
Till the sweetness o' the singin'
Robbed the list'nin' soul o' sin;
An' I used to tell the parson
'Twas as good to sing as pray,
When the people sung the ol' tunes
In the ol'-fashioned way.
How I long ag'in to hear 'em
Pourin' forth from soul to soul,
With the treble high an' meller,
An' the bass's mighty roll;
But the times is very diff'rent,
An' the music heerd to-day
Ain't the singin' o' the ol' tunes
In the ol'-fashioned way.
Little screechin' by a woman,
Little squawkin' by a man,
Then the organ's twiddle-twaddle,
Jest the empty space to span, —
An' ef you should even think it,
'T isn't proper fur to say
That you want to hear the ol' tunes
In the ol'-fashioned way.
But I think that some bright mornin',
When the toils of life air o'er,
[...] Read more
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Ominous Places
Ominous places,
With faces hard to leave...
Can,
Introduce a certain weakness...
Temptating to be pleased.
And...
Those ominous places,
Will provide one a company.
That...
Later one will regret,
As a fix that's wished and needed.
Ominous places,
With faces hard to leave...
Can,
Introduce a certain weakness...
Temptating to be pleased.
And...
Those ominous places,
Will provide one a company.
That...
Later one will regret,
As a fix that's wished and needed.
But...
Once condoned,
Can never be left alone.
Those ominous places,
Will provide one a company.
That...
Later one will regret,
As a fix that's wished and needed.
But...
Once condoned,
Can never be left alone.
But...
Once condoned,
Can never be left alone.
But...
Once condoned,
Can never be left alone.
To be...
Left alone!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Adam: A Sacred Drama. Act 2.
SCENE I. -- CHORUS OF ANGELS Singing.
Now let us garlands weave
Of all the fairest flowers,
Now at this early dawn,
For new-made man, and his companion dear;
Let all with festive joy,
And with melodious song,
Of the great Architect
Applaud this noblest work,
And speak the joyous sound,
Man is the wonder both of Earth and Heaven.
FIRST Angel.
Your warbling now suspend,
You pure angelic progeny of God,
Behold the labour emulous of Heaven!
Behold the woody scene,
Decked with a thousand flowers of grace divine;
Here man resides, here ought he to enjoy
In his fair mate eternity of bliss.
SECOND Angel.
How exquisitely sweet
This rich display of flowers,
This airy wild of fragrance,
So lovely to the eye,
And to the sense so sweet.
THIRD Angel.
O the sublime Creator,
How marvellous his works, and more his power!
Such is the sacred flame
Of his celestial love,
Not able to confine it in himself,
He breathed, as fruitful sparks
From his creative breast,
The Angels, Heaven, Man, Woman, and the World.
FOURTH Angel.
Yes, mighty Lord! yes, hallowed love divine!
Who, ever in thyself completely blest,
Unconscious of a want,
Who from thyself alone, and at thy will,
Bright with beignant flames,
Without the aid of matter or of form,
[...] Read more
poem by William Cowper
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It's that day again
Come one, come all and gather round
hear the sound
the story and tale
let not your ears fail
not now, for this is of great importance
Im not looking for acceptance
but for your deliverance
I must save you from what i did
by this vein i must forbid
you to guard your heart, for there is a lurking evil that consumes the young
an evil that rolls off the tongue
is sweet to hear, sweet to the hear, and dear
on this day on this February the thirteenth do not express
your love for someone until you address
this problem, because it's the ideas that are the worst poison
this is what ruins a person
before you profess that love, make certain
that you profess not in vain
for this is the simple trap that ensnares men
its the idea, the idea of her are you blind it's the idea thats trapped you again
Your LOVE is not true, because you are in love the idea of her
and when weeks pass and trials come... she will concur
that your love was imagined, you loved that way she made you feel
the way she held you and made you feel warm, so surreal
but that's not love, you imagined your dream girl
but fell in love with someone else, only to find that all along you loved an idea
that was the object of your love, this idea you made, let your reality unfurl
see past your blindness and see you never loved her and dont make
the mistake that i made, and dont you dare fake
this love, because you feel so lonely, don't settle for less but wait
for your real mate
it's that day, that day i remember, what not to do
now i come to you
to save, redeem, deliver, and expose this wrong this threatens the life
you need not fear if you guard your heart and trust in Him who can be trusted
your First Love, but do not forget that this world is rife
with that temptation to love the idea of a girl, dont get caught busted
the idea is so much more dangerous than the room, and yet it will
beg your love, as you attempt to wait, don't love an idea that is abstract
resist its power to attract
do not let it kill
as it has done to many before
and will do to more a score
tread carefully my friend, for you tread the ground trod by those who fell
in love with ideas so keep not your heart on your sleeve
but guard it in armor and do not tell
a girl that you love her, when you love an idea, don't be naive
poem by David Knox
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Ominous Man
I should be half a mile from here
I will go anywhere she goes
Shoulder the bags of a previous lover
I will go anywhere she goes
Sleep on the pillow that reeks of another
A will of mine to be impressive
Im an amorous man
I will go anywhere she goes
Travel whenever, whatever the distance
The court deemed me to be offensive
Im an ominous man
Once love is unanimous
No order demands
I should be half a mile from here
The court deemed me to be obsessive
Im the ominous man
Jury reject the alibis seemingly watertight
For the ominous man
I am the ominous man
song performed by Verve Pipe
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An Old Fashioned Wedding
Interpolated in 1966 revival]
[FRANK:]
We'll have an old-fashioned wedding
Blessed in the good old-fashioned way
I'll vow to love you forever
You'll vow to love and honor and obey
Somewhere in some little chapel
Someday when orange blossoms bloom
We'll have an old-fashioned wedding
A simple wedding for an old-fashioned bride and groom
[ANNIE:]
I wanna wedding in a big church with bridesmaids and flower girls
A lot of ushers in tailcoats, reporters and photographers
A ceremony by a bishop who will tie the knot and say
"Do you agree to love and honor?" Love and honor, yes, but not obey
I wanna wedding ring surrounded by diamonds in platinum
A big reception at the Waldorf with champagne and caviar
I wanna wedding like the Vanderbilts have, ev'rything big, not small
If I can't have that kind of a wedding I don't wanna get married at all
[Coda:]
[FRANK:]
We'll have an old-fashioned wedding
[ANNIE:]
If it's not a big wedding I don't wanna get married at all
song performed by Irving Berlin
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Last Of The Steam-powered Trains
Like the last of the good ol puffer trains,
Im the last of the blood and sweat brigade,
And I dont know where Im going, or why I came.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
Im the last of the good old renegades.
All my friends are all middle class and grey,
But I live in a museum, so Im okay.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
Like the last of the good ol choo-choo trains,
Huff and puff till I blow this world away,
And Im gonna keep on rollin till my dying day.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
Like the last of the good ol puffer trains,
Im the last of the soot and scum[? ] brigade,
And all this peaceful living is drivin me insane.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
song performed by Kinks
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As I Sat Alone By Blue Ontario's Shores
AS I sat alone, by blue Ontario's shore,
As I mused of these mighty days, and of peace return'd, and the dead
that return no more,
A Phantom, gigantic, superb, with stern visage, accosted me;
Chant me the poem, it said, that comes from the soul of America--
chant me the carol of victory;
And strike up the marches of Libertad--marches more powerful yet;
And sing me before you go, the song of the throes of Democracy.
(Democracy--the destin'd conqueror--yet treacherous lip-smiles
everywhere,
And Death and infidelity at every step.)
A Nation announcing itself,
I myself make the only growth by which I can be appreciated, 10
I reject none, accept all, then reproduce all in my own forms.
A breed whose proof is in time and deeds;
What we are, we are--nativity is answer enough to objections;
We wield ourselves as a weapon is wielded,
We are powerful and tremendous in ourselves,
We are executive in ourselves--We are sufficient in the variety of
ourselves,
We are the most beautiful to ourselves, and in ourselves;
We stand self-pois'd in the middle, branching thence over the world;
From Missouri, Nebraska, or Kansas, laughing attacks to scorn.
Nothing is sinful to us outside of ourselves, 20
Whatever appears, whatever does not appear, we are beautiful or
sinful in ourselves only.
(O mother! O sisters dear!
If we are lost, no victor else has destroy'd us;
It is by ourselves we go down to eternal night.)
Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme?
There can be any number of Supremes--One does not countervail
another, any more than one eyesight countervails another, or
one life countervails another.
All is eligible to all,
All is for individuals--All is for you,
No condition is prohibited--not God's, or any.
All comes by the body--only health puts you rapport with the
universe. 30
Produce great persons, the rest follows.
[...] Read more
poem by Walt Whitman
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Lets Take An Old Fashioned Walk
Lets take an old fashioned walk, Im just bursting with talk.
What a tale could be told if we went for an old fashioned walk.
Lets take a stroll through the park, down a lane where its dark
And a heart thats controlled, may relax on an old fashioned walk.
I know for a couple who seem to be miles apart,
Theres nothing like walking and having a heart to heart.
I know a girl who declined, couldnt make up her mind.
She was wrapped up and sold, coming home from an old fashioned walk.
song performed by Irving Berlin
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Under The Rose
'The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.'
Oh the rose of keenest thorn!
One hidden summer morn
Under the rose I was born.
I do not guess his name
Who wrought my Mother's shame,
And gave me life forlorn,
But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
I know her from all other.
My Mother pale and mild,
Fair as ever was seen,
She was but scarce sixteen,
Little more than a child,
When I was born
To work her scorn.
With secret bitter throes,
In a passion of secret woes,
She bore me under the rose.
One who my Mother nursed
Took me from the first:—
'O nurse, let me look upon
This babe that costs so dear;
To-morrow she will be gone:
Other mothers may keep
Their babes awake and asleep,
But I must not keep her here.'—
Whether I know or guess,
I know this not the less.
So I was sent away
That none might spy the truth:
And my childhood waxed to youth
And I left off childish play.
I never cared to play
With the village boys and girls;
And I think they thought me proud,
I found so little to say
And kept so from the crowd:
But I had the longest curls
And I had the largest eyes
And my teeth were small like pearls;
The girls might flout and scout me,
But the boys would hang about me
In sheepish mooning wise.
Our one-street village stood
A long mile from the town,
[...] Read more
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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An Old-Fashioned Garden
Strange, is it not? She was making her garden,
Planting the old-fashioned flowers that day—
Bleeding-hearts tender and bachelors-buttons—
Spreading the seeds in the old-fashioned way.
Just in the old fashioned way, too, our quarrel
Grew until, angrily, she set me free—
Planting, indeed, bleeding hearts for the two of us,—
Ordaining bachelor’s buttons for me.
Envoi
Strange, was it not? But seeds planted in anger
Sour in the earth and, ere long, a decay
Withered the bleeding hearts, blighted the buttons,
And—we were wed—in the old-fashioned way.
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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In Arthur's House
In Arthur's house whileome was I
When happily the time went by
In midmost glory of his days.
He held his court then in a place
Whereof ye shall not find the name
In any story of his fame:
Caerliel good sooth men called it not,
Nor London Town, nor Camelot;
Yet therein had we bliss enow.
--Ah, far off was the overthrow
Of all that Britain praised and loved;
And though among us lightly moved
A love that could but lead to death,
Smooth-skinned he seemed, of rosy breath,
A fear to sting a lady's lip,
No ruin of goodly fellowship,
No shame and death of all things good.
Forgive the old carle's babbling mood;
As here I sit grey-haired and old,
My life gone as a story told,
Ye bid me tell a story too;
And then the evil days and few,
That yet were overlong for me
Rise up so clear I may not see
The pictures of my minstrel lore.
Well hearken! on a day of yore
From prime of morn the court did ride
Amidmost of the summertide
To search the dwellings of the deer
Until the heat of noon was near;
Then slackening speed awhile they went
Adown a ragged thorn-bushed bent
At whose feet grew a tangled wood
Of oak and holly nowise good:
But therethrough with some pain indeed
And rending of the ladies' weed
They won at last, and after found
A space of green-sward grown around
By oak and holly set full close;
And in the midst of it arose
Two goodly sycamores that made
A wide and little sun-pierced shade
About their high boles straight and green:
A fount was new-born there-between,
And running on as clear as glass,
Flowed winding on amid the grass
Until the thick wood swallowed it.
A place for happy folk to sit
[...] Read more
poem by William Morris
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The Island Hawk
Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,
Dumb is the shrinking plain,
And the songs that enchanted the woods are still
As I shoot to the skies again!
Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,
Does the down still cling to my claw?
Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?
Life, I follow thy law!
For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
As I glide and glide with my peering head,
Or swerve at a puff of smoke,
Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,
Here – gone – with an instant stroke?
Who toucheth the glory of life I feel
As I buffet this great glad gale,
Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,
Loosen my wings and sail?
For I am the hawk, the island hawk,
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
My mate in the nest on the high bright tree
Blazing with dawn and dew,
She knoweth the gleam of the world and the glee
As I drop like a bolt from the blue.
She knoweth the fire of the level flight
As I skim, close, close to the ground,
With the long grass lashing my breast and the bright
Dew-drops flashing around.
She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk
(Oh, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!)
Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
She builded her nest on the high bright wold,
She was taught in a world afar
The lore that is only an April old
Yet old as the evening star.
Life of a far off ancient day
In an hour unhooded her eyes.
In the time of the budding of one green spray
She was wise as the stars are wise.
An eyas in eyry, a yellow-eyed hawk,
On the old elm's burgeoning breast,
She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way.
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Compassion
It is one's compassion,
And beliefs...
To alleviate a grief felt.
With a bringing to others...
A feeling of relief,
That is received and released.
To asist in the melting...
With a helping of it to go away.
Distress seems to be left,
Everywhere on one's path today.
Another who cares,
Isn't 'asked' to be there...
But is there,
Anyway.
That is compassion,
Fashioned...
From understanding another's pain.
Compassion that is fashioned,
From a mode of action...
That one sustains.
It is not a style to maintain,
When the mood of it goes.
It is there to show,
With sincerity...
As it's received.
That is compassion,
Fashioned...
From understanding another's pain.
Compassion that is fashioned,
From a mode of action...
That one sustains.
Distress seems to be left,
Everywhere on one's path today.
Another who cares,
Isn't 'asked' to be there...
But is there,
Anyway.
And if asked to stay,
That one with compassion...
Will!
That one,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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