No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe;
every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;
if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse,
as well as if a Promontorie were
as well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine owne were;
any mans death diminishes me,
because I am involved in Mankinde.
17.11.1994 – 04.07.2013
In the Ramtops village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no-one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away – until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.
Let us now praise famous men
And our fathers that begat us
Such as did bear rule in their kingdoms
Men renowned for their power
Leaders of the people by their counsels
And by their knowledge,
Such as found out musical tunes
And recited verses in writing.
All these were honoured in their generation
And were the glory of their times.
And some there be, which have no memorial
Who are perished as though they had never been.
Their bodies are buried in peace, but
Their name liveth for evermore.
Setting by R. Vaughan Williams