Families from the West Indies If you are researching the surname Sercombe, or any of its variants such as Sercomb, Sircom, Sircombe, or Surcombe, I'd like to hear from you. My email address is at the top and bottom of every page on this site. You can use the table of contents at right to locate Sercombe families from various places in Devon, other parts of Britain, and countries around the world.
I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-by; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
Petals on a wet, black bough. Those Winter Sundays Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze.
No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Thomas wyatt my galley their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night.
Thomas wyatt my galley, rage against the dying of the light. In My Craft Or Sullen Art by Dylan Thomas In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art.
The Most of It He thought he kept the universe alone; For all the voice in answer he could wake Was but the mocking echo of his own From some tree—hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder—broken beach He would cry out on life, that what it wants Is not its own love back in copy speech, But counter—love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried Unless it was the embodiment that crashed In the cliff's talus on the other side, And then in the far distant water splashed, But after a time allowed for it to swim, Instead of proving human when it neared And someone else additional to him, As a great buck it powerfully appeared, Pushing the crumpled water up ahead, And landed pouring like a waterfall, And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread, And forced the underbrush—and that was all.
In Memory of W. Auden He disappeared in the dead of winter: The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, And snow disfigured the public statues; The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs, The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections, To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man Are modified in the guts of the living. But in the importance and noise of to-morrow When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse, And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed, And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom, A few thousand will think of this day As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
II You were silly like us; your gift survived it all: The parish of rich women, physical decay, Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, For poetry makes nothing happen: III Earth, receive an honoured guest: William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry.
In the nightmare of the dark All the dogs of Europe bark, And the living nations wait, Each sequestered in its hate; Intellectual disgrace Stares from every human face, And the seas of pity lie Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.
They Flee from Me They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot stalking in my chamber.Jayden Jones and Cayvin Hittle, both high school students in Bellaire, were Caught being GOOD to the members of the Torch Lake Grange # who make lap blankets for .
My Galley Charged with Forgetfulness Thomas Wyatt, - My galley charged with forgetfulness Thorough sharp seas in winter nights doth pass 'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine enemy, alas, That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; And every oar a thought in readiness, As though that death were light in such a case.
Sir Thomas Wyatt‘s My Galley is translated from Petrarch‘s poem from Rime. It is a ship struggling during a terrible storm at sea, a metaphor for depression — a mind struggling to right itself.
The surname Sercombe is clearly geographical in origin. The word combe means "a deep hollow or valley", or specifically, in the South of England, "a hollow or valley on the flank of a hill" or "a steep short valley running up from the sea coast" (OED).It is found as an element of many English place names, especially in and near Devon.
Sir Thomas Wyatt () "Caesar, when that the traitor of Egypt" "The long love that in my heart doth harbor" "Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind".
Sir Thomas Wyatt: Poems study guide contains a biography of Thomas Wyatt, quiz questions, major themes, characters, and a full summary and analysis of select poems.