Once again, calling all musicians, music lovers, poets and painters.
Our poem for today: He was born in January
She Walks in Beauty
By Lord Byron (George Gordon)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
0 Replies
Letty
1
Reply
Sun 4 Jan, 2015 02:04 pm
Well, I guess we have returned to the old days of radio, folks.
Ah, Mark, I'm surprised that Frank did that one as well. I best remember it by Deano. I was hopeing that you could come up with that song In a little Honky Tonky village in Texas. No matter, dear friend.
Another surprise. Frank referring to "the brown bomber"
Saying good late afternoon with two songs. First, Andrea:
Merry Christmas (12th Night) Still quoting from Punch dated Jan 1st 1887
Quote:
FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE CHILD A Seasonable Colloquy, after a celebrated model
"You are old, Father Christmas," the young child said,
"Yet you're true to your time to a day,
Though your hair is so white, and your nose is so red.
Tell me how you keep going, I pray."
"I am a mere youth," Father Christmas replied,
"Though I have such a jolly long past.
If you've got a warm heart, and shun sourness and pride,
You make keep up your youth to the last."
"You are old, Father Christmas," the young lad remarked,
"And you do not take pills, I'll be bound;
Yet, considering how you have gobbled and larked,
Your health seems remarkably sound."
"As for COCKLE & Co.," Father Christmas replied,
"They're devoid of attractions for me;
For the lots that I take won't upset my inside,
Since I give even more, don't you see!"
"You're a brick, Father Christmas," the young child said,
"Yet you're rather like Bardolph, between us.
Say why do they give you a flushed figure-head,
That reminds one so much of Silenus?"
"Most artists are muffs," Father Christmas replied,
"When true fancy, convention-clogged, slumbers;
But judge me, dear child, by my fame far and wide, Not my pictures in cheap Christmas Numbers!"
0 Replies
Letty
1
Reply
Mon 5 Jan, 2015 09:07 am
That one I know, izz with a y. It's Monday here in our Florida radio station, and cold again. Having some allergies and the sniffles, y'all, but I had such wonderful company last evening. One of the men played on my piano and I loved it. What a delight, and his wife had genes from the Philippines. It made me think of this song:
PUFFING A "CHURCHWARDEN" WHICH "DRAWS" WELL.- Mr. TERRY, in his new piece at the Olympic, is immensely funny. As usual nowadays, the Play is a translation from the German. Evidently, when Paris was occupied by the foreigner from beyond the Rhine, the Library of the Little Theatre in the Palais Royal must have been sacked, and the contents carried off to the Fatherland. Mr. Bishop is excellent in an eccentric character part. Mr. TERRY might advertise the Olympic as a temporary "Church House," with a Bishop and a Churchwarden as the attractions.
0 Replies
Letty
1
Reply
Tue 6 Jan, 2015 07:55 am
Good morning, all, from here in our Florida radio station.
hurry back, Latin George. I love Running Bear and Little White Dove.
You hurry back as well, iz with a y. Thanks for the info On Puffing, a church warden. Love to learn here.
Wonderful news, y'all JPB is fine. <a sigh of relief> Still nothing from NecoNomad, however.
Two tributes for the morning here:
First, a trailer from The Gladiator. Julius Caesar was on TCM last evening>
The shadow of your smile, when you are gone
Will color all my dreams and light the dawn
Look into my eyes my love and see
All the lovely things you are to me
Our wistful little star was far too high
A teardrop kissed your lips and so did I
Now when I remember spring, all the joy that love can bring
I will be remembering the shadow of your smile
Farewell, farewell but this I tell to thee thou wedding guest; He prayest best who loveth best all things both great and small.
For the dear God who madest us, he made and loveth all.
0 Replies
Letty
1
Reply
Tue 6 Jan, 2015 10:53 am
How about a little bluegrass now. Today is this great banjo players' birthday.
