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(it's been awhile since the last Poetry Thread, so, 'tis time)
FOUL WAYS IN SPRING
by Boris Pasternak
The sunset blaze was burning down.
Along a muddy forest ride,
A horseman jogged towards a farm
On a Ural mountainside.
The horse was in a lather
And the horseshoes' splashing clatter
Was echoed back along the track
By streams' torrential chatter.
But when the rider dropped the reins
And went at walking pace,
The spring thaw-water galloped by
And bellowed in his face.
There was laughter, there was crying,
Flint splintered stones and loam,
And tree-stumps torn up by the roots
Collapsed in dizzy foam.
Against the blaze of sunset,
That charred far branches as it fell,
A nightingale was raging
Insistent as a tocsin bell.
And where the willow by the gulley
Bent down and trailed her widow's veil,
He played his flute of seven oaks
Like the Robber Nightingale.
What did his ardent song foretell?
Catastrophe or mad desire?
At whom, from coverts under cover,
Did he direct his rapid fire?
It seemed the Demon of the Woods,
Emerging from some hiding hole
Of convicts on the run, would meet
A partisan patrol.
The earth and sky, the field and forest
Were listening for this rare strain
Combining measured portions
Of madness, happiness, and pain.
-- © 1948 by Boris Pasternak
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formerly known as etaoin...
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old hand
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Politely done etaoin.  The thread to which you link even nods to the hemispheric differences some pillock normally makes a big fuss about.
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Politely done, what? There ain't no YARTs with poetry threads, we've always had recurring seasonal themes just to start new ones. So...poem please.  And if this ain't summer, winter, or fall, then it must be Spring! 
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argh! I meant none offense! 'twould have shouted Yart! just thought I would give it a bit of a jump st yart... <white> an angry face, WO'N? I'm crushed...
formerly known as etaoin...
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I think the point being made here, Juan, is that it's spring only our side of the Equator.
~Anna-O.
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crikey! right over my head... even after sjm's subtle hint...
formerly known as etaoin...
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an angry face, WO'N? I'm crushed...Dat's a tongue-in-cheeky winky mad face, eta...   And, yeah, Asp...forgot Upunder they're gettin' ready to roll the winter clothes out. But, hey, they can post any kind of poetry they want. i.e: Topsy-turvy, Seasons curvy, Explorers reached there Full of scurvy. Any kind of poetry. 
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Here's an earlier form of one Keats later revised:
Souls of Poets dead and gone
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field, or mossy cavern
Fairer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's canary wine;
Or are fruits of Paradise
Richer than those dainty pies
Of venison. Oh! generous food!
Dress'd as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his Maid Marian,
Sup and bouze from Horn and Can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine Host's sign board flew away,
Nobody knew whither till
An Astrologer's old Quill
To a Sheepskin gave the story:
Says he saw ye in your glory
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac!
Souls of Poets dead and gone
Are the Winds a sweeter home,
Richer is uncellar'd Cavern
Than the merr[y] mermaid Tavern?
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T. Nash
I. Spring
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! the sweet Spring!
{runs off to make sure nobody posted this in my Spring Poetry thread... [/smile]}
formerly known as etaoin...
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D.H. Lawrence (1885?1930). Amores. 1916. 43. The Enkindled Spring THIS spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that?s gone astray, and is lost. this leaping combustion of spring ain't it the truth.
formerly known as etaoin...
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old hand
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Well, don't forget that this upworlder will be sampling your primavera next week.
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Well, don't forget that this upworlder will be sampling your primavera next week.Oh, sure...just follow Spring around, why dont'cha? Must be tough.
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Blue Evening
My restless blood now lies a-quiver,
Knowing that always, exquisitely,
This April twilight on the river
Stirs anguish in the heart of me.
For the fast world in that rare glimmer
Puts on the witchery of a dream,
The straight grey buildings, richly dimmer,
The fiery windows, and the stream
With willows leaning quietly over,
The still ecstatic fading skies . . .
And all these, like a waiting lover,
Murmur and gleam, lift lustrous eyes,
Drift close to me, and sideways bending
Whisper delicious words.
But I
Stretch terrible hands, uncomprehending,
Shaken with love; and laugh; and cry.
My agony made the willows quiver;
I heard the knocking of my heart
Die loudly down the windless river,
I heard the pale skies fall apart,
And the shrill stars' unmeaning laughter,
And my voice with the vocal trees
Weeping. And Hatred followed after,
Shrilling madly down the breeze.
In peace from the wild heart of clamour,
A flower in moonlight, she was there,
Was rippling down white ways of glamour
Quietly laid on wave and air.
Her passing left no leaf a-quiver.
Pale flowers wreathed her white, white brows.
Her feet were silence on the river;
And "Hush!" she said, between the boughs.
Rupert Brooke
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Lovely poems all! Thank you.
From, The Gardener, I, Rabindranath Tagore, 1913
Over the green and yellow rice fields sweep the shadows of the autumn clouds, followed by the swift-chasing sun.
The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with the light they foolishly hum and hover; and the ducks in the sandy riverbank clamor in joy for mere nothing.
None shall go back home, brothers, this morning, none shall go to work.
We will take the blue sky by storm and plunder the space as we run.
Laughter flies floating in the air like foams in the flood.
Brothers, we shall squander our morning in futile songs.
And again from, The Gardener, XL: An Unbelieving Smile
An unbelieving smile flits on your
eyes when I come to you to take my leave.
I have done it so often that you
think I will soon return.
To tell you the truth I have the
same doubt in my mind.
For the spring days come again
time after time; the full moon takes
leave and comes on another visit,
the flowers come again and blush
upon their branches year after year,
and it is likely that I take my leave
only to come to you again.
But keep the illusion awhile; do
not send it away with ungentle haste.
When I say I leave you for all
time, accept it as true, and let a
mist of tears for one moment deepen
the dark rim of your eyes.
Then smile as archly as you like
when I come again.
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Upunder they're gettin' ready to roll the winter clothes out
Course the thang they like to call winter is pretty much like spring up here in the Northland.
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This is not strictly Spring poetry (I don't know that the Tagores were!, more monsoon, it seems ) but, it has spring/summer for a setting and for sheer imagery, it outranks most. It is one of my best loved ones; wanted to get the words right before I posted it. I hope everyone will enjoy this. The Eagle (A Fragment), Alfred Lord TennysonHe clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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Selected verses from: To a Skylark, PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
.......
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
.......
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud.
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
.......
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
.......
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
.......
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
.......
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!_____________________________________________________ The complete version can be read at this site: http://www.nem5.com/classic/shelley5.html
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Sermon On The Mushroom
(Chaos Theory)
Who will be as fragile as an April moon,
irrational moon, mushroom moon?
Wetly in the glades of her prolific world
he stands unreasoning, unreasonable;
spotted cardinal, saffron, coral;
spongy as a sorcerer’s hat;
ecstatic god penis: sacred food, cataclysmic,
minute, unique and final. A singular
essence, delicate and unusual.
"More importantly", declares the physicist
"it was born in the singularity
of a collapsed universe, violently,
we measured it."
Who will plant the tree of poetry in the chaotic soil of a black hole?
Who will introduce nature’s exotics to the hunter wasp of modern physics?
Let the physicists realize the indisputable mushroom.
Let him smell its aromatic decomposition.
Let him classify its whisper and let
the anarchy of its strangeness influence him.
Will he dare to swallow its singularity?
Will he feed the black hole of his own soul
and collapse into another universe,
another uni-verse, another one-verse?
How many verses in creation’s soul?
How many angels in the head of a mushroom?
Let us pray:
Matter and anti-matter all go round,
worlds begin and worlds run down,
her son is a reminder beneath the trees,
her son is the only sun she sees,
eat of his body, make her merry,
and come spirit us to her sanctuary.
-Ted Guhl
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Not that fond of Browning, but I guess this is traditional.
Home-Thoughts, from Abroad
0 to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England- now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge-
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
Robert Browning
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On a similar theme to the above, but longer and I like it better. It has humour, particularly in the comparisons with other villages. Please make allowances for the time when it was written - some of the sentiments could, otherwise, offend.
The little piece of Greek in the 34th line has not come out correctly - unfortunate because I hoped someone could translate it for me.
Rupert Brooke
The Old Vicarage, Grantchester
(Café des Westens, Berlin, May 1912)
Just now the lilac is in bloom,
All before my little room;
And in my flower-beds, I think,
Smile the carnation and the pink;
And down the borders, well I know,
The poppy and the pansy blow . . .
Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,
Beside the river make for you
A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep
Deeply above; and green and deep
The stream mysterious glides beneath,
Green as a dream and deep as death.
-- Oh, damn! I know it! and I know
How the May fields all golden show,
And when the day is young and sweet,
Gild gloriously the bare feet
That run to bathe . . .
Du lieber Gott!
Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,
And there the shadowed waters fresh
Lean up to embrace the naked flesh.
Temperamentvoll German Jews
Drink beer around; - and there the dews
Are soft beneath a morn of gold.
Here tulips bloom as they are told;
Unkempt about those hedges blows
An English unofficial rose;
And there the unregulated sun
Slopes down to rest when day is done,
And wakes a vague unpunctual star,
A slippered Hesper; and there are
Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton
Where das Betreten's not verboten.
¦Ĺ¦É¦Č¦Ĺ ¦Ă¦Ĺ¦Í¦Ď¦É¦Ě¦Ç¦Í. . . would I were
In Grantchester, in Grantchester!--
Some, it may be, can get in touch
With Nature there, or Earth, or such.
And clever modern men have seen
A Faun a-peeping through the green,
And felt the Classics were not dead,
To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,
Or hear the Goat-foot piping low: . . .
But these are things I do not know.
I only know that you may lie
Day long and watch the Cambridge sky,
And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,
Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,
Until the centuries blend and blur
In Grantchester, in Grantchester. . . .
Still in the dawnlit waters cool
His ghostly Lordship swims his pool,
And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,
Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx.
Dan Chaucer hears his river still
Chatter beneath a phantom mill.
Tennyson notes, with studious eye,
How Cambridge waters hurry by . . .
And in that garden, black and white,
Creep whispers through the grass all night;
And spectral dance, before the dawn,
A hundred Vicars down the lawn;
Curates, long dust, will come and go
On lissom, clerical, printless toe;
And oft between the boughs is seen
The sly shade of a Rural Dean . . .
Till, at a shiver in the skies,
Vanishing with Satanic cries,
The prim ecclesiastic rout
Leaves but a startled sleeper-out,
Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,
The falling house that never falls.
. . . . . . . . .
God! I will pack, and take a train,
And get me to England once again!
For England's the one land, I know,
Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;
And Cambridgeshire, of all England,
The shire for Men who Understand;
And of that district I prefer
The lovely hamlet Grantchester.
For Cambridge people rarely smile,
Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;
And Royston men in the far South
Are black and fierce and strange of mouth;
At Over they fling oaths at one,
And worse than oaths at Trumpington,
And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,
And there's none in Harston under thirty,
And folks in Shelford and those parts
Have twisted lips and twisted hearts,
And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,
And Coton's full of nameless crimes,
And things are done you'd not believe
At Madingley on Christmas Eve.
Strong men have run for miles and miles,
When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;
Strong men have blanched, and shot their wives,
Rather than send them to St. Ives;
Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,
To hear what happened at Babraham.
But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!
There's peace and holy quiet there,
Great clouds along pacific skies,
And men and women with straight eyes,
Lithe children lovelier than a dream,
A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,
And little kindly winds that creep
Round twilight corners, half asleep.
In Grantchester their skins are white;
They bathe by day, they bathe by night;
The women there do all they ought;
The men observe the Rules of Thought.
They love the Good; they worship Truth;
They laugh uproariously in youth;
(And when they get to feeling old,
They up and shoot themselves, I'm told) . . .
Ah God! to see the branches stir
Across the moon at Grantchester!
To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten
Unforgettable, unforgotten
River-smell, and hear the breeze
Sobbing in the little trees.
Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand
Still guardians of that holy land?
The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,
The yet unacademic stream?
Is dawn a secret shy and cold
Anadyomene, silver-gold?
And sunset still a golden sea
From Haslingfield to Madingley?
And after, ere the night is born,
Do hares come out about the corn?
Oh, is the water sweet and cool,
Gentle and brown, above the pool?
And laughs the immortal river still
Under the mill, under the mill?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain? . . . oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?
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ei'/qe genoi/mhn is how it appears in Bibliomania, dxb (I have his Collected Poems bookmarked). Something tells me that's not going to help much, though...
This poem is an example of why, despite falling in love with the man, he is far from my favorite poet. Nonetheless, this is the poem that more or less launched his reputation from "trying" into "hey, he is a poet worth noticing". Neither he nor his peers considered The Soldier (1914) his best work, but it opens with the lines for which he is most famous: "If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England."
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Pooh-Bah
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he is far from my favorite poet
Well, I must agree that I tend to pick bits that I like out of this poem and really fail to see the rest of it! But it does labour the point, it is overly sentimental and he can't decide whether he is aiming at comedy or pathos; perhaps that makes it bathos, (qv in another thread).
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Pooh-Bah
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How about this piece:
Sweet April showers
Do spring May flowers.
Thomas Tusser: A Hundred Good Points of Husbandry (1557)
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'My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.' Song of Solomon 2:10-13 http://aol.bartleby.com/108/22/1.html#1Henry Purcell added wonderfully beautiful music to these already-musical words. I listen to his setting more than once every springtime.
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Here Comes The Sun
(George Harrison)
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Little darlin' it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darlin' it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Little darlin' the smiles returning to their faces
Little darlin' it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Little darlin' I feel the ice is slowly meltin'
Little darlin' it seems like years since it's been clear
Here come the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Here come the sun, here comes the sun
It's all right, it's all right
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Oh NO! Consuelo, you have given me a BAD case of the earworm!!  What a wonderful song!
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In reply to:
ei'/qe genoi/mhn is how it appears in Bibliomania, dxb (I have his Collected Poems bookmarked).
It's the Greek for what follows: Would I were. Probably a quotation but I don't know where from.
Bingley
Bingley
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Thanks for that Bingley, its answered a long standing niggle at the back of my mind.
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To a Louse HA! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho’, faith! I fear ye dine but sparely 5
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her—
Sae fine a lady? 10
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar’s haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle, 15
In shoals and nations;
Whaur horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,
Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight; 20
Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,
Till ye’ve got on it—
The verra tapmost, tow’rin height
O’ Miss’ bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, 25
As plump an’ grey as ony groset:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum. 30
I wad na been surpris’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,
On’s wyliecoat;
But Miss’ fine Lunardi! fye! 35
How daur ye do’t?
O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin: 40
Thae winks an’ finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us, 45
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
An’ ev’n devotion!
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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296 |
And here's another one of Burns' Faldage will appreciate:
Address To A Haggis
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!
Translation:
Fair is your honest happy face
Great chieftain of the pudding race
Above them all you take your place
Stomach, tripe or guts
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm
The groaning platter there you fill
Your buttocks like a distant hill
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads
His knife having seen hard labour wipes
And cuts you up with great skill
Digging into your gushing insides bright
Like any ditch
And then oh what a glorious sight
Warm steaming, rich
Then spoon for spoon
They stretch and strive
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums
Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles
Is there that over his French Ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner
Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a withered rush (reed)
His spindle-shank a good whiplash
His clenched fist…the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit
But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a blade
He'll make it whistle
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off
Like the tops of thistles
You powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their meals
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a haggis!
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Joined: Mar 2000
Posts: 6,511
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2000
Posts: 6,511 |
Oh, my, WW. Thank you for that. It needed rememberin'. Do y'all have Burns' Night celebrations in your neck of the woods?
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Joined: Mar 2000
Posts: 6,511
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2000
Posts: 6,511 |
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass,
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.... (&c) ~W.Shakespeare http://www.bartleby.com/101/137.html (Hey! Who wrote the madrigal music for this?)
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Joined: Jun 2002
Posts: 7,210
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Jun 2002
Posts: 7,210 |
a little personal plug for those interested in Bobby Burns music... http://makeashorterlink.com/?R51042564
formerly known as etaoin...
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