Rubá’í of the Day

210
At dawn, when dews bedeck the tulip’s face,
And violets their heavy heads abase,
I love to see the roses’ folded buds,
With petals closed against the wind’s disgrace.

Rubá’í of the Day

209
They who by genius, and by power of brain,
The rank of man’s enlighteners attain,
Not even they emerge from this dark night,
But tell their dreams, and fall asleep again.

Rubá’í of the Day

208
While Moon and Venus in the sky shall dwell,
None shall see aught red grape-juice to excel:
O foolish publicans, what can you buy
One half so precious as the goods you sell?

A Blast from the Past for Monday Morning: In Search Of

 

This episode is about the ever-elusive Comte de Saint-Germaine.

Rubá’í of the Day

207
Sooner with half a loaf contented be,
And water from a broken crock, like me,
Than lord it over one poor fellow man,
Or to another bow the vassal knee.

Catching Up

 

It’s been a hectic month.  I try to begin each month with the appropriate selection from Tschaikovsky’s The Seasons, and I post some kind of music, classical or otherwise, every Friday.  I neglected the former at the beginning of this month, and the latter this Friday past.  Therefore, I have rectified this:   you may listen to Tschaikovsky here and Friday’s music–for which I selected Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier–here.  Enjoy!

Quote for the Week

Song to Celia

BY BEN JONSON

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

         And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

         And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

         Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

         I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

         Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope, that there

         It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

         And sent’st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

         Not of itself, but thee.

By the greatest Elizabethan poet after Shakespeare; courtesy of here.

Rubá’í of the Day

206
For me heaven’s sphere no music ever made,
Nor yet with soothing voice my fears allayed;
If e’er I found brief respite from my woes,
Back to woe’s thrall I was at once betrayed.

Rubá’í of the Day

205
O comrades dear, when hither ye repair
In times to come, communion sweet to share,
While the cupbearer pours your old Magh wine,
Call poor Khayyam to mind, and breathe a prayer.

Some Bach for the Weekend