"Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone ..." William Wordsworth

16 May 2022


The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,
The howling dog by the door of the house,
The bat that lies in bed at noon,
All love to be out by the light of the moon.

Robert Louis Stevenson

14 May 2022

Paul Weller, "As You Lean into the Light"


AC⚡DC forever changed music when they released their first album on this day 1976.

Here's the title cut ...


An excellent album ...

The Style Council, "The Boy Who Cried Wolf"


World service bulletin
From the nightshift D.J.
To all wavebands on Earth
Reconnoiter on the killahertz

This tune is going out to Marconi
To all corners of the globe
There ain't no hut in the Serengeti
Where my wavelengths do not probe ...

Clash rules, but any Strummer solo album is better than their entire catalog.

It's sandwich time.


Modigliani, Portrait of Jeune, 1913

I want to be a tuneswept fiddle string that feels the master melody, and snaps.

Amedeo Modigliani


I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

Jorge Luis Borges

Thank you, Kurt.


Difford & Tillbrook, "Up the Junction"

Jerry Douglas & Tommy Emmanuel, "Halfway Home"

Olivia Belli, "Sol Novo"

With Luca Mengoni, violin, and Federico Perpich, cello ...



An excellent album ...

12 May 2022


Well, I just got back been gone too long
Wasn't my idea, didn't pull the trigger
Oh, I but I'm just so glad
I'm just so glad to be back home ...

08 May 2022

07 May 2022

Happy Birthday, Prince

Prairie Prince was born on this day in 1950.

With The New Cars, "Not Tonight" ...

R.E.M., "Life and How to Live It"


Constable, The Cornfield, 1825


Come, Queen of Months! in company
With all thy merry mistrelsy: —
The restless cuckoo, absent long,
And twittering swallows' chimney-song;
With hedgerow crickets' notes, that run
From every bank that fronts the sun;
And swarthy bees, about the grass,
That stop with every bloom they pass,
And every minute, every hour,
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower;
And Toil, and Childhood's humming joys!
For there is music in the noise
When village children, wild for sport,
In school-time's leisure, ever short,
Alternate catch the bounding ball;
Or run along the church-yard wall,
Capp'd with rude figured slabs, whose claims
In time's bad memory have no names;
Or race around the nooky church;
Or raise loud echoes in the porch;
Throw pebbles o'er the weather-cock,
Viewing with jealous eyes the clock;
Or leap o'er grave-stones' leaning heights,
Uncheck'd by melancholy sights,
Though green grass swells in many a heap
Where kin, and friends, and parents sleep.
They think not, in their jovial cry,
The time will come, when they shall lie
As lowly and as still as they;
While other boys above them play,
Heedless, as they are now, to know
The unconscious dust that lies below.
The driving boy, beside his team,
Of May-month's beauty now will dream,
And cock his hat, and turn his eye
On flower, and tree, and deepening sky;
And oft burst loud in fits of song,
And whistle as he reels along;
Cracking his whip in starts of joy —
A happy, dirty, driving boy.
The youth, who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village-school,
Where, as a mark to guide him right,
The church spire's all the way in sight,
With cheerings from his parents given,
Beneath the joyous smiles of Heaven
Saunters, with many an idle stand,
With satchel swinging in his hand,
And gazes, as he passes by,
On every thing that meets his eye.
Young lambs seem tempting him to play,
Dancing and bleating in his way;
With trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him, and lose their fears;
He smiles upon their sunny faces,
And fain would join their happy races.
The birds, that sing on bush and tree,
Seem chirping for his company; —
And all — in fancy's idle whim —
Seem keeping holiday, but him.
He lolls upon each resting stile,
To see the fields so sweetly smile —
To see the wheat grow green and long;
And lists the weeder's toiling song,
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white-thorn bush,
That o'er the leaning stile bends low
Its blooming mockery of snow.

Each hedge is cover'd thick with green;
And where the hedger late hath been,
Young tender shoots begin to grow
From out the mossy stumps below.

But woodmen still on Spring intrude,
And thin the shadow's solitude;
With sharpen'd axes felling down
The oak-trees budding into brown,
Which, as they crash upon the ground,
A crowd of labourers gather round.
These, mixing 'mong the shadows dark,
Rip off the crackling, staining bark;

Depriving yearly, when they come,
The green woodpecker of his home,
Who early in the Spring began,
Far from the sight of troubling man,
To bore his round holes in each tree
In fancy's sweet security;
Now, startled by the woodman's noise,
He wakes from all his dreary joys.
The blue-bells too, that thickly bloom
Where man was never known to come;

And stooping lilies of the valley,
That love with shades and dews to dally,
And bending droop on slender threads,
With broad hood-leaves above their heads,
Like white-robed maids, in summer hours,
Beneath umbrellas shunning showers; —
These, from the bark-men's crushing treads,
Oft perish in their blooming beds.
Stripp'd of its boughs and bark, in white
The trunk shines in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees,
That wave above it in the breeze,
And, waking whispers, slowly bend,
As if they mourn'd their fallen friend.
Each morning, now, the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat,
And ruin, in the sunny hours,
Full many a wild weed with its flowers; —
Corn-poppies, that in crimson dwell,
Call'd " Head-achs, " from their sickly smell;
And charlocks, yellow as the sun,
That o'er the May-fields quickly run;
And " Iron-weed, " content to share
The meanest spot that Spring can spare —
E'en roads, where danger hourly comes,
Are not without its purple blooms,
Whose leaves, with threat'ning thistles round
Thick set, that have no strength to wound,
Shrink into childhood's eager hold
Like hair; and, with its eye of gold
And scarlet-starry points of flowers,
Pimpernel, dreading nights and showers,
Oft call'd " the Shepherd's Weather-glass, "
That sleeps till suns have dried the grass,
Then wakes, and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds with threatening shadows come —
Then close it shuts to sleep again:
Which weeders see, and talk of rain;
And boys, that mark them shut so soon,
Call " John that goes to bed at noon: "
And fumitory too — a name
That Superstition holds to fame —
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropp'd by maids in weeding hours,
To boil in water, milk, and whey,
For washes on a holiday,
To make their beauty fair and sleek,
And scare the tan from Summer's cheek;
And simple small " Forget-me-not, "
Eyed with a pin's-head yellow spot
I' the middle of its tender blue,
That gains from poets notice due: —
These flowers, that toil by crowds destroys,
Robbing them of their lowly joys,
Had met the May with hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet;
And oft the dame will feel inclined,
As Childhood's memory comes to mind,
To turn her hook away, and spare
The blooms it loved to gather there!
— Now young girls whisper things of love,
And from the old dames' hearing move;
Oft making " love-knots " in the shade,
Of blue-green oat or wheaten blade;
Or, trying simple charms and spells
Which rural Superstition tells,
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knotweed's button heads,
And put the husk, with many a smile,
In their white bosoms for a while, —
Then, if they guess aright the swain
Their loves' sweet fancies try to gain,
'Tis said, that ere it lies an hour,
'Twill blossom with a second flower,
And from their bosom's handkerchief
Bloom as it ne'er had lost a leaf.
— But signs appear that token wet,
While they are 'neath the bushes met;
The girls are glad with hopes of play,
And harp upon the holiday: —
A high blue bird is seen to swim
Along the wheat, when skies grow dim
With clouds; slow as the gales of Spring
In motion, with dark-shadow'd wing
Beneath the coming storm he sails:
And lonely chirp the wheat-hid quails,
That come to live with Spring again,
But leave when Summer browns the grain;
They start the young girl's joys afloat,
With " wet my foot " — their yearly note: —
So fancy doth the sound explain,
And oft it proves a sign of rain!
The thresher, dull as winter days,
And lost to all that Spring displays,
Still 'mid his barn-dust forced to stand,
Swings round his flail with weary hand;
While o'er his head shades thickly creep,
That hide the blinking owl asleep,
And bats, in cobweb-corners bred,
Sharing till night their murky bed.
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Through ev'ry crevice of the door:
This makes his barn, where shadows dwell,
As irksome as a prisoner's cell;
And, whilst he seeks his daily meal,
As school-boys from their task will steal,
So will he stand with fond delay
To see the daisy in his way,
Or wild weeds flowering on the wall; —
For these to memory still recall
The joys, the sports that come with Spring, —
The twirling top, the marble ring,
The jingling halfpence hustled up
At pitch and toss, the eager stoop
To pick up heads , the smuggled plays
'Neath hovels upon sabbath-days, —
The sitting down, when school was o'er,
Upon the threshold of the door,
Picking from mallows, sport to please,
Each crumpled seed he call'd a cheese,
And hunting from the stack-yard sod
The stinking henbane's belted pod,
By youth's warm fancies sweetly led
To christen them his loaves of bread.
He sees, while rocking down the street
With weary hands and crimpling feet,
Young children at the self-same games,
And hears the self-same boyish names
Still floating on each happy tongue:
Touch'd with the simple scene so strong,
Tears almost start, and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone by;
Thus, in sweet Nature's holiday,
His heart is sad while all is gay.
How lovely now are lanes and balks,
For lovers in their Sunday-walks!
The daisy and the butter-cup —
For which the laughing children stoop
A hundred times throughout the day,
In their rude romping Summer play —
So thickly now the pasture crowd,
In a gold and silver sheeted cloud,
As if the drops of April showers
Had woo'd the sun, and changed to flowers.
The brook resumes her Summer dresses,
Purling 'neath grass and water-cresses,
And mint and flagleaf, swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye;

The Summer tracks about its brink
Are fresh again where cattle drink;
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again;
While all that lives enjoys the birth
Of frolic Summer's laughing mirth.

John Clare

R.E.M., "Perfect Circle"


van Gogh, View of Arles, April, 1889

I would very much like, and am working towards this, to put things in my studio that will remind me when I see them each morning of this or that outdoors. So that I immediately know what to do with the day - and immediately take pleasure in something, or have the feeling: I must still go here or there sometime. 

Vincent van Gogh


Beethoven premiered his Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125, on this day in 1824.

Giovanni Antonini conducts the Kammerorchester Basel and Wroclaw Philharmonic Choir, featuring Regula Mühlemann, soprano, Marie Claude Chappuis, mezzo-soprano, Maximilian Schmitt, tenor, and Thomas E. Bauer, baritone ...


Vuillard, Square Berlioz Place Vintimille, 1915

Who speaks of art speaks of poetry. There is not art without a poetic aim.

Edouard Vuillard

Happy Birthday, Brahms

Torggler, Johannes Brahms, 1872

Johannes Brahms was born on this day in 1833.

Ein Deutsches Requiem, Op. 45, Claudio Abbado conducts the Berlin Philharmonic, Swedish Radio Choir, and Eric Ericson Chamber Choir, with soloists Barbara Bonney and Bryn Terfel ...

05 May 2022


"Hang care!" exclaimed he. "This is a delicious evening; the wine has a finer relish here than in the house, and the song is more exciting and melodious under the tranquil sky than in the close room, where the sound is stifled. Come, let us have a bacchanalian chant—let us, with old Sir Toby, make the welkin dance and rouse the night-owl with a catch! I am right merry. Pass the bottle, and tune your voices—a catch, a catch! The lights will be here anon."

Charles Ollier, from "The Haunted Manor-House of Paddington" 

For best results, listen to this ... Pretenders, "Tattooed Love Boys"

The euphony transformed me and inundated my soul in a roguish countenance, the likes of which I had know well in younger days. Such impishness soon drove out the complaints of the day. 

Umberto Limongiello

The Jam, "Set the House Ablaze"

Something you said set the house ablaze
It is called indoctrination
And it happens on all levels
But it has nothing to do with equality
It has nothing to do with democracy
And though it professes to
It has nothing to do with humanity
It is cold, hard and mechanical ...


Unknown, Thomas Paine, 1792

That men mean distinct and separate things when they speak of constitutions and of governments, is evident; or why are those terms distinctly and separately used? A constitution is not the act of a government, but of a people constituting a government; and government without a constitution, is power without a right.

All power exercised over a nation, must have some beginning. It must either be delegated or assumed. There are no other sources. All delegated power is trust, and all assumed power is usurpation. Time does not alter the nature and quality of either.

Thomas Paine, from The Rights of Man, "On Constitutions"

Happy Birthday, Mac

Ian McCulloch was born on this day in 1959.

Echo and The Bunnymen: Lay Down Thy Raincoat and Groove, Albert Hall, 1983 ...

Robin Guthrie, "Monument"


James George on awareness ...
What I’m coming to lately is an end-of-life conviction that there is more to consciousness than what is produced in my little head, or yours. Both of us have the capacity, at times, mysteriously, to get beyond whatever this small consciousness is doing and telling us. When we are able, when we are sufficiently still and relaxed—letting it happen, not doing it—we can receive a resonance from a greater consciousness.

Many spiritual masters I’ve known, and also eminent scientists like Carl Jung, echo this belief. Just before Jung died, the BBC managed to interview him. And he was free enough at that stage of his life to say things without looking over his shoulder and worrying about his scientific reputation. He said: “Man cannot stand a meaningless life. Something in us sees around corners, knows beyond time and space, so may continue in that state after our physical death. Those who fear death as the End, die soon. Those who think they will go on, die old.”

Fear is constricting. In fact, so are all those self-concerns for one’s reputation, for one’s ideas, even for what the next association is telling me. For example, am I just thinking of what I should say to you now? Or am I open to something that could be quite new, that is not really coming so much from me as from this source consciousness that many traditions have called “I”? I’m referring to the consciousness that manages to see what things are, what I am, and to not get caught in the next reaction or judgment or association—because all of these are functions; and consciousness is not a function.

In the environmental movement that I’ve been part of for thirty years, I’ve been saying that the problem is not just in our technology or in our corporate system, but inside ourselves. What has to change more radically is my whole attitude to nature, from one of domination to an attitude of stewardship. It’s a hard sell these days, though the need for such a radical change has been laid out in all of the great traditions.

When we talk about the need for a less self-centered attitude or for waking up, it’s a change of consciousness, a change of mind from an identified mind that is just presenting its next automatic association—and assuming it can control our entire life that way—to a mind that is still and open and able to receive something from this greater mind that Carl Jung was invoking earlier. Like you, I am searching for who I am, and by now I know that I am not going to find an answer in my functional machinery, ticking away automatically, but in my essential mind, just aware attention, watching.

As the Dalai Lama has been pointing out in recent years, the Tibetan language has two words for these two very different kinds of “mind”: The ordinary automatic mind that they call Sem; and this other receptive stillness, which has no judgments, no associations, that they call Rigpa and translate as awareness. It’s a beautiful statement in a few sentences of what has previously been a very secret Tibetan practice called dzogchen, closely allied to what Gurdjieff and others have taught as the wordless way of being totally present now, in this moment.

We’re all designed with this possibility. But what is obstructing the realization of that human potential ... it’s me. This narcissistic preoccupation with my story, my difficulty, which always has a kind of negative touch to it because I am complaining about what is wrong with me either physically or mentally. And the quiet, impartial, impersonal mind, consciousness, with which I could be connected, is blocked by that.

It is so important to understand awareness as a connector to something greater than me, to my source, really. My presence is the doorway to that, even at the moment that I acknowledge that I don’t know who I am and I see my lack of presence. But that is the beginning of a real wish for it, a wish to be.


Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers released their best album, Hard Promises, on this day in 1981.

"Kings Road" ...


Some of the leaves stay on all winter
and spring comes without knowing
whether there is suffering in them
or ever was
and what it is in the tongue they speak
that cannot be remembered by listening
for the whole time that they are on the tree
and then as they fly off with the air 
that always through their lives was there

W.S. Merwin


My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest;
Every year the green ivy grows long.
No news of the affairs of men,
Only the occasional song of the woodcutter.

The sun shines and I mend my robe.
When the moon comes out, I read Buddhist poems.
I have nothing to report my friends.
If you want to find the meaning, stop chasing so many things.


04 May 2022

The Police, "Shadows in the Rain"


Echo & The Bunnymen released Ocean Rain on this day in 1984.

"Thorn of Crowns" ...


I dwell in Possibility 

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –

Emily Dickinson


Fingers deep, I kneaded. Fighting the urge to be careless and quick, I kept the pace rhythmic, slow. Each squeeze, I hoped, would gently ease the flavors—knobby bits of garlic, finely chopped capers, smatterings of dry spices—into the marbled mound before me ...


Gökotta (n., Swed.

“a dawn picnic to hear the first birdsong”; the act of rising in the early morning to watch the birds or to go outside to appreciate nature.

Glass, Metamorphosis Two

Olivia Belli performs ...


Dreaming of the day

Books soaring high, beyond reach

Needing a ladder

03 May 2022


Little birds of the night
Aye, they have much to tell
Perching there in rows
Blinking at me with their serious eyes
Recounting of flowers they have seen and loved
Of meadows and groves of the distance
And pale sands at the foot of the sea
And breezes that fly in the leaves.
They are vast in experience
These little birds that come in the night.

Stephen Crane


Aerosmith released Rocks on this day in 1976.

"Sick as a Dog" ...

Hooky & The Light, "Dead Souls"

Where figures from the past stand tall ...

Thank you, George Robert III.


Free drinks.


Sometimes the desire to be lost again, as long ago, comes over me like a vapor. With growth into adulthood, responsibilities claimed me, so many heavy coats. I didn’t choose them, I don’t fault them, but it took time to reject them. Now in the spring I kneel, I put my face into the packets of violets, the dampness, the freshness, the sense of ever-ness. Something is wrong, I know it, if I don’t keep my attention on eternity. May I be the tiniest nail in the house of the universe, tiny but useful. May I stay forever in the stream. May I look down upon the windflower and the bull thistle and the coreopsis with the greatest respect.

Mary Oliver, from an excellent book: Upstream: Selected Essays

Cheers to that!



What was he doing, the great god Pan,
    Down in the reeds by the river ?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
    With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
    From the deep cool bed of the river :
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
    Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
    While turbidly flowed the river ;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
    To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
    (How tall it stood in the river !)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
    In holes, as he sate by the river.

This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan,
    Laughed while he sate by the river,)
The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
    He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan !
    Piercing sweet by the river !
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan !
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
    Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
    To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, —
For the reed which grows nevermore again
    As a reed with the reeds in the river.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The Kinks, "Got Love If You Want It"


The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free:
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea ...

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"


An excellent album ...

02 May 2022


But from my head to my toes
From my knees to my eyes
Every time I watch the sky

New Order, "The Village"

The rain and the sea and the hours ...


Fantin-Latour, Self-Portrait, 1861

Never have I had more ideas about Art in my head, and yet I am forced to do flowers. While painting them—standing before the peonies and roses—I think of Michelangelo. This cannot go on.

Henri Fantin-Latour

Vaughan Williams, Five Variants of "Dives & Lazarus"

The Orchestra of the Swan performs ...


Zanzarelli in Beef Broth
4 servings

4 cups beef broth 
½ cup grated Grana Padano, DOP
2/3 cup bread crumbs
4 eggs
pinch saffron
nutmeg, to taste
salt and pepper, to taste

  1. Bring the broth to a boil, and then add the packet of saffron
  2. Mix the eggs with the cheese and bread crumbs, form small balls and drop them into the broth 
  3. Stir
  4. Cook zanzarelli until firm
  5. Distribute the broth with zanzarelli into bowls
  6. Add salt and pepper, freshly grated nutmeg
  7. Serve
  8. Repeat as needed


New Order released Power Corruption and Lies on this day in 1983.

"Your Silent Face" ...

Vivaldi, Guistino, RV 717

Andres Mustonen carefully conducts Barrocade, The Israeli Baroque Collective, featuring mezzo-soprano, Maya Amir, in a performance of the "Vedrò con mio diletto" ...

01 May 2022


Richard Feynman on asking, "Why?"

From the comments ...
Feynman gets stopped by a cop. 
Cop : why were you speeding ? 
Feynman : what do you mean why ? 
Half hour later 
Cop : please just leave me alone


The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.

There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of your little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.

We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.

Iniquity it is; but pass the can.
My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;
Our only portion is the estate of man:
We want the moon, but we shall get no more.

If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours
To-morrow it will hie on far behests;
The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours
Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts.

The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

A.E. Housman


Taking place on the first Sunday of May, International Dawn Chorus Day is the worldwide celebration of nature's greatest symphony.

30 April 2022


Spring has come to the northern forest. 
The evening wind blows cold 
As the breath of the frost giants. 
Just overhead there is a sound like the rushing of crows' wings. 
Can it be a coven of witches has flown over these woods?

On any other night, 
You would probably swear 
That there was no such thing as a witch―
At least, not the kind that streaks through the sky 
On a broomstick with guttering taper and billowing cloak. 
But this is no ordinary night; 
It is the thirtieth of April, 
The very eve of May. 
Walpurgis Night.

Jethro Tull, "Jack-in-the-Green"

Chrissie Hynde, "Talk of the Town"

Oh, but it's hard to live by the rules
I never could and still never do ...


There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy. By being happy, we sow anonymous benefits upon the world, which remain unknown even to ourselves, or when they are disclosed, surprise nobody so much as the benefactor.

Robert Louis Stevenson


An excellent book ...

Toto, "St. George and the Dragon"

More Coors Light!
More nachos! More ranch!
Five plays for a dollar,
Then get up and dance!

The first cut on the Cowbell Culture Mix.



All in this pleasant evening, together come are we,
  For the Summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
We shall not sing you May again until another year,
  For to draw these cold winters away,
We’ll tell you of a blossom and buds on every tree,
  Drawing near to the merry month of May.

Rise up, the master of this house, put on your chain of gold,
  For the Summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
We hope you’re not offended, with your house we make so bold,
  Drawing near to the merry month of May.

Rise up, the mistress of this house, with gold along your breast,
  For the Summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
And if your body be asleep, we hope your soul’s at rest,
  Drawing near to the merry month of May.

Rise up, the children of this house, all in your rich attire,
  For the Summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
For every hair upon your head shines like a silver wire,
  Drawing near to the merry month of May.

God bless this house and harbour, your riches and your store,
  For the Summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
We hope the Lord will prosper you, both now and evermore,
  Drawing near to the merry month of May.

So now we’re going to leave you, in peace and plenty here,
  For the Summer springs so fresh, green, and gay.
We shall not sing you May again until another year,
  To draw you these cold winters away.



Trethowan Brothers' Gorwydd Caerphilly ...


Bruce Cockburn, "40 Years in the Wilderness"


Savage, George Washington, 1789

On this day in 1789, George Washington took office as the first president of the United States.
As the first of everything, in our situation will serve to establish a Precedent, it is devoutly wished on my part, that these precedents may be fixed on true principles.