The Hopkins poem for a 25 September 2011 television broadcast of the "Inspector Lewis" series titled - The Mind Has Mountains.
No Worst, There Is None (1918)
Gerard Manley Hopkins
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing—
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No ling-
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief’.
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
First Autumn Day 2011
September 23, 2011
0031 Hours
Current Temperture and Condition:
73° F | 23° C
Clear
Astronomy:
September 23, 2011 Rise: Set:
Actual Time 6:52 AM PDT 6:59 PM PDT
Civil Twilight 6:26 AM PDT 7:25 PM PDT
Nautical Twilight 5:55 AM PDT 7:56 PM PDT
Astronomical Twilight 5:24 AM PDT 8:27 PM PDT
Moon 2:29 AM PDT 4:29 PM PDT
Length of Visible Light 12h 59m
Length of Day 12h 07m
Tomorrow will be 2m 25s shorter.
Waning Crescent, 23% of the Moon is Illuminated
Thursday, September 22, 2011
In Anticipation of Autumn
In Anticipation of Autumn
W. M. MacKeracher
1891
But now the Summer hastens to its close,
And soon will Song a different aspect wear,
Sweeping terrific, clad in ghostly snows,
And lit by the flash of the Boreal glare,
Or, but a poet in his easy chair;
And her most pleasing aspect now beguiles
What time is hers with deft, endearing air:
With gorgeous gold she decks her garments, whiles
Her melancholy face with Indian Summer smiles.
Thy very smile sends sadness to my heart.
Farewell! sweet love, the happy hour is o'er:
Too well I knew that we again must part.
Her garments trail the fond, reluctant floor.
But I shall ne'er forget the dress she wore,
Her looks, her words, the pleasing song she sung—
'Tis melody will charm me more and more,
'Tis music that will keep my spirit young,
'Tis joyance in my soul, though jarring on my tongue.
I've hummed the music after thee as well
As changing tones of youth allowed, and fear,
And vexing sprites that choke the upward swell.
But yet, perchance, some bosom it may cheer,
By recollection making thee more dear
To those who've drunk thy music at its spring,
To some, mayhap, who never learned to hear,—
Alas! poor, wretched souls!—its sound may bring
Some semblance of thy strain, some wish to hear thee sing.
What though I have expounded nothing new,
And traced, I trow, unworthily the old?
Song is no mystic science.—Men may do
Strange things in other spheres, and may unfold
Secrets unthought, tell tales before untold;
But what thou wilt, the bard; nor less, nor more.
And to the mind informed in Nature's mould
Thou has revealed thyself—the same of yore,
The same to-day thou art, and shalt be evermore.
Let them who will, content themselves to sing
In trifling pageantry and gilt array,
To pluck the song-beads from the shimmering string
That skirts thy robe. But such my soul doth sway
As makes me hang upon thy breast and say
"I love thee!"—as a mistress?—then mine own;
Blindly and recklessly?—some future day,
Mine eye, from thine clearer and stronger grown,
May thrid the straggling stars and search the deepening dawn.
O, make my soul an argosy of song,
Tranquilly floating on a sea of peace,
As with her rowers beautiful and strong
Some trireme bears among the Isles of Greece
With music-muffled oars! Give safe release
From murky moorings, storms, and rocks that jar,
And let its pearls in purity increase,
Until with singing sails it cross the bar
To melt in golden waves with gems of many a star!
W. M. MacKeracher
1891
But now the Summer hastens to its close,
And soon will Song a different aspect wear,
Sweeping terrific, clad in ghostly snows,
And lit by the flash of the Boreal glare,
Or, but a poet in his easy chair;
And her most pleasing aspect now beguiles
What time is hers with deft, endearing air:
With gorgeous gold she decks her garments, whiles
Her melancholy face with Indian Summer smiles.
Thy very smile sends sadness to my heart.
Farewell! sweet love, the happy hour is o'er:
Too well I knew that we again must part.
Her garments trail the fond, reluctant floor.
But I shall ne'er forget the dress she wore,
Her looks, her words, the pleasing song she sung—
'Tis melody will charm me more and more,
'Tis music that will keep my spirit young,
'Tis joyance in my soul, though jarring on my tongue.
I've hummed the music after thee as well
As changing tones of youth allowed, and fear,
And vexing sprites that choke the upward swell.
But yet, perchance, some bosom it may cheer,
By recollection making thee more dear
To those who've drunk thy music at its spring,
To some, mayhap, who never learned to hear,—
Alas! poor, wretched souls!—its sound may bring
Some semblance of thy strain, some wish to hear thee sing.
What though I have expounded nothing new,
And traced, I trow, unworthily the old?
Song is no mystic science.—Men may do
Strange things in other spheres, and may unfold
Secrets unthought, tell tales before untold;
But what thou wilt, the bard; nor less, nor more.
And to the mind informed in Nature's mould
Thou has revealed thyself—the same of yore,
The same to-day thou art, and shalt be evermore.
Let them who will, content themselves to sing
In trifling pageantry and gilt array,
To pluck the song-beads from the shimmering string
That skirts thy robe. But such my soul doth sway
As makes me hang upon thy breast and say
"I love thee!"—as a mistress?—then mine own;
Blindly and recklessly?—some future day,
Mine eye, from thine clearer and stronger grown,
May thrid the straggling stars and search the deepening dawn.
O, make my soul an argosy of song,
Tranquilly floating on a sea of peace,
As with her rowers beautiful and strong
Some trireme bears among the Isles of Greece
With music-muffled oars! Give safe release
From murky moorings, storms, and rocks that jar,
And let its pearls in purity increase,
Until with singing sails it cross the bar
To melt in golden waves with gems of many a star!
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Frank De Vol's Birthday Anniversary
American-born composer, arranger, and actor
(20 September 1911 - 27 October 1999)
The MP3 below expired on 10-22-2011
Click here to play the current selection.
Frank De Vol and His Orchestra (1958)
- Dreamy
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Clara Schumann's Birthday
(Mrs. Robert Schumann)
Renown romantic era composer and pianist
(13 September 1819 – 20 May 1896)
The MP3 below expired on 09-20-2011.
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Jennifer Eley, piano (1997)
- Piano Sonata in G Minor - Adagio (C. Schumann)
Friday, September 09, 2011
Only One Easy Rider Here
9/11 Memorial Tribute
Las Vegas, NV
The MP3 below expired on 09-13-2011.
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Steppenwolf (1968)
- Born To Be Wild
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Al Caiola's Birthday
American-born guitarist
jazz and pop musician
7 September 1920 -
The MP3 below expired on 09-09-2011.
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Al Caiola and His Orchestra (1962)
- Brazil (Barroso)
Monday, September 05, 2011
The Solitary Reaper
The Wordsworth poem for a 4 September 2011 television broadcast of the "Inspector Lewis" series titled - Old, Unhappy, Far Off Things
Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803
VIII. The Solitary Reaper
William Wordsworth
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803
VIII. The Solitary Reaper
William Wordsworth
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
Sunday, September 04, 2011
A Labor Day Picnic Time with You
The MP3 below expired on 09-07-2011.
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Morris Stoloff and Orchestra OST (1955)
- 'Moonglow' and the Theme from 'Picnic'(Duning)
Picnic - A Tale of Two Tunes