Londonderry Air

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying
If I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.
And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For ye shall bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Jgma--0WYU

Great Artists Have No Country

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;

And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day--

And the countryside not caring:
The place names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat's restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;

Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word--the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages,
Lasting a little while longer:

Never such innocence again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJhCMnzh9vo

there's more to life than they'd teach you at school

my all time favorite painting, by John Opie.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fn95GbGcajo

We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty

Open Flowers in the Windy Fields of this War Torn World

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near to my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of it all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmer name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse--
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vp6aG7dIj1k&feature=fvw

I knew that you were thinking of him last night

That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes Like New Orleans reflected on the water, And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes,  Building for some a legendary Quarter Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles, Everyone making love and going shares—  Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles Others may license, grouping around their chairs Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced  Far above rubies) to pretend their fads, While scholars manqués nod around unnoticed Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids.  On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.  My Crescent City Is where your speech alone is understood,  And greeted as the natural noise of good, Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N64QMKEbJQg

Fuck it. I love you.

Do leathnaigh an ciach diachraach fám sheana-du'r ar thaisteal na ndiabhal n-iasacha i bhfearann Choinn chughainn; scamall ar ghriain iaarthair dár cheartas riócht Mumhan fá deara dhom triall riamh ort, a Vailintín Brún. Caiseal gan cliar, fiailteach ná macraí ar dtús Is beanna-bhruig Bhriain ciarthuilte, 'mhadraíbh uísc, Ealla gan triar triaithe de mhacaibh rí Mumhan fá deara dhom triall riamh ort, a Vailintín Brún. Dáistrigh fia an fialchruth do chleachtadh sí ar dtús ó neadaigh an fiach iasachts i ndaingeanchoill Ruís seachnaid iaisc griantsruth is caise caoin ckuín fá deara dhom triall riamh ort, a Vailintín Brún. Dairinis thiar, iarla níl aici én chlainn uír, i Hambury, mo chiach iaaaarla na seachach sioch subhach- seana-rosc liath ag dianghol fá cheachtar dípbh súd fá deara dhom triall riamh ort, a Vailintín Brún. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfhrngJsago

I've been so blind

1. I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.
2. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
3. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.
4. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.
5. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.
6. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.
7. I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.
8. The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.
9. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.
10. My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
11. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
12. 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;
13. 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.
14. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.
15. Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.
16. My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.
17. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5o8L-Or0O4