She’s come hither
Come to stay
Until the Time
She’s gone again
Grasps the land
Blows my mind
When you call
The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.
~ William Butler Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole
I do not know if this is shopped.
But I do not know quite a lot.
Quite frankly, I just do not care.
It makes me laugh from here to there.
Hey?! Do You Wanna Dance, cats?
Hamlet Act 3 scene 1
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. – Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
~ Bill Shakespeare
Hey, cats and kittens, just wanted to Say Hello. From the guys who brought you Oowatanite… ‘Everything will be alright…’
Let’s uncork a little ’79 April Wine from the cellar, shall we…?
This one had the best sound. There’s some fantastique B+W photography. It is but a coincidence that some are kinda hot, too. 😉 Shucks, baby, what can I say, hey…? Hello?
The first thing I thought when I saw this was: Tunnel of Love by Dire Straits. Then, I found out that is what it’s actually called. It’s a real place, a train tunnel, in the Ukraine… Who knew?
Wow… Sigh… Beautiful…
I’ve just gotta play it this. It’s a great song. Dire Straits from their mighty, mighty fine album Making Movies. I sure hope you like it:
Last but not least… The Tunnel in Winter…
Wish I could go there every day. 😊
Breathtaking photography. Beautiful quotes.
“Dewdrops, Nature’s tears, which she Sheds in her own breast for the fair which die. The sun insists on gladness; but at night, When he is gone, poor Nature loves to weep.”
– Philip James Bailey