Shakespeare is like RJF: very very great, but not as great as ppl
think. (Comparison is a little unfair to Bill S.)

**********

Say, Love, if ever thou didst find,
A woman with a constant mind,
None but one, none but she,
And what should that rare mirror be,
Some goddess or some queen is she,
She and only she,
She, only queen of love and beauty.

Well, Shakespeare, he's in the alley
With his pointed shoes and his bells,
Speaking to some French girl,
Who says she knows me well.
And I would send a message
To find out if she's talked,
But the post office has been stolen
And the mailbox is locked.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of Mobile
With the Memphis blues again.

To her then yield thy shafts and bow,
That can command affections so:
Love is free, Love is free.
So are her thoughts that vanquish thee,
There is no queen of love but she.
She and only she,
She, only queen of love and beauty.

--John Dowland (lute/lyrics) & R. Zimmerman at the Big Pink

wrote:
Shakespeare is like RJF: very very great, but not as great as ppl
think. (Comparison is a little unfair to Bill S.)

Oh, I agree; I'm far from being a bardolater. Shakespeare just came to
mind as an answer to Mr. Murray's silly proclaimation.

Trapped on vinyl dept.

Nonesuch H71167
DOWLAND songs and ayres

Has this been reissued on CD?

wrote:
Shakespeare is like RJF: very very great, but not as great as ppl
think. (Comparison is a little unfair to Bill S.)

**********

Say, Love, if ever thou didst find,
A woman with a constant mind,
None but one, none but she,
And what should that rare mirror be,
Some goddess or some queen is she,
She and only she,
She, only queen of love and beauty.

Well, Shakespeare, he's in the alley
With his pointed shoes and his bells,
Speaking to some French girl,
Who says she knows me well.
And I would send a message
To find out if she's talked,
But the post office has been stolen
And the mailbox is locked.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of Mobile
With the Memphis blues again.

To her then yield thy shafts and bow,
That can command affections so:
Love is free, Love is free.
So are her thoughts that vanquish thee,
There is no queen of love but she.
She and only she,
She, only queen of love and beauty.

--John Dowland (lute/lyrics) & R. Zimmerman at the Big Pink

Since we're on the topic of poetry and in light of the recent attack on
London, here's a little poem (the author of which escapes me) that I
hope haunts ol' Jerry Bibuld on his deathbed. (For those of you who
don't know, Bibuld was discharged from the U.S. Army under
other-than-honorable conditions during the Korean War and staunchly
believes that U.S. military personnel don't deserve to live.) Here it
is:

My dreams are of a field afar,
of blood and smoke and shot.
There in their graves my comrades are
in my grave I am not

I, too, was taught the trade of man
and spelt the lesson plain,
but they, when I forgot and ran,
remembered and remain

Regards,

Matt

wrote:
Trapped on vinyl dept.

Nonesuch H71167
DOWLAND songs and ayres

Has this been reissued on CD?

Most of the Nonesuch catalog has never been reissued on CD. Some items
licenced from other sources, such as many of the Karl Ristenpart
recordings, have appeared on disc, but not under the Nonesuch name.
Some Ristenpart discs have appeared on the 'private' reissue label
Rediscovery:

http://www.rediscovery.us/catalogkr.htm

I'm in the market for a disc of Dowland songs myself. I have one,

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg...ce&s=classical

, which is fine, but the choral selections are perhaps a little pretty
and over-refined. Try before you buy.

Matt Nemmers wrote:

(Snip comments about Jerry Bibuld)

My dreams are of a field afar,
of blood and smoke and shot.
There in their graves my comrades are
in my grave I am not

I, too, was taught the trade of man
and spelt the lesson plain,
but they, when I forgot and ran,
remembered and remain

A. E. Housman. I like the following poem from his collection "A
Shropshire Lad". James Thurber did a pair of wonderfully funny
illustrations for it....

Oh, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they'll say that I
Am quite myself again.

Matt Nemmers wrote:


STRANGE MEETING
Wilfred Owen

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,-
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
"Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn."
"None," said that other, "save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also, I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . ."

The Historian wrote:
Matt Nemmers wrote:


ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH
Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstruous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

One of my personal favorites, from Henry Reed's "Lessons of the War":


JUDGING DISTANCES

Not only how far away, but the way that you say it
Is very important. Perhaps you may never get
The knack of judging a distance, but at least you know
How to report on a landscape: the central sector,
The right of the arc and that, which we had last Tuesday,
And at least you know

That maps are of time, not place, so far as the army
Happens to be concerned-the reason being,
Is one which need not delay us. Again, you know
There are three kinds of tree, three only, the fir and the poplar,
And those which have bushy tops to; and lastly
That things only seem to be things.

A barn is not called a barn, to put it more plainly,
Or a field in the distance, where sheep may be safely grazing.
You must never be over-sure. You must say, when reporting:
At five o'clock in the central sector is a dozen
Of what appear to be animals; whatever you do,
Don't call the bleeders sheep.

I am sure that's quite clear; and suppose, for the sake of example,
The one at the end, asleep, endeavors to tell us
What he sees over there to the west, and how far away,
After first having come to attention. There to the west,
Of the fields of summer the sun and the shadows bestow
Vestments of purple and gold.

The white dwellings are like a mirage in the heat,
And under the swaying elms a man and a woman
Lie gently together. Which is, perhaps, only to say
That there is a row of houses to the left of the arc,
And that under some poplars a pair of what appear to be humans
Appear to be loving.

Well that, for an answer, is what we rightly call
Moderately satisfactory only, the reason being,
Is that two things have been omitted, and those are very important.
The human beings, now: in what direction are they,
And how far away, would you say? And do not forget
There may be dead ground in between.

There may be dead ground in between; and I may not have got
The knack of judging a distance; I will only venture
A guess that perhaps between me and the apparent lovers,
(Who, incidentally, appear by now to have finished,)
At seven o'clock from the houses, is roughly a distance
Of about one year and a half.


- Geof

"Mike Murray" wrote in message
...

A song is not a poem. It's unfair to judge song lyrics without
knowing the constraints imposed by the melody.

Then it must be prose because they're the only two ways to write.