Evgeny Kissin - "The Lark", Glinka/Balakirev

Vaughan.Williams.-.Lark.Ascending.-.Janine.Jansen

SPOILER

He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,
All intervolv'd and spreading wide,
Like water-dimples down a tide
Where ripple ripple overcurls
And eddy into eddy whirls;
A press of hurried notes that run
So fleet they scarce are more than one,
Yet changingly the trills repeat
And linger ringing while they fleet,
Sweet to the quick o' the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,
Who sits beside our inner springs,
Too often dry for this he brings,
Which seems the very jet of earth
At sight of sun, her music's mirth,
As up he wings the spiral stair,
A song of light, and pierces air
With fountain ardor, fountain play,
To reach the shining tops of day,
And drink in everything discern'd
An ecstasy to music turn'd,
Impell'd by what his happy bill
Disperses; drinking, showering still,
Unthinking save that he may give
His voice the outlet, there to live
Renew'd in endless notes of glee,
So thirsty of his voice is he,
For all to hear and all to know
That he is joy, awake, aglow,
The tumult of the heart to hear
Through pureness filter'd crystal-clear,
And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
By simple singing of delight,
Shrill, irreflective, unrestrain'd,
Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustain'd
Without a break, without a fall,
Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,
Perennial, quavering up the chord
Like myriad dews of sunny sward
That trembling into fulness shine,
And sparkle dropping argentine;
Such wooing as the ear receives
From zephyr caught in choric leaves
Of aspens when their chattering net
Is flush'd to white with shivers wet;
And such the water-spirit's chime
On mountain heights in morning's prime,
Too freshly sweet to seem excess,
Too animate to need a stress;
But wider over many heads
The starry voice ascending spreads,
Awakening, as it waxes thin,
The best in us to him akin;
And every face to watch him rais'd,
Puts on the light of children prais'd,
So rich our human pleasure ripes
When sweetness on sincereness pipes,
Though nought be promis'd from the seas,
But only a soft-ruffling breeze
Sweep glittering on a still content,
Serenity in ravishment.

For singing till his heaven fills,
'T is love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup,
And he the wine which overflows
To lift us with him as he goes:
The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine
He is, the hills, the human line,
The meadows green, the fallows brown,
The dreams of labor in the town;
He sings the sap, the quicken'd veins;
The wedding song of sun and rains
He is, the dance of children, thanks
Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,
And eye of violets while they breathe;
All these the circling song will wreathe,
And you shall hear the herb and tree,
The better heart of men shall see,
Shall feel celestially, as long
As you crave nothing save the song.
Was never voice of ours could say
Our inmost in the sweetest way,
Like yonder voice aloft, and link
All hearers in the song they drink:
Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,
Our passion is too full in flood,
We want the key of his wild note
Of truthful in a tuneful throat,
The song seraphically free
Of taint of personality,
So pure that it salutes the suns
The voice of one for millions,
In whom the millions rejoice
For giving their one spirit voice.

Yet men have we, whom we revere,
Now names, and men still housing here,
Whose lives, by many a battle-dint
Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,
Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet
For song our highest heaven to greet:
Whom heavenly singing gives us new,
Enspheres them brilliant in our blue,
From firmest base to farthest leap,
Because their love of Earth is deep,
And they are warriors in accord
With life to serve and pass reward,
So touching purest and so heard
In the brain's reflex of yon bird;
Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,
Through self-forgetfulness divine,
In them, that song aloft maintains,
To fill the sky and thrill the plains
With showerings drawn from human stores,
As he to silence nearer soars,
Extends the world at wings and dome,
More spacious making more our home,
Till lost on his aërial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.

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I remember when, I remember
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Frank Zappa - The Poodle Lecture

SPOILER

In the beginning GOD made 'the light.' Shortly thereafter GOD made the poodle-as you can see by this model that we have in front of us. When GOD made the poodle initially it was a very handsome sort of a dog-it had HAIR, HAIR, HAIR, evenly distributed all over its charming canine poodle-shape body.

Shortly after the construction of the poodle itself, GOD made TWO big mistakes. The first one was called MAN, and the second one was called WO-MAN. WO-MAN looketh upon the poodle and saith unto herself, "This poodle, with hair evenly distributed all over its body, is of no use to me for it is not SLICK, it is not STREAMLINE, it is not FASHIONABLE, and in many instances it is REPULSIVE because of the brown things attached to the hair on the rear part of the dog, and I must have this dog modified," so he turneth onto MAN, and saith unto MAN, "SUCKER, GO GET A JOB!" And MAN, being the chump that he was, wenteth out and wenteth forth and lefteth the cave, and went into the world itself and gotteth a job.

Whereupon he returneth to the cave with his MONEY, and the WO-MAN looketh upon the money and said, "SUCKER! Take this money and go buy me a pair of scissors, whereby I may clippeth upon this poodle and modify it to my own personal taste and secret moist innermost DESIRES." And the MAN, being the chump that he was, went out and bought her the poodle clipping shears and broughth 'em back to the WO-MAN and handeth the shears to the WO-MAN, whereupon she GRABBETH the poodle thusly . . . and with a DEFT, SWIFT, DENSE ECUMENICAL PATINA (Talk about it!) of STROKE (Talk about it!), she clippeth upon the poodle, near the FETLOCK, all across the THORAX, in the MEDULA, and . . . right near the cappuciano o'er here, and streamlined that sucker until it looked just like this, with little feet sticking out and a little ball on the end, making the dags very easy to remove, and she putteth the poodle in a quasi erotic sort of a position, near where she was sprawled out on the cave . . . stucketh her leggeths up unto the air, "Buf," like this, exposing to the poodle the central core of her desire, and looked deep into the poodle's eyes and said these piquant little words that we shall not soon forget:

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Op zondag 18 juni 2017 05:18 schreef Hdero het volgende:

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