Today's Browning

Home Thoughts, From Abroad
Robert Browning

Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Major Versions

Today's XKCD is wonderful - a cartoon rendition of G&S's "Modern Major General."   And if you click on it you'll find you link through to a YouTube video of a company singing the original on the Beeb - lead by Simon Butteriss as the MG.

And then, only a few hours later, this appeared online:


Marvellous....

Poem of the Week

Love among the Ruins
Robert Browning

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
  Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
  Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
  As they crop—
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
  (So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
  Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
  Peace or war.

Now the country does not even boast a tree,
  As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
  From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
  Into one)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
  Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
  Bounding all
Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest
  Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
  Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads
  And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
  Stock or stone—
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
  Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
  Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
  Bought and sold.

Now—the single little turret that remains
  On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
  Overscored,
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
  Through the chinks—
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
  Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
  As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
  Viewed the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
  Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
  In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
  Melt away—
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
  Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
  For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
  Till I come.

But he looked upon the city, every side,
  Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
  Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then
  All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
  Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
  Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
  Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth
  South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
  As the sky
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—
  Gold, of course.
O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
  Earth's returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
  Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
  Love is best.

Two Hundred

Today is the two hundredth anniversary of Robert Browning's birth.  Almost wholly overshadowed this year by Dickens, who was three months older than him, it is a great shame that more isn't being made of the occasion.

Author of long, complicated poems, dramatic monologues, love lyrics and other pieces.  Born in Camberwell, schooled for a while in Peckham.  He committed himself to poetry and lived with his parents in New Cross (see his plaque on the side of Haberdashers' Aske's School in Jerningham Rd). 

He's one of those poets who've written lines you've heard before many times, but you didn't know they came from him.  

We like him, here at the Trees.  And he is a local lad.

So this is the start of our Browning week

On The Amazon

I developed an Amazon habit last year - books and CDs mostly - which I decided I should give  up for Lent.  All those newly-reviewed books and albums would just have to wait until Easter.

And then a few days before the end of Lent, the stories started circulating about Amazon's tax dodging.  Which meant, of course, I couldn't go back, couldn't re-acquire the habit.  Which is good really, and it does mean that I've been spending more time in real shops. 

But I do miss the little online frisson, the parcels turning up a few days later, and the voice saying 'What the hell have you bought now?'

Growing Argonath

I mentioned Nunhead's own Argonath a few years back.  They have often seemed small and stunted. 

However, possibly as a result of all of the recent rain, they seem to be sprouting!  Lots of tender green growth from the tips of the branches.

Go and have a look...

The Norbiton Dragon

So last weekend we went to damp Norbiton to see friends get married.  Or rather to join in with the post-event meal.

Which turned out to involve multiple courses of Thai food.  Ten or more.  If the usual fare at the Dragon is anything like this (and we believe it may be), they should be highly commended - and recommended,