Or I will rend thee with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!
Winter plays its wild games no more among our mountains
The drift blossom melting, dying
The sky is one big smile in the bright evenings of spring
Sun kissing life into woods and lakes
Summer’s coming soon in scarlet waves
Gilded, shifting to azure lie the meadows in the flames of the day
And well-springs dance in the grove
I know roughly how all the regular commenters are doing. But how are you quiet readers, the Lurkers, doing? Would you please de-lurk for a moment and tell us what your quarantine lives are like?
… I, for the succour and diversion of such of them as love (for others may find sufficient solace in the needle and the spindle and the reel), do intend to recount one hundred Novels or Fables or Parables or Stories, as we may please to call them, which were recounted in ten days by an honourable company of seven ladies and three young men in the time of the late mortal pestilence, as also some canzonets sung by the said ladies for their delectation. Decameron, Preamble
Did you know that Mount Everest was named for a colonial Surveyor General of India? The locals called it Qomolangma, “Holy Mother”, at least as far back as 1721.
On my mind at the moment are Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, Poland and Junior going to Japan to study.