Monthly Archives: January 2007

Who is She?

Who is She? by Gabriel Rosenstock Who is this goddess of yours? Who is she? 'Pure fantasy, I wager.' 'Is she not clear to you?' 'No, she is not.' 'Clearer than day is she ' clearer than night ...' 'Not clear to me ...' 'Day in night is she ' night in day ...' 'I see her not ...' 'Look inside yourself!' 'Difficult ...' 'Then look at her frost covering the grass.' ref. url: Who is She? In English and Gaelic
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Music

Music by Walter de la Mare When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovely things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies. When music sounds, out of the water rise Naiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes, Rapt in strange dreams burns each enchanted face, With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place. When music sounds, all that I was I am Ere to this haunt of brooding dust I came; And from Time's woods break into distant song The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.
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Cool Google Maps Aircraft Carrier Shot

Google Maps has a cool shot of an SR-71 Blackbird on the deck of the USS Intrepid at the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum in New York City.
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Happy Birthday, Lord Byron

Today is the birthday of Lord Byron, an English poet born in 1788 in Scotland. He was born George Gordon Noel. His first success was the poem Childe Harold's Pilgrimage written in 1812, which is based around his journeys from England to the eastern Mediterranean. Check out today's daily poem for another of his more recognizable poems, She Walks in Beauty. This particular poem is one of my favorites, and it was featured in the television series Beauty and the Beast that ran on the CBS network in the US from 1987 until 1990.
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She Walks in Beauty

She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
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