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The Gypsy Violin
by Munda

The compelling violin lures
With an irresistible yearn
Dance, dance, please dance for me
I can no longer adjourn!

Ethereal notes float from its strings
Caressing like a lover’s hand
Sensual music, Angel’s touch
Leading the way to wonderland

Embracing with utter delight
Craving, beckoning me
Tempting my lonely heart
Dance, dance on my melody!

Faster, faster the music escapes
Without compassion to body or soul
Seducer of lonely hearts
Until dancing is my only goal

Faces gyrate while I dance on passion
Flashes of fire in the corner of my eyes

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When You Are Old
by William Butler Yeats

When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

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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
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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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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