Phoebe of the Scottish Glen

Listen to:

Phoebe of the Scottish Glen (1:15)

by John Clare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  Agen I'll take my idle pen
  And sing my bonny mountain maid—
  Sweet Phoebe of the Scottish glen,
  Nor of her censure feel afraid.
  I'll charm her ear with beauty's praise,
  And please her eye with songs agen—
  The ballads of our early days—
  To Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

  There never was a fairer thing
  All Scotland's glens and mountains through.
  The siller gowans of the Spring,
  Besprent with pearls of mountain dew,
  The maiden blush upon the brere,
   Far distant from the haunts of men,
  Are nothing half so sweet or dear
  As Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

  How handsome is her naked foot,
  Moist with the pearls of Summer dew:
  The siller daisy's nothing to 't,
  Nor hawthorn flowers so white to view,
  She's sweeter than the blooming brere,
  That blossoms far away from men:
  No flower in Scotland's half so dear
  As Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

Mother Night

Listen & Watch:

Mother Night

by James Weldon Johnson

Eternities before the first-born day, Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, Calm Night, the everlasting and the same, A brooding mother over chaos lay. And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, Shall run their fiery courses and then claim The haven of the darkness whence they came; Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way. 

So when my feeble sun of life burns out, And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, I shall, full weary of the feverish light, Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep Into the quiet bosom of the Night.