Saturday, October 19, 2013

“I could live without music’s sound”


“I could live without music’s sound (heard silently, it needs no confirmation). But without books?”

— Ned Rorem, American composer

Thursday, October 17, 2013

“Music is so revolutionary”

“The trainees are out with their band of music, and I find my account in it, though I have not subscribed for it. I am walking with a hill between me and the soldiers. I think, perhaps, it will be worth the while to keep within hearing of these strains this afternoon. Yet I hesitate. I am wont to find music unprofitable; it is a luxury. It is surprising, however, that so few habitually intoxicate themselves with music, so many with alcohol. I think, perchance, I may risk it, it will whet my senses so; it will reveal a glory where none was seen before. It is remarkable that men too must dress in bright colors and march to music once in the year. Nature, too, assumes her bright hues now, and think you a subtile music may not be heard amid the hills? No doubt these strains do sometimes suggest to Abner, walking behind in his red-streaked pants, an ideal which he had lost sight of, or never perceived. It is remarkable that our institutions can stand before music, it is so revolutionary.”

—From the Journal of Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), October 17, 1857.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

“Autumn Daybreak”


Autumn Daybreak
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)


Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,
I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.
Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;
When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

No one blames the cat

No one blames the cat
in the dark of the closet,
alone and asleep.







© Quodlibet 2013
Dissemination, re-use, or duplication prohibited except by express permission of the author. I pay attention and I will find you if you use my work without attribution.


“It has come to this”

“It has come to this,—that the lover of art is one, and the lover of nature another, though true art is but the expression of our love of nature. It is monstrous when one cares but little about trees but much about Corinthian columns, and yet this is exceedingly common.”

—From the Journal of Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), October 9, 1857.