song
Rating: 20 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
To sailors, all nature is brimming with grand
Ideas  with thought and emotion;
I pity the dunces who can't understand
The song of the earth, sky and ocean.
| Amount of texts to »song« | 34, and there are 33 texts (97.06%) with a rating above the adjusted level (-3) | 
| Average lenght of texts | 464 Characters | 
| Average Rating | 6.059 points, 5 Not rated texts | 
| First text | on Jun 15th 2000, 13:23:09 wrote maike about song | 
| Latest text | on Nov 22nd 2015, 09:24:47 wrote Amber about song | 
| Some texts that have not been rated at all (overall: 5) | 
on Aug 1st 2007, 17:53:03 wrote 
on Sep 24th 2001, 05:30:53 wrote 
on Nov 11th 2012, 07:25:51 wrote | 
To sailors, all nature is brimming with grand
Ideas  with thought and emotion;
I pity the dunces who can't understand
The song of the earth, sky and ocean.
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds,
Baked in a pie;
When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing;
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before a king?
The king was in his countinghouse
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes,
Along came a blackbird,
And snipped off her nose.
~~~  
                 Just a song at twilight 
                 When the lights are low 
                 And the flickering shadows 
                 Softly come and go.  
                 Though the heart be weary 
                 Sad the day and long 
                 Still to us at twilight 
                 Comes love's old sweet song.  
                 ~~~  
FAR I hear the bugle blow 
To call me where I would not go, 
And the guns begin the song, 
“Soldier, fly or stay for long.” 
A.E.Housman
I cannot sing the song of the humpback whale or dance the dance of the bees, but no matter. I know who I am.
'Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low'. Pity they didn't remember that Victorian line in 1914. Instead, 'the lights went out all over Europe' (as unmusically remarked by Lord Grey) and a war of hatred and horror began. No songs, no tenderness  »And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds« (Wilfred Owen  dead in the trenches).
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