So sorry to have been unavoidably away from the board. A dearth of happenings? Nothing of mine own to add but here's one from the greatest poet who ever lived. You may wish to make a comment, or not, I hope you Will, just to show we are still a viable proposition and that we love poetry.
Sonnet CXXVIII
How oft, when thou, my music, music playes't,
Upon that blessed wood, whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds.
Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they whould change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
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Thanks for sharing this lovely sonnet Good Sir! :)
WOW! Thanks for that Vee: now I know it really is Christmas.
Hi Vee, so good to hear from you again. Yes, sweet William sure had a way with words. I have tried to get the depth of feeling and the imagery he generates into my own sonnets, but he is so good that I need another lifetime to get on the same planet as him.
Hi again Jackie, it seems so long since we last met. I do so like your comment.
I'm so glad you liked it Roberta. I find it ever more difficult to compose my own sonnets, these so cruel days of my old age. I hate being old, but then, I guess I was young once, at least, I think I was?
Breathtaking. That's what we need: to go back to fountain and drink.
From Viable Proposition Adetelyu
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