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.
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.