Stitching Thyme under the Willow Tree...: Scotland Homecoming 2009...

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Scotland Homecoming 2009...

Loch Lomond... by Runrig...

In Honour of Scotland's Homecoming 2009...

I had to repost this as when I went in to edit to add a label and a wee bit of text... the video disappeared... and I couldn't make it reappear!

Blessings and Love in Stitches...

Lizzy

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Sonnet 29...

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least: Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee,--and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings ~That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.

The Immortal Bard...
~ Will Shakespeare ~

Captain Wentworth's letter to Anne...

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own,than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan. - Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? - I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others.- Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating in...

~F.W.

I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or followyour party, as soon as possible. A word, a look will be enough to decidewhether I enter your father's house this evening or never.

~ letter from "Persuasion" by Jane Austen...

The Lady of Shalott...

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott."

PART II
There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.

PART III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river, He flash'd into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV
In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote 'The Lady of Shalott'.

And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."

~Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson 1809–1892

At the time of King Arthur and Queen Guenevere, the King of Lyonesse wedded the sister of King Mark of Cornwall. Thereafter he was unjustly cast into prison when his wife was great with child. Then the young Queen ran mad with grief into the wood and fell into her travail betimes. There she bore a son after many grimly throes, and she called the boy’s name Tristan, for her sorrows, and so she died.
Then Merlin brought the King out of his prison, and he married another queen, who ordained to poison Tristan so that her children should enjoy the land. But it happened that the Queen’s own son drank the poison and fell down dead. Then the King drew his sword and said, “Tell me what drink
this is, or I shall slay thee.” And she fell to her knees, and told him she would have slain Tristan. So she was damned by the assent of the barons to be burned. And as she was brought to the fire, young Tristan knelt to his father and begged the life of his stepmother as a boon. “Take her, then,” said the King, “and may God forgive her, if you can.” So Tristan went to the fire and saved her from her death, and thereafter he was known as a knight great in all chivalry for his bigness and grace.
Then the Queen of Ireland made war on King Mark of
Cornwall, and Sir Tristan rode to his uncle the King and took the battle on. And the Queen of Ireland had a daughter who was known for her beauty through all the world as La Belle Isolde. She was the most noted healer of all the isles, and despite the enmity between Ireland and Cornwall, she saved Sir Tristan when he suffered a deadly hurt. So King Mark devised to wed a maiden of such praise and swore his nephew Sir Tristan to win Isolde for him. And the Queen of Ireland ordained a drink of such virtue that the day La Belle Isolde should wed, she should drink it with King Mark and either should love the other all the days of their life. But on the sea voyage to Cornwall it chanced that Isolde drank from the flasket with Tristan, and thus happed the love which never departed them, neither for weal nor for woe. After this the Queen of Ireland died, and La Belle Isolde was Ireland’s Queen, but for a knight of Ireland who would be King. So went Isolde into Ireland to claim her own and fell into the hands of this knight, for that Tristan was away with his uncle Mark, whose great jealousy gave him no respite. And the King of France had a daughter known as Blanche Mains for her white hands, which Princess cast great love upon Sir Tristan and would wed no man else. And by cunning she devised to marry him, at the grief whereof Tristan ran mad and Isolde knew not where he was. Much pains ensued until that evil was undone. Yet either still loved the other through many darkly sorrows until the truth was seen.
Then Isolde sighed and said, “Well is it true, that there
be in this land but four lovers, Queen Guenevere and Sir Lancelot du Lake, and Sir Tristan de Lyonesse and Queen Isolde, and so I shall send to the Queen.”
Then King Mark’s jealousy could not longer be contained, and word was brought to his overlord Queen Igraine that great misery was boding for Isolde in the land. . . .

~~~ Le Morte D'Arthur

La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful - a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

~ John Keats

Sir Galahad...

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometime on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight--to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson...

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments; love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his heighth be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

~Sonnet 116
~ Will Shakespeare ~
~ The Immortal Bard...

Believe me...

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.
~ Thomas Moore

The Lonely Hunter

Green branches, green branches, I see you beckon; I follow!Sweet is the place you guard, there in the rowan-tree hollow. There he lies in the darkness, under the frail white flowers,
Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he is sleeping now, And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may crown his moon-white brow:And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden hollow Wherein he dreams I am with him -- and, dreaming, whispers, " Follow ! "

Green wind from the green-gold branches, what is the song you bring ? What are all songs for me, now, who no more care to sing? Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still, But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a shadowy place;
White is the hunter's quarry, a lost-loved human face:
O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow of failing breath, Led o'er a green hill lonely by the shadowy hound of Death?

Green branches, green branches, you sing of a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-young, sun-ripe, golden: Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-tree hollow, But never a green leaf whispers, "Follow, oh, Follow, Follow !"

O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing: O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing. Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

~ William Sharp
~ writing as Fiona MacLeod...