This is another snapshot of the picnic in the Deanery gardens, taken a week or so ago. In the last week
we've been to two further picnics with friends, both followed by entertainment. The first was a week ago today at Kentwell Hall followed by a performance of The Yeoman of the Guard (my favourite G. & S. Opera), and a very good performance it was, too.We went with Brenda and Warren and Judy and David. On Thursday evening of this week we went to see Romeo and Juliet performed in Rendlesham Forest. We went with Eileen and Hilary. Picnic first. Every year a very good local repertory company puts on a Shakespear play in the forest. This year's was as good as ever. At the end of the play a teenage girl in the front row (we were in the second row) was blubbing heartily. As Ann said on the way home 'I do think Shakespear could have come up with a happier ending'. Actually that's two unhappy ending in a week - Jack point and Romeo and Juliet. That sort of picnic/concert evening depends for its success totally on the weather; and it was pretty good for both ours, considering what a weird summer this has been weatherwise. Yesterday Ann motored over to Wisbech to see Gran, stayed over with her, and came back this afternoon about five pm. I got on with some work yesterday, and played three good games of scrabble this afternoon. Supper any minute so had better close. Good night.
4 comments:
But it was a happy ending, they BOTH died!
Um, yes, but they were both young and lusty. And as another poet said (a few years later) ;-
The grave's a fine and private place,
but none, I think, do there embrace.
Andrew Marvel, I think, but I'd have to look it up. Much love, Pa.
Darling NEA, I didn't realize what a gothic philosopher you are!
Luv,
GUC
Andrew Marvell. 1621–1678
357. To His Coy Mistress
HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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