Wednesday, February 18, 2015

KBYD February 18, 2015


Grey Alphabets - Dead Sea Apes & Black Tempest
I'm Here Forever - Boys Boys Boys
Village Hustle - Jungle Fire
Control Myself - Jez Kerr
Crystal Bones - The Balcony Stars
Tiger - Krill
People States and Parties - Taser Puppets
All You Want To Be - The Oscillation
Distant Past - Everything Everything
Killer Bangs - Honeyblood
Pivot - Sex Hands
The Bobs Gordon - Them Sharks
Trial And Error - The Aggrolites
Tryptophan - The Moods
Let You Down - Inspiral Carpets (feat. John Cooper Clarke)
The Maze - The Abigails
Lost In Your Ocean - Arise Roots
My Gypsy Autopilot - Gogol Bordello


Bacchanalia (Stanza I)
by Matthew Arnold


The evening comes, the fields are still.
The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Unheard all day, ascends again;
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,
The mower's cry, the dog's alarms,
All housed within the sleeping farms!
The business of the day is done,
The last-left haymaker is gone.
And from the thyme upon the height,
And from the elder-blossom white
And pale dog-roses in the hedge,
And from the mint-plant in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night-air blows
The perfume which the day forgoes.
And on the pure horizon far,
See, pulsing with the first-born star,
The liquid sky above the hill!
The evening comes, the fields are still.

       Loitering and leaping,
       With saunter, with bounds—
       Flickering and circling
       In files and in rounds—
       Gaily their pine-staff green
       Tossing in air,
       Loose o'er their shoulders white
       Showering their hair—
       See! the wild Maenads
       Break from the wood,
       Youth and Iacchus
       Maddening their blood.

       See! through the quiet land
       Rioting they pass—
       Fling the fresh heaps about,
       Trample the grass.
       Tear from the rifled hedge
       Garlands, their prize;
       Fill with their sports the field,
       Fill with their cries.

       Shepherd, what ails thee, then?
       Shepherd, why mute?
       Forth with thy joyous song!
       Forth with thy flute!
       Tempts not the revel blithe?
       Lure not their cries?
       Glow not their shoulders smooth?
       Melt not their eyes?
       Is not, on cheeks like those,
       Lovely the flush?
       —Ah, so the quiet was!
       So was the hush!

No comments:

Post a Comment