By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thous owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:--
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Rosaline
By Thomas Lodge (1567 ~ 1601)
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded, or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink;
The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The Gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded, or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink;
The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The Gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Summer Concert
My friend and I held a summer concert this past July, and here are the video from that concert. The program for this concert is as follows:
Sonata for Piano and Violin in G Major, Kv. 301 by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
- Allegro Spirito
- Allegro
Sonata for Piano and Violin in D Major, Op. posth. 137, Nr. 1, D. 384 by Franz Schubert
Sonata for Piano and Violin in D Major, Op. posth. 137, Nr. 1, D. 384 by Franz Schubert
- Allegro Molto
- Andante
- Allegro Vivace
From Alt-Wiener Tanzweisen by Fritz Kreisler
- Schön Rosmarin
- Liebesleid
Song without Words, Op. 62, No.1 by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy arranged by Fritz Kreisler
Praeludium and Allegro In the Style of Pugnani by Fritz Kreisler
From Spanish Dances, Op. 22 by Pablo Sarasate
- Romanza Andaluza
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Random tech and Science news that caught my interest this week (May 7 ~ May 15)
- Google, Google and more Google at Google I/O conference: Google releases Android 3.1, Google unveils ChromeOS laptops, Google launches Music Beta, and Google announces Android@Home.
- Sony finally restores PSN: With PS3 system update 3.6.1, Sony begins phased restoration of PSN.
- Finally, I have a sad new to pass on. Dr. Willard Boyle, Nova Scotia's own Nobel Laureate, passed away on May 7, 2011. He was 86.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
That time of year thou may'st in me behold
By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)
That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:
In me thous see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-an-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:
-- This thous perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:
In me thous see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-an-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:
-- This thous perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Revolutions
By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:---
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:---
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
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