All through these bitter winter months I've got up in the dark, made my breakfast and watched the dark slowly turn to light. I often think of the garden as a stage .... and slowly, very slowly as the lights come on, the birds appear, all playing out their rôles ... the shuffling, timid dunnocks, a gaudy Jay bullying the robins, the various tits looking down from the overhead feeders, the blackbird creeping out tentatively to snatch a peanut fallen from the table, and the magpie putting all of them to flight. The players perform throughout the day, and as night comes they slowly, one by one, leave the stage, to spend the freezing night battling against the icy winds and rain. And over the months and years, they put on their show throughout their little lives, knowing nothing of their spectators, or of their eventual inevitable demise. All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms; And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like the snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin’d, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Here's an appropriate song ...
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AuthorThat's the author up there ... I was young and sprightly then. Archives
October 2022
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