Poem of the day

Upon Phillis Walking In A Morning Before Sun-rising
by John Cleveland (1613-1658

The sluggish morne as yet undrest,  
My Phillis brake from out her East;  
As if shee’d made a match to run  
With Venus, Usher to the sun.  
The Trees like yeomen of her guard,
Serving more for pomp then ward,  
Rankt on each side with loyall duty,  
Weave branches to enclose her beauty.  
The Plants whose luxury was lopt,  
Or age with crutches underpropt;
Whose wooden carkases are growne  
To be but coffins of their owne;  
Revive, and at her generall dole  
Each receives his ancient soule:  
The winged Choristers began  
To chirp their Mattins: and the Fan  
Of whistling winds like Organs plai’d,  
Untill their Voluntaries made  
The wakened earth in Odours rise  
To be her morning Sacrifice.
The flowers, call’d out of their beds,  
Start, and raise up their drowsie heads;  
And he that for their colour seekes,  
May find it vaulting in her cheekes,  
Where Roses mixe: no Civil War  
Betweene her Yorke and Lancaster.  
The Marigold whose Courtiers face  
Ecchoes the Sun, and doth unlace  
Her at his rise, at his full stop  
Packs and shuts up her gaudy shop,
Mistakes her cue, and doth display:  
Thus Philis antedates the day.  
 These miracles had cramp’t the Sunne,  
Who thinking that his kingdom ’s wonne,  
Powders with light his freezled lockes,
To see what Saint his lustre mocks.  
The trembling leaves through which he plai’d,  
Dapling the walke with light and shade,  
Like Lattice-windowes, give the spie  
Roome but to peep with halfe an eye;
Lest her full Orb his sight should dim,  
And bid us all good-night in him,  
Till she would spend a gentle ray  
To force us a new fashion’d day.  
But what religious Paulsie ’s this
Which makes the boughs divest their bliss?  
And that they might her foot-steps strawe,  
Drop their leaves with shivering awe?  
Phillis perceives, and (least her stay  
Should wed October unto May;
And as her beauty caus’d a Spring,  
Devotion might an Autumne bring)  
With-drew her beames, yet made no night,  
But left the Sun her Curate-light.

Views: 38

Game of the week

Tomorrow is Tigran Petrosian’s birthday so naturally I wanted to present one of his wins. Normally, I try to present only tournament games that are not available in ChessBase’s Mega Database but ChessBase seems to have gotten all of his tournament games so here’s one from a 1982 simul at the Boylston Chess Club in Boston against local master (since relocated to Arizona) Joel Johnson, who has graciously added some comments (below).

Johnson’s comments: “Yes, a few things, first thoughts about that game – a big misconception – thinking that based on his reputation, he would beat me positionally. Now, after playing many simuls as the higher rated player, I realize it is important to play aggressive, in order to finish off as many opponents as possible, quickly.
Next thing, is the opening has evolved into two different openings – one called the Vanilla Polish and the other, the Polish Attack (my favorite). I play the opening much different as compared to those early games you listed. Both of these are fully described in Attacking 101: Volume 4. Below is a recent example of how I play the opening these days:”

Views: 36

Poem of the day

Rose Aylmer
by Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)

Ah! what avails the sceptred race,
   Ah! what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
   Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
   May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
   I consecrate to thee.

Views: 33

Know who you connect to on LinkedIn (and elsewhere)

Here’s one reason why.

LONDON (AP) ? Katie Jones sure seemed plugged into Washington's political scene. The 30-something redhead boasted a job at a top think tank and a who's-who network of pundits and experts, from the centrist Brookings Institution to the right-wing Heritage Foundation.

Views: 40

Poem of the day

The Dead Hero
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936)

We never saw you, like our sires,
⁠   For whom your face was Freedom’s face,
Nor know what office-tapes and wires⁠
⁠   With such strong cords may interlace;
We know not if the statesmen then
⁠   Were fashioned as the sort we see,
We know that not under your ken
⁠   Did England laugh at Liberty.

Yea, this one thing is known of you,
⁠   We know that not till you were dumb,
Not till your course was thundered through,
⁠   Did Mammon see his kingdom come.
The songs of theft, the swords of hire,
⁠T   he clerks that raved, the troops that ran
The empire of the world’s desire,
⁠   The dance of all the dirt began.

The happy jewelled alien men
⁠   Worked then but as a little leaven;
From some more modest palace then
⁠   The Soul of Dives stank to Heaven.
But when they planned with lisp and leer
⁠   Their careful war upon the weak,
They smote your body on its bier,
⁠   For surety that you could not speak.

A hero in the desert died;
⁠   Men cried that saints should bury him,
And round the grave should guard and ride,
⁠   A chivalry of Cherubim.
God said: “There is a better place,
⁠   A nobler trophy and more tall;
The beasts that fled before his face
⁠   Shall come to make his funeral.

“The mighty vermin of the void
⁠   That hid them from his bended bow,
Shall crawl from caverns overjoyed,
⁠   Jackal and snake and carrion crow.
And perched above the vulture’s eggs,
⁠   Reversed upon its hideous head,
A blue-faced ape shall wave its legs
⁠   To tell the world that he is dead.”

Views: 32

Poem of the day

When You Are Old
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Views: 32

Poem of the day

To Celia
by Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
⁠   And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
⁠   And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
⁠   Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
⁠   I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
⁠   Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
⁠   It could not wither’d be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
⁠   And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
⁠   Not of itself but thee!

Views: 36