Caribou Narrows: Aspen

He was an aspen

THE THREE GREAT STIMULANTS BY JONI MITCHEL

I picked the morning paper off the floor
It was full of other people's little wars
Wouldn't they like their peace
Don't we get bored
And we call for
the three great stimulants
Of the exhausted ones
Artifice brutality and innocence
Artifice and innocence
No tanks have ever rumbled
through these streetsand
the drone of planes at night
has never frightened me
I keep the hours
and the company that I please
And we call for the three great stimulants
Of the exhausted ones
Artifice brutality and innocence
Artifice and innocence
Oh and deep in the night
Our appetites find us
Release us and bind us
Deep in the night
While madmen sit up
building bombs
And making laws and bars
They'd like to slam free choice behind us
I saw a little lawyer on the tube
He said "It's so easy now anyone can sue"
"Let me show you
how your petty aggravations
can profit you!"
Call for the three great stimulants
Of the exhausted ones
Artifice brutality and innocence
Artifice and innocence
Oh and deep in the night
Appetites find us
Release us
and blind usDeep in the night
While madmen sit up building bombs
And making laws and bars
They're gonna slam free choice behind us
Last night I dreamed
I saw the planet flicker
Great forests fell like buffalo
Everything got sicker
And to the bitter end
Big business bickered
And they call for the three great stimulants
Of the exhausted ones
Artifice brutality and innocence
Artifice and innocence
Oh these times, these times
Oh these changing times
Change in the heart of all mankind
Oh these troubled times

The Angler's Song

From the river's plashy bank,Where the sedge grows green and rank, And the twisted woodbine springs,Upward speeds the morning larkTo its silver cloud - and hark! On his way the woodman sings.On the dim and misty lakesGloriously the morning breaks, And the eagle's on his cloud: -Whilst the wind, with sighing, wooesTo its arms the chaste cold ooze, And the rustling reeds pipe loud.Where the embracing ivy holdsClose the hoar elm in its folds, In the meadow's fenny land,And the winding river sweepsThrough its shallows and still deeps, - Silent with my rod I stand.But when sultry suns are highUnderneath the oak I lie As it shades the water's edge,And I mark my line, awayIn the wheeling eddy, play, Tangling with the river sedge.When the eye of evening looksOn green woods and winding brooks, And the wind sighs o'er the lea, -Woods and streams, - I leave you then,While the shadow in the glen Lengthens by the greenwood tree.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

SNOW-FLAKES Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression,Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded;This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.

Caribou Narrows

Monday, November 27, 2006

Aspen

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THE THREE GREAT STIMULANTS BY JONI MITCHEL

The Angler's Song

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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