What delectable name! The bird too doesn’t disappoint indeed no bird does, it is always thrilling to come across new species. A charming little colourful bird that found the morning quite exciting and was seen flitting around with loud cheeerrirr. What makes the rendezvous memorable is that Black-and-Orange is Near Threatened specie (IUCN), endemic to high altitudes of Western Ghats. Though tolerant to modified habitat they are severely affected by large scale destruction of Shola forests since it prefers shady damp secluded place in dense woods. But must say even though its status is near threatened this bird- though difficult to spot, is not particularly concerned about human presence provided one is silent and motionless throughout the period of observation. Once you gain trust these birds can be observed at close range, a lively charismatic bird. I am really am quite concerned about habitat destruction of these birds. I was watching one of these programs on TV (very likely BBC) wherein they were giving instances of how human species could learn from designs of other species (right upto molecular level) to increase efficiency -these are outcomes of billions of years of evolution. There is lot to learn from Mother nature (oops using words like these nowadays can easily classify you as anti secular by Indian liberal powerbrokers!), and vanishing of species are colossal lose not only to the ecosystem but also our potential to understand mysteries of nature.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
To-day we make the poet's words our own,
And utter them in plaintive undertone;
Nor to the living only be they said,
But to the other living called the dead,
Whose dear, paternal images appear
Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here;
Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw,
Were part and parcel of great Nature's law;
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) is another of American poets who taught in Harvard (this apart from Elizabeth Bishop i discussed in the blog before this). He was probably the most popular English poet across the English speaking world during mid 19th century; his admirer included Lincoln, Dickens so on. He belonged to the group that was referred to as “Fireside Poets”. Poems by these poets adhered to poetic conventions therefore making it suitable for poetic rendition. It became popular through memorisation and recitations in schools and homes. More importantly it became source of entertainment for families gather around fire (in case someone is wondering why would family gather around fire...well its snows there, so meant to keep themselves warm. The only time i sat around a fire with people around was during lori festival-while i was schooling in north- almost everyone in housing colony used to turn up, sang songs, danced and ate sweets). Longfellow’s poems are rather charming something meant for the heart. When Walt Whitman heard of his death, he wrote that Longfellow’s poem "brings nothing offensive or new, does not deal hard blows. He comes as the poet of melancholy, courtesy, deference—poet of all sympathetic gentleness—and universal poet of women and young people. I should have to think long if I were asked to name the man who has done more and in more valuable directions, for America."The Children’s Hour
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
Hymn to the night
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
The Day is Done
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
Song of the owl
Ojibwa
The owl,—
Au
The owl
Au
The great black
Owl
Au
Hi! a! haa!
