“Gather Ye Rosebuds” by John William Waterhouse 1849-1917

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Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying,
And the same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying. (Robert Herrick)

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“To Daffodils” by Robert Herrick 1591-1674

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away
Like to the Summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.

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As a white candle
In a holy place
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.
As the spent radiance
Of the winter sun,
So is a woman
With her travail done,
Her brood gone from her,
And her thoughts as still
As the waters
Under a ruined mill.
(Joseph Campbell 1879-1944, Irish poet also known as Seosamh MacCathmhaoil)

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Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life. (Charles Dickens 1812-1870)

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The music is "Elizabethan Serenade" by Ronald Binge



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“La Donna Velata” by Raphael (1483-1520)

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The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies, my love,
To the dark and the empty skies. (Ewen McColl 1915-1989)

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You'll love me yet and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing:
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartful now: some seed
At least is sure to strike,
And yield what you'll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like!

You'll look at least on love's remains,
A grave's one violet:
Your look? that pays a thousand pains.
What's death? You'll love me yet!  (Robert Browning 1812-1889)

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“View of Laerdalsaren on the Sognefiord” by Themistokles von Eckenbrecher (1842-1921)

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Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool greenhouse;

Full of sweet scents
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
“We spread no snare;

“Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.

“Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be.” (Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-1894)

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“Spring in Norway” is the title of this slide show. The music is “Spring” by Edvard Grieg (1843-1907) played by the Oslo Camerata.





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And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. (Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822)

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