Podmoskovnye Vechera - Russian Song

. . .
Ne slyshny v sadu dazhe shorohi,
Vsjo zdes´ zamerlo do utra.
Esli b znali vy, kak mne dorogi
Podmoskovnye vetchera.
. . .
Not even a whisper is to be heard in the garden,

Everything has calmed down until dawn.

If you only knew how dear they are to me,

The evenings near Moscow!

Ochi chyornye - Russian Song

. . .

Ochi chyornye, ochi zhguchie

Ochi strastnye i prekrasnye

Kak lyublyu ya vas, kak boyus' ya vas

Znat' uvidel vas ya ne v dobryi chas

. . .

Dark eyes, burning eyes

Frightful and beautiful eyes

I love you so, I fear you so

For sure I've seen you at a sinister hour

Turn on Billie - The Pierces

...

Love me sweetly, and completely

Come and sit beside me

Cause you know I need you near

When you're reeling, with that feeling

We'll paint the town pink, cause baby red is so last year

Percy Shelley - Epipsychidion

...

Poor captive bird!

Who, from thy narrow cage,

Pourest such music, that it might assuage

The rugged hearts of those who prisoned thee, 

 Were they not deaf to all sweet melody.

Morrison's birthday

Mr Mojo Risin'

The First Day - Christina Rossetti

I wish I could remember the first day,

First hour, first moment of your meeting me;

If bright or dim the season, it might be

Summer or winter for aught I can say.

So unrecorded did it slip away,

So blind was I to see and to foresee,

So dull to mark the budding of my tree

That would not blossom yet for many a May.

If only I could recollect it! Such

A day of days! I let it come and go

As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.

It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!

If only now I could recall that touch,

First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know!

A sweet disorder - Robert Herrick

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness:—

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distractión,—

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthrals the crimson stomacher,—

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribbands to flow confusedly,—

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat,—

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility,—

Do more bewitch me, than when art

Is too precise in every part.