Sometimes despite how much fun I think the internet can be ~ and this blog is a prime example ~ I wonder what this constant overload of information is doing to me. I know it cannot be good. I suppose it's my own fault. I don't need to visit news sites multiple times a day. One part of me wants to know what's going on out there ~ the other wants to remain in blissful ignorance. The frenzy of the press in it's anticipation of Michael Jackson's arrest, Bush all smiles in the UK amid massive protests and very nicely contructed effigies, car bombs in Instanbul, JFK Assassination Conspiracy Theory 101 on CNN.com....how much of this is information I need and how much more of it is carefully chosen fodder to distract and occupy my mind?

I don't have the answer. But when I feel like the world is just a giant ball of hate I try to take a step back and find things we hairless monkeys have done that may justify our existence if only for a moment. Today, that little contribution to the universe at large is this:

Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst's - Six Polyphonic Etudes for Solo Violin also known as The Last Rose of Summer. Ernst was an 18th century composer and the lyrics to this were penned after the fact by another 18th century Gentleman ~ Irish National poet Thomas Moore. I had this beautiful folk melody played in the church the day I was married. The lyrics may not invoke your typical wedding mood so I suppose it may not have been "appropriate" for a wedding ceremony but I didn't care. I love it and it simply makes me happy.

Tis The Last Rose of Summer

'Tis the last rose of Summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?