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A Certain slant of light….

We do love a poem, especially when its about the countryside, death and Winter...

There's a certain Slant of light
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar
But internal difference
Where the Meanings, are –
None may teach it – Any –
'Tis the Seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –
When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows  hold their breath –
'When it goes, tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –
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Men of England


This track features a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley which is more political than 90% of the tunes on Spotify. It calls on working people not to accept exploitation and to rise up.  Written shortly after the Peterloo massacre (1819), it was thought too inflammatory to publish during Shelly's lifetime. Idles take note.

Men of England, wherefore plough 

For the lords who lay ye low? 

Wherefore weave with toil and care 

The rich robes your tyrants wear? 

Wherefore feed and clothe and save 

From the cradle to the grave 

Those ungrateful drones who would 

Drain your sweat—nay, drink your blood? 

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge 

Many a weapon, chain, and scourge, 

That these stingless drones may spoil 

The forced produce of your toil? 

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, 

Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm? 

Or what is it ye buy so dear 

With your pain and with your fear? 

The seed ye sow, another reaps; 

The wealth ye find, another keeps; 

The robes ye weave, another wears; 

The arms ye forge, another bears. 

Sow seed—but let no tyrant reap: 

Find wealth—let no imposter heap: 

Weave robes—let not the idle wear: 

Forge arms—in your defence to bear. 

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells— 

In hall ye deck another dwells. 

Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see 

The steel ye tempered glance on ye. 

With plough and spade and hoe and loom 

Trace your grave and build your tomb 

And weave your winding-sheet—till fair 

England be your Sepulchre.