Listen to the land; All about love

Listen to the land profile of a nation in terms of its living language. This week. All about luck. Listen to the land is produced and recorded by station w h y y Philadelphia. I drew a grant from the National Educational Television and Radio Center in cooperation with the National Association of educational broadcasters. By showing allow the writings of our country past and present. We can come to a fuller appreciation of those things which are meaningful to us as Americans and perhaps of the nature of our role in the contemporary world. Now with a quiver of Cupid's arrows slung over his shoulder and with a Romeo twinkle in his eyes. Here is your host and narrator Richard S. Burdick and this week's program all about love.

An order that must be obeyed. I sing of a dear little maid a mirthfully serious sober delirious gently imperious maid and first will consider her eyes a light as to color and size her Winkle linkable merrily twinkle simply unthinkable eyes. Then having a moment to spare we turn our attention to hair her tenderly curl a tive tumbly and we're not to have super superlative hair forbear to dismiss with a shrug her nose undeniably pug her strictly permissible turn up like visible urgently kissable pug. Now moving a point to the south we come to an actual mouth a coral Pearl leprous argument to her as mainly militarist mouth. Observe underneath that the chin connoting the dimple within a steady reliable hardly defy a bold true undeniable Chan by all that is fair.

It appears we'd almost forgotten her ears those never neglectable tented delectable highly respectable years and last but I speak of herself but little gypsy and now her quite an Ignore of absence deplorable wholly adorable self. It seemed appropriate this week to begin with that gay tribute to the fairer sex by author Gammon because as we informed you last week and as Jim Keeler told you at the beginning of this week's program our subject is love. In fact this one is all about love. We'll have our serious moments during the next 30 minutes but let's pick up things on a light note with Ogden Nash is the story of the strange case of Mr. BALLEN tines Valentine. Once upon a time there was an attorney named Mr. Ballantine. He lived in a

spacious gracious days of the 19th century. Mr. BALLEN died didn't know they were spacious and gracious he thought they were terrible. The reason he thought they were terrible was that love had passed him by. Mr Ballantine had never received a valentine. He said to his partner My name is Mr Ballantine and I have never received a valentine. Your partner said Well my name is Mr Bogart us and I received plenty of Valentines I just assume wouldn't you said Mr. BALLEN dying to know when he was well off but the Ballantine said I know my heart I know my mind I know I long for a valentine. He said here it was like Valentine's Day and when he sat down at his desk What did he find. Valentine's You know I find affidavits said Mr. Valentine. That's the kind of Valentine I get said Mr. Valentine. Mr. Bogart has said that affidavit was better than no bread

but to Ballantine said that affidavit affidavit affidavit onward into the valley of death rode the six hundred at a Bogart and said that any man who would rhyme onward with 600 didn't deserve any affidavits at all. As to Valentine said coldly that he was an attorney not a poet. And Mr. Bogart was about to take up the matter directly with Lord Tennyson. What about Doris at all all right. Speaking of Lords he couldn't remember who was the king before David but Solomon was the king affidavit. Mr Ballantine buried Mr Bogart is in the cellar and went out in search of love. Towards evening he encountered a maiden name Herculean of the strongest woman in the world. He said Madam My name is Mr. Ballantine and I have never received a valentine. Her cue Lina was delighted she said. My name is Hercules now the strongest woman in the world and I have never received a valentine either Mr. Valentine or Herculean A decided to be each other's Valentine. All was merry as a marriage bell. Mr.

Ballantine nearly burst with joy circulator nearly burst with pride. She flexed her biceps. She asked Mr. Ballantine to pinch your muscle. Mr. BALLEN time recovered consciousness just in time to observe the vernal equinox. He thought she said bustle. How many of you will be familiar with the verse play Medea by the dynamic mystical poet Robinson Jeffers long time resident of Carmel of Carmel Bartley California. Among Mr. Jeffords vigorous works is this quiet and lyrical poem which he entitled The maid's thought. Why listen. Even the water is sobbing for something. The west wind is dead. The waves forget to hate the cliff

in the upland canyons whole hillsides burst aglow with golden broom. There how it rained last month and every pool was rimmed with so three pollen dust of the wakening pines. Now tall and slender suddenly the stocks of purple iris blazed by the brooks the penciled ones on the Hill. This dear wood shivers with gold the white gold tulips blow out their silky bubbles but in the next Glen bronze bells not the doe's scolded by some hot longing can hardly set their pointed hoops to expect love. But they crush the flower shells pair on the rock birds mate the moths fly double what is time for us now mouth kindling mouth to untangle our maiden bodies to make that burning flower.

A few moments ago I read you OG and Nash's account of Mr. Valentine's Valentine the origin of St. Valentine's Day is uncertain. Three traditions seek to account for it one size it's a survival of an old Roman February feast called Looper carea. When young Romans put into the box the names of young maidens and then drew the names by chance for the coming of a Kenya festival. The second explanation refers to the rural tradition that about this time of year birds choose their mates and probably from this came the custom of young men and maidens choosing valentines or special loving friends on that day and the third is based on the stories about a certain well let me tell you a third in story form. Though the young daughter of the head jailer in early Rome had been blind since birth. She knew every inch of the grim prison which had always been her home

twice daily the girl aided her father by going down to the cave like cells and doling out pitiful rations of bread and water to the prisoners. She had developed an intuitive sense about its chained inmates and knowing how hard and cruel they were. She never wasted sympathy on any of them. Not until one evening as she was handing out the usual meager repast and she heard a soft voice saying. God bless you. What is food. The sightless girl was instinctively aware that this inmate was different from the others. It was a compelling voice even in its hushed quality and when his hand touched hers and taking the food the girl's heart quickened so intrigued was she that she violated her father's injunction about speaking to the prisoners and soon the two were conversing like old friends. The girl learned that the prisoner was a condemned man. She learned too why he was to die. And in the ensuing days spent long hours kneeling outside his cell where she learned what it meant

to be a Christian in time the girl unashamedly confessed her love for the condemned man even offering to help him escape which offers he rejected. One morning when the girl a grope her way to her beloved cell she found it on occupied. She knew even before before her father told her that the man she had grown to love had been put to death. But he had not gone without saying good bye. He left a note requesting that the jailer give it to his daughter drying the tears that filled her sightless eyes. She implored. A note and read it to please read it by the poor light of a flickering torch in that grim Roman dungeon. The jailer read Farewell my child a message the not to forget me now that I am gone. The note was signed Your Valentine and so it was that the blind daughter of the Roman jailer became the first person to receive a message of

love and affection which we call a valentine. A message sent by a Christian martyr who was put to death on February 14 in the year 2 0 7 A.D. The man whose name was Valentine became the patron saint to this day. And it is his martyrdom which we observe as St. Valentine's Day. At least that's the story according to the third version. You can take your choice as to the authenticity of its origin. Right now I like to read you a familiar poem by a man who became famous by writing such things it's a poem about a girl whose love led to her death and her name was Annabel Lee and of course the man who wrote it was Edgar Allen Poe. It was many and many a year ago in a kingdom by the sea that a maiden there lived whom you

may know by the name of Annabel Lee and this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea but we loved with a love that was more than love. I and my own about leave me with a love that the wicked sophs of heaven coveted her and me. And this was the reason that long ago in this kingdom by the sea a wind blew out of a cloud chilling my beautiful Annabel leaves so that her high born kinsman came and bore her away from me to shut her up in a subtle curve. In this kingdom by the sea the angels not half so happy in heaven went envying her and me. Yes that was the reason. As all men know in this kingdom by the sea that the wind came out of

the cloud by night chilling and killing my Annabel leave. But our love that was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we of many far wiser than we. And neither the angels in heaven above nor the demons down under the sea can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful. Ana believe. Well the moon never beans without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee and the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so all the night tide I lie down by the side of my darling my darling my life and my bride in the supplicant are there by the sea in her tool by the sounding sea.

Well that's rather morbid piece. Very moving. Here's a poem that sounds as if it should be funny but it isn't. It's called The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot. That title sounds as if it came out of a lot of I did not as had. But actually this poem is a modern classic about the boredom and the horror if not the glory in contemporary society. J Alfred Prufrock is a prematurely old man Adela tot. Culture ridden world weary aloof disillusioned is inhibited by his own distorted memory and his confused desires and as the poem brings out he recognizes passion. But he cannot rise to it. This is an admittedly intellectual quote unquote poem about love and its frustration. But if you listen closely and think as I read it I think it will

say something very emphatic to you. The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Let us go then you and I when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient ether ised upon a table. Let us go through certain half deserted streets. The muttering retreats of restless nights and one night cheap hotels and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells. And streets that follow like a Tejas argument of insidious intent to lead you to an overwhelming question. Oh do not ask what is it. Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go. Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs it back upon the window panes. The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes licked its tongue into the corners of the evening

lingered upon the pools that stand and dream. Let fall upon its back the sort that falls from chimneys slipped by the terrace made a sudden leap and seeing that it was a soft October night. Curled once about the house. And fell asleep. And indeed there will be time for the yellow smoke that slides along the street running its back upon the windowpanes. There will be time. There will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet. There will be time to murder and create and time for all the Works and Days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate. Time for you and time for me. And tie me up for one hundred indecisions one and for one hundred visions and revisions. Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go. Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time to wonder do I dare. And do I dare time to turn back and descend the stair with a bald spot in the middle of my hair. They will say. How his hair is going. Then. My morning coat my collar mounting firmly to the Gen. my necktie rich and modest but asserted by a simple pin. They will say. But how is arms and legs at hand. Do I dare disturb the universe in a minute. There is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. I have known them all already known the mob I've known the evenings mornings afternoons. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. I know the voices dying with a dying fall beneath the music from a father room. So how should I presume. And I have known the eyes already known them all the eyes that fix you in a

formulated phrase and when I am formulated sprawling on a pin when I am pinned and wriggling on the lawn then how should I begin to spit out all the buttons of my days and ways. And how should I presume. I have known the arms already known them all arms that are bracelet and in white and bare but in a lamp like downed with light brown hair is a perfume from a dress that makes me so digress. Arms that lie along a table or wrap about a shawl and should I then presume. And how should I begin. Shall I say I have gone at dusk through narrow streets and watch the smoke that rises from the pipes of lonely men in shirtsleeves leaning out of windows. I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas in the afternoon

evening sleeps so peacefully. Smoothed my long fingers asleep tired or at my lingers. Stretched on the floor here beside you and me. Should I after tea and cakes and ices have the strength to force the moment to its crisis. But though I have wept and fasted wept and prayed though I have seen my head grown slightly Vong and. Brought it up on a platter. I am no prophet. And here is no great matter I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker and I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker and in short I am afraid. And would it have been worth it after all after the cups the marmalade the tea among the porcelain among some talk of you and me. Would it have been worthwhile to have bitten off the matter with a smile to have

squeezed the universe into a ball to roll it toward some overwhelming question to say I am a Lazarus come back from the dead come back to tell you all I shall tell you all. Would it have been worth it. If one. Suckling on a pillow by her head should say. That is not what I meant at all. That is not it at all. And would it have been worth that after all would it have been worth while after the sun sets in the door yards in the sprinkled streets after the novels after the teacups after the skirts to trail along the floor. And this and so much more. It is impossible to say just what I mean but as if a magic lantern through the nerves and patterns on a screen. Would it have been worth while if one

suckling on a pillow or throwing off a shawl and turning toward the window should say. That is not it at all. That is not what I meant at all. No. I am not Prince Hamlet nor was meant to be. I'm going to attendant lard one that will do to swell up progress. Start a senior to advise the prince. No doubt an easy too deferential. Glad to be of use politic cautious and meticulous full of high sentence but a bit too at times indeed almost ridiculous almost. At times the fool. I grow old I grow old

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I park my hair behind. Do I dare to eat a peach. I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaid singing each to each. I do not think. That they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves combing the white hair of the waves blown back when the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea by sea girls received with sea wee red and brown. Till Human Voices Wake us. And we drown. You.

This is a delightful and imaginative piece which I have for you next the sort of thing all men secretly wish they could write to their best girl. Here is a young man sitting in Del Monaco's restaurant in New York tracing the path of his love for his girl all the way back through the ages to the first syllable of recorded time. And then he follows their reincarnation and enduring love up through all those ages to the present moment. It's called probably enough evolution and was written by Langdon Smith when you were a tadpole and I was a fish in a Palios only time and side by side on the ebbing tide we sprawled through the ooze and slime or skittered with many a caudal flip to the depths of the Cambrian fan. My heart was rife with the joys of life. But I loved you even then mindless. We lived and mindless we loved and mindless At last we died.

And deep in the rift of a car a dock to drift we slumbered side by side the world turned on in the life of time and lands heaved domain to we caught our breath from the womb of death and crept into life again. We were amphibians scaled and tailed and dragged as a dead man's hand we call you at ease neath the dripping trees are trailed through the mud and sand croaking and blind with our three clawed feet writing a language Don with never a spark in the empty dark to hint at a life to come yet happy we live and happy we love and happy we died once more our forms were rolled in the clinging mold of a New York only and shore the EON's came in the EON's fled in a sleep that wrapped us fast was riven away in a newer day and the night of death was passed then like Tim swift through the jungle trees we swung in our airy flights or breathed in the bombs of the fronted palms in the hush of the moonless nights and or

what beautiful years were there when our hearts clung each to each. When life was filled in our senses thrilled in the first faint dawn of speech. Thus life my life and love by love we passed through the cycles strains and breath by breath and death by death we followed the chain of change till there came a time in the law of life when over the nursing sod the shadows broke. And the soul awoke in a strange dim dream of God. And that was a million years ago in a time that no man knows yet here tonight in the mellow light we sit at Delmonico's. Your eyes are deep as the Devons brings your hair is dark as jet. Your years are few. Your life is New your soul untried and yet our

trail is on the camera. Clay and the scar of the Purbeck flag we have left our bones in the Bagshot stones and deep in the Carlene cried our love is old. Our lives are over and death shall come Elaine. Should it come to day. What man may say we shall not live again. God wrought our souls from the trauma doc beds and furnish them wings to fly. We sold our spawn in the world's dim dawn and I know that it shall not die. Those cities have sprung above the graves where the cook bone men make war and the oxen creeks or the buried caves where the moneyed mammoths are. Then as we linger at luncheon here are many a dainty dish. Let us drink anew to the time when you were a tadpole and I was a fish.

And so we come to the end of the daisy chain. Love then a varied forms of expression. Say what you will about love and everybody has a point of view. It's always with us. But unlike the weather most of us do something about it. Next week we're going to direct our attention to one of the most controversial man who ever held the office of president of the United States Abraham Lincoln. We're going to attempt a profile of the great emancipator a profile in prose using the words written by him and the words written about him. I hope you'll plan to join me at that time. I loved spending this lovely half hour with you which has been all about love. And I look forward to being with you again next week same time. Until then as a dick Burdick saying so long.