I know why the caged bird sings

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou

Star Light, Star Bright

Star, that gives a gracious dole,
What am I to choose?
Oh, will it be a shriven soul,
Or little buckled shoes?

Shall I wish a wedding-ring,
Bright and thin and round,
Or plead you send me covering-
A newly spaded mound?

Gentle beam, shall I implore
Gold, or sailing-ships,
Or beg I hate forevermore
A pair of lying lips?

Swing you low or high away,
Burn you hot or dim;
My only wish I dare not say-
Lest you should grant me him.

Dorothy Parker

A Peek into Clarence House

The first room is the Garden room and the Second room is called the Morning Room.

Clarence House for many years was the home of H.M Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother. Upon her death her favourite grandchild HRH The Prince of Wales with his wife the Duchess of Cornwall now live there with Prince's William and Harry.

The pictures show the transformation after Prince Charles with the help of his wife renovated and redecorated Clarence House to their own taste.

My Wild Irish Rose

Let me tell you a tale of old

a-fore when I

Was a rambling and a roaming then

Upon the heather way,

I was a searching for my one true love

To charm for ever and a day.

Where could I but find her

Those illusive flowing locks of raven hair,

A soft rosey cheek complexion

Of a tender skin so fair

For the brave to be a having.. but ne're do or dare.

But, I dreamt of her so

For I thought she would bear me up above

On angels wings

To a land of sadness never seen.

Well.. one evening I thought I had but spied her

A running wildly through the glen,

Her eyes all alight as diamonds

Her garment a-blowing in the wind

Then, the mist but up and shrouded her, afar,

fleeing from me then.

As the moonlight painted shadows

flickered 'neath the sighing tree

Eerie in luminous floating mist,

I struggled through the grasping bracken

Fearing of rocks below all dark and hallowed

Her footstep not to miss.

The fog did but lift as the clouds scudded by the moon

I saw the face of an angel glowing

tipped up toward the sky to croon

Not a moment too soon,

I discovered perfection delight

Casting a most wondrous silhouette

I gazed transfixed in that light,

Never had I been a feared

In the still of that vivid night.

My breath I now held and was about to cry out,

When the mist blew there across my sight

And I stumbled sharp and fell.

The moon smiled at my folly, as it sailed on it's way

For ne'er then could I find her once more

For be-sure, she vanished without trace

And I am but left,

with my story to tell

Of the sweetest touch of amazing grace.

My wild Irish Rose.

A Lighted Candle

The lighted candle in the window is an Old Irish custom to show that Joseph and Mary, who found no room at the Inn in Bethlehem, would be welcome in the house. The large white Christmas Candle, known as "Coinneal na Nollaig" which is decorated with Holly and lit by the youngest child in the family at six o’clock on Christmas Eve.

Will You be There?

Will you be there? my yearning heart has cried:

Ah me, my love, my love, shall I be there,

To sit down in your glory and to share

Your gladness, glowing as a virgin bride?

Or will another dearer, fairer-eyed,

Sit nigher to you in your j ubilee;

And mindful one of other will you be

Borne higher and higher on joy's ebbless tide?

Yea, if I love I will not grudge you this:

I too shall float upon that heavenly sea

And sing my joyful praises without ache;

Your overflow of joy shall gladden me,

My whole heart shall sing praises for your sake

And find its own fulfilment in your bliss.

Christina Rossetti

Mrs Beeton-A Life

Isabella Mary Mayson (1836-1865), universally known as Mrs Beeton, was the author of Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management and is the most famous cookery writer in British history.

Isabella was born at 24 Milk Street, Cheapside, London. Her father Benjamin Mason died when she was young and her mother Elizabeth Jerram remarried a Henry Dorling. She was sent to school in Heidelberg in Germany and afterward returned to her stepfather's home in Epsom.

On a visit to London she was introduced to Samuel Orchard Beeton, a publisher of books and popular magazines, and on July 10, 1856 they were married. She began to write articles on cooking and household management for her husband's publications and between 1859 and 1861 she wrote a monthly supplement to The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. The supplements were subsequently published in October 1861 as a single volume entitled - The Book of Household Management Comprising various information for the Mistress, Housekeeper, Cook, Kitchen-Maid, Butler etc, – also Sanitary, Medical, & Legal Memoranda: with a History of the Origin, Properties, and Uses of all Things Connected with Home Life and Comfort.

The book (usually referred to as Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management) was essentially a guide to running a Victorian era household. It contained advice on fashion, child-care, animal husbandry, poisons, the management of servants, science, religion, industrialism and a very large number of recipes (it is often called Mrs Beeton's Cookbook). Of the 1,112 pages over 900 contained recipes. Most of the recipes were illustrated with coloured engravings and it was the first book to show recipes in a format that is still used today.

After giving birth to her fourth child in January 1865, Isabella contracted puerperal fever and died a week later at age 28.