She changed the lyrics from “darling” to “daughter” CRYING sitting here with my own 3 month old daughter. So beautiful I love Joanna I saw her in Pittsburgh and met her and she signed my shirt. She’s so amazing.
I've watched this every night before bed since it's been published. I don't think it's helping me sleep I get so hyped every time but it's so beautiful I can't stop myself
Time passed hard, and the task was the hardest thing she'd ever do. But she forgot, the moment she saw you. So it would seem to be true: when cruel birth debases, we forget. When cruel death debases, we believe it erases all the rest that precedes. But stand brave, life-liver, bleeding out your days in the river of time. Stand brave: time moves both ways, in the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating joy of life; the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating joy of life. The moment of your greatest joy sustains: not axe nor hammer, tumor, tremor, can take it away, and it remains. It remains. And it pains me to say, I was wrong. Love is not a symptom of time. Time is just a symptom of love (and of the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating joy of life; the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating joy of life). Hardly seen, hardly felt- deep down where your fight is waiting, down 'till the light in your eyes is fading: joy of life. Where I know that you can yield, when it comes down to it; bow like the field when the wind combs through it: joy of life. And every little gust that chances through will dance in the dust of me and you, with joy-of-life. And in our perfect secret-keeping: One ear of corn, in silent, reaping joy of life. Joy! Again, around-a pause, a sound-a song: a way a lone a last a loved a long. A cave, a grave, a day: arise, ascend. (Areion, Rharian, go free and graze. Amen.) A shore, a tide, unmoored-a sight, abroad: A dawn, unmarked, undone, undarked (a god). No time. No flock. No chime, no clock. No end. White star, white ship-Nightjar, transmit: transcend! White star, white ship-Nightjar, transmit: transcend! White star, white ship-Nightjar, transmit: transcend! White star, white ship-Nightjar, transmit: Trans- -Sending the first scouts over, back from the place beyond the dawn: Horse, bear your broken soldier, eyes frozen wide at what went on. And Time, in our camp, is moving as you’d anticipate it to. But what is this sample proving? Anecdotes cannot say what Time may do. I kid with Rufous Nightjar, when our men are all asleep: "It ain’t about how rare you are, but how hard you are to see. Take, you and me-" “When are you from?” said he, in our blind of winter leaves, as we sighted out their fliers in the grayscale of the night fumbled on the bare ground to bury round landmines, while the dew lay down and dried. We signal Private Poorwill, when morning starts to loom: “Pull up from your dive!” till we hear the telltale Boom, too soon- hotdogging loon, caught there like a shard of mirror in the moon! Now they’ve stopped giving orders, but I follow anyway, laying in our state of torpor, waiting out the day while the dew burns away. Rushing, tearing, speeding home: bound to a wheel that is not my own, where round every bend I long to see temporal infidelity. And all along the road, the lights stream by. I want to go where the dew won't dry. I want to go where the light won’t bend- far as the eye may reach-nor end. But inasmuch as that light is loaned, insofar as we’ve borrowed bones, must every debt now be repaid in star-spotted, sickle-winged night raids, while we sing to the garden, and we sing to the stars, and we sing in the meantime, wherever you are? In the folds and the branches, somewhere, out there, I was only just born into open air. Now hush, little babe. You don’t want to be down in the trenches, remembering with me, where you will not mark my leaving, and you will not hear my parting song. Nor is there cause for grieving. Nor is there cause for carrying on. -and daughter, when you are able, come down and join! The kettle's on, and your family's round the table. Will you come down, before the sun is gone?
The seamless transition from time as a symptom to anecdotes SENDS IT damn
that transition between piano to harp though? wig-snatching.
she really just sat there and did that to me
This is how she opened the dang show and I am still reeling from seeing this live.
Um, nah. She opened it with Bridges and Balloons like she always does.
She changed the lyrics from “darling” to “daughter” CRYING sitting here with my own 3 month old daughter. So beautiful I love Joanna I saw her in Pittsburgh and met her and she signed my shirt. She’s so amazing.
I've watched this every night before bed since it's been published. I don't think it's helping me sleep I get so hyped every time but it's so beautiful I can't stop myself
i need to see her live, man
17 comments 5 24 2021 wow..I consider her one of our greatest living artists
Time passed hard,
and the task was the hardest thing she'd ever do.
But she forgot,
the moment she saw you.
So it would seem to be true:
when cruel birth debases, we forget.
When cruel death debases,
we believe it erases all the rest
that precedes.
But stand brave, life-liver,
bleeding out your days
in the river of time.
Stand brave:
time moves both ways,
in the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating
joy of life;
the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating
joy of life.
The moment of your greatest joy sustains:
not axe nor hammer,
tumor, tremor,
can take it away, and it remains.
It remains.
And it pains me to say, I was wrong.
Love is not a symptom of time.
Time is just a symptom of love
(and of the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating
joy of life;
the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating
joy of life).
Hardly seen, hardly felt-
deep down where your fight is waiting,
down 'till the light in your eyes is fading:
joy of life.
Where I know that you can yield, when it comes down to it;
bow like the field when the wind combs through it:
joy of life.
And every little gust that chances through
will dance in the dust of me and you,
with joy-of-life.
And in our perfect secret-keeping:
One ear of corn,
in silent, reaping
joy of life.
Joy! Again, around-a pause, a sound-a song:
a way a lone a last a loved a long.
A cave, a grave, a day: arise, ascend.
(Areion, Rharian, go free and graze. Amen.)
A shore, a tide, unmoored-a sight, abroad:
A dawn, unmarked, undone, undarked (a god).
No time. No flock. No chime, no clock. No end.
White star, white ship-Nightjar, transmit: transcend!
White star, white ship-Nightjar, transmit: transcend!
White star, white ship-Nightjar, transmit: transcend!
White star, white ship-Nightjar, transmit:
Trans-
-Sending the first scouts over,
back from the place beyond the dawn:
Horse, bear your broken soldier,
eyes frozen wide at what went on.
And Time, in our camp, is moving
as you’d anticipate it to.
But what is this sample proving?
Anecdotes cannot say what Time may do.
I kid with Rufous Nightjar,
when our men are all asleep:
"It ain’t about how rare you are,
but how hard you are to see.
Take, you and me-"
“When are you from?” said he,
in our blind of winter leaves,
as we sighted out their fliers
in the grayscale of the night
fumbled on the bare ground
to bury round landmines,
while the dew lay down and dried.
We signal Private Poorwill, when morning starts to loom:
“Pull up from your dive!”
till we hear the telltale Boom,
too soon-
hotdogging loon, caught there
like a shard of mirror in the moon!
Now they’ve stopped giving orders,
but I follow anyway,
laying in our state of torpor,
waiting out the day
while the dew burns away.
Rushing, tearing, speeding home:
bound to a wheel that is not my own,
where round every bend I long to see
temporal infidelity.
And all along the road, the lights stream by.
I want to go where the dew won't dry.
I want to go where the light won’t bend-
far as the eye may reach-nor end.
But inasmuch as that light is loaned,
insofar as we’ve borrowed bones,
must every debt now be repaid
in star-spotted, sickle-winged night raids,
while we sing to the garden, and we sing to the stars,
and we sing in the meantime,
wherever you are?
In the folds and the branches,
somewhere, out there,
I was only just born into open air.
Now hush, little babe.
You don’t want to be
down in the trenches,
remembering with me,
where you will not mark my leaving,
and you will not hear my parting song.
Nor is there cause for grieving.
Nor is there cause for carrying on.
-and daughter, when you are able,
come down and join! The kettle's on,
and your family's round the table.
Will you come down, before the sun is gone?
Stunning. Genius.
4:34 SEAMLESS
she's so brilliant UGH my fav... she needs to come to Denver!!
Thank you for uploading this. Hopefully she will perform in Europe pretty soon.
I hope to Christ she comes to Vancouver. She's the best ever
Thank you very much for posting Matt. This is just pure genius!
Where's her grammy ?
The Salvador Dali of harp.
Aaaaaaaaah