Oh, the place you’ll go in a Stressless chair

[Join us next Friday, Nov. 8th for Norwegian delicacies, French wines, European beer and a lot of fun, from noon to 7 pm. Register to win a Stressless chair and ottoman.]

Oh, the places you’ll go in a Stressless chair
You’ll see great sights
Like Timbuktu and the Taj Mahal
You’ll soar to heights
Like an eagle in flight
Go by day, go by night
It matters not
In a Stressless chair

Oh the places you’ll see
Like the Eiffel Tower in Grand Pareé
Might I suggest
A glass of wine
A Chablis or Merlot
From a grape that grows on a sunny hill
On the hills of Bordeaux
You know…
The wine they drink
In small cafes
On the Rue de Rennes in Montparnasse
You know the place
Where we first met
Years ago

Recline and relax
You’ll know what I mean
When you sit and you breathe
The air above Madagascar
You’ll know how it feels
On a safari on the Kalahari
Listen you’ll hear
A lion roar or an elephant trumpet
Stranger still is the hyena cry
And the baboon that laughs
By the light of the silvery moon

Now, close your eyes
You’ll see I’m right
It is not so far
As the grocery store
On the very next block

And to think
The simplest thing
Is the strangest thing
You’ll do it right here
In a Stressless chair

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The wanderings of Oisin

A Stressless recliner is a lovely place from which to travel.

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Today, this moment, let us rise and go to the misty isles of Faerie and join William Butler Yeats as he recounts the 300 year old tale of Ireland’s greatest poet, Oisin and his wife, the fairy princess Niamh.

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And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, ‘God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow

We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes: ‘Upon the dead
Fall the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.

More of the Wanderings of Oisin, Book One

water-mist
credit image, Pixabay