-Untitled-
A
slaash of Bule-
A
sweep of Gray-
Some
scarlet patches on the way,
Compose
an Evening Sky-
A
little purple-slipped between-
Some
Ruby Trousers hurried on-
A
Wave of Gold-
A
Bank of Day-
This
just makes out the Morning Sky.
-Emily
Elizabeth Dickinson-
A
Dream
In
visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But
a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken hearted.
Ah!
what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On
things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That
holy dream-that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath
cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What
thought that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What
could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?
-Edgar
Allan Poe-
VIII.
Music
to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets
with sweets war not, joy delights in joy,
Why
lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly?
Or
else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If
the true concord of well-tuned sounds
By
unions married, do offend thine ear,
They
do but sweetly chide thee, who con founds
In
singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark
how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes
each by mutal ordering;
Resembling
sire and child and happy mother,
Who,
all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sing this to thee, 'thou single wilt prove none.'
-William
Shakespeare-
The
Old Lover
Why
do you weep you poor, sad, old tree
I've
lost an old lover, I'm weeping for me
But
what are you saying, you know we love you
Yes
I'm popular now but this love was true
This
was a love of from a difficult time
When
the love of a tree had no reason or rhyme
No
profit or motive of saving the earth
A
love 'unimportant, of dubious worth'
A
nuisance, escapist, naive or insane
Loopy
and loney and hard to explain
So
my lover among all this new passion and care
And
although I'm respected I'll always be sad
At
the loss of a love just a tiny bit mad
-Michael
Leunig-
Untitled
To
my quick earthe Leaves-enfierreed-
The
Bushes-they were Bells-
I
could not find a Privacy
From
Nature's sentinels-
In
Cave if I presumed to hide
The
Walls-begun to tell-
Creation
seemed a mighty Crack-
To
make me visible-
-Emily
Dickinson-
The
Dungeon
And
this place our forefathers made for man!
This
the procdss of our love and wisdom,
To
each poor brother who offends against us-
Most
innocent, perhaps-and what if guilty?
Is
this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each
pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
By
Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His
energies roll back upon his heart,
And
stagnate and corrupt; till chang'd to poison,
They
back out him, like a loathsome plauge-spot;
Then
we call in our pamper'd mountebanks-
Ans
this is their best cure! uncomforted
And
friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And
savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen
through the steams and vapour of his dungeoun,
By
the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
Cirled
with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds
its essence, hopelessly deform'd
By
sights of ever more deforomity!
With
other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest
thy wandering and distemper'd child:
Thy
sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy
melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till
he relent, and can no more endure
To
be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid
this general dance and a minstreslsy;
But,
burst into tears, wins back his way,
His
angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd
By
the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.
-Samuel
Taylor Coleridge-
The
Broken Heart
He
is stark mad, whoever says,
That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet
not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour;
Who
will belive me, if I swear
That
I have had the plague a year?
Who would not laugh at me, if I sould say,
I saw a flask of powder burn a day?
Ah,
what is a heart,
If once into love's hands it come!
All
other griefs allow a part
To other griefs, and ask themselves but some;
They
come to us, but us love draws,
He
swallows us, and mever chaws:
By him, as by chained shot, whole ranks do die,
He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.
If
'twere not so what did become
Of my heart into the room,
But from the room, I carrined none with me:
If
it had gone to thee, I know
Mine
would have taught thine heart to show
More pity unto me: but love alas,
At one first blow did shiver it as glass.
Yet
nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite,
Therefore
I think my breast hath all
Those pieces still, Though they be nto unite;
And
now as broken glasses show
A
hundred lesser faces, so
My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But
after one such love, can love no more.
-John
Donne-
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