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Post by dvg on Nov 6, 2020 15:01:57 GMT
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Post by fredg on Nov 8, 2020 14:47:06 GMT
Immersed in
fog are
we.
Spirits moving.
Moving in
uncertainty.
Sprung up
from fog.
Basic reality
quantum uncertain.
Sprung up
from nothing,
nothing at all.
Spirits are we,
spring up from,
then
falling back
into
nothing.
Spirits
on the
move.
Popping
in and out
of many
realms.
Spirits
are we!
Fog - John Prophet
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Post by dvg on Jun 10, 2021 17:09:21 GMT
Weeds don't need planting in well-drained soil; they don't ask for fertilizer or bits of rag to scare away the birds. They come without invitation; and they don't take the hint when you want them to go. Weeds are nobody's guests: More like squatters. -Norman Nicholson dvg
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Post by dvg on Jul 7, 2021 16:12:17 GMT
Say instead it was an evening in head-high bracken with its smell of dark and medicine. Thinking green of the infecting fern
where you may crouch and not be known, lodging your feet for good amid the stalks. A bower is a dwelling place or once it was
a cage for pent-up singing birds. Look down to see the warp and weft of root. All the world is in these clutches.
Look up to clock the fern’s drab underneath blotched with spores you mustn’t breathe. Breathe in deep. There’s nowhere else to live.
~Katherine Towers
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Post by dvg on Aug 11, 2021 17:29:52 GMT
Sometimes hidden from me
in daily custom and in trust,
so that I live by you unaware
as by the beating of my heart,
Suddenly you flare in my sight,
a wild rose looming at the edge
of thicket, grace and light
where yesterday was only shade,
and once again I am blessed, choosing
again what I chose before.
~ Wendell Berry
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Post by dvg on Aug 19, 2021 17:32:34 GMT
I sit staring out of my window
my thoughts melancholy
wondering how God
whom I so lately praise
for giving me such beautiful trees
after so many years
of careful caring
could destroy them
in one day
with twenty inches of wet snow
that will be gone tomorrow
and my heart tells me
God was right
I did not love them
nearly enough
~Sandy Mactaggart dvg
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Post by dvg on Sept 1, 2021 23:40:56 GMT
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer …
~Sara Teasdale dvg
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Post by dvg on Sept 24, 2021 13:53:48 GMT
The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
~Emily Dickenson
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Post by dvg on Oct 30, 2021 20:21:40 GMT
I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high—higher than most— And the green gate was locked.
And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone— I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on.
By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do—and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow!
She bent above my favourite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled—there was no hint Of sadness in her face.
She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go.
And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused—then opened and passed through A gate that once was there
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Post by dvg on Dec 3, 2021 16:08:17 GMT
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,- Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again,-but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn!-What is the Spring to me?
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay dvg
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Post by dvg on Mar 16, 2022 17:37:20 GMT
O Winter! I'd live that life of thine, With a frosty brow and an icicle tongue, And never a song my whole life long, - Were such delicious burial mine! To die and be buried, and so remain A wandering brook in April's train, Fixing my dying eyes for aye On the dawning brows of maiden May.
~ George Meredith
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Post by dvg on Mar 24, 2022 16:55:09 GMT
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
~ William Wordsworth dvg
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Post by dvg on May 2, 2022 18:28:55 GMT
“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.
~Emily Dickinson
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Post by dvg on May 29, 2022 10:49:31 GMT
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
~Lord Byron dvg
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Post by dvg on Jul 11, 2022 2:24:06 GMT
Listen: there was once a king sitting on his throne.
Around Him stood great and wonderfully beautiful columns ornamented with ivory, bearing the banners of the king with great honour.
Then it pleased the king to raise a small feather from the ground, and he commanded it to fly.
The feather flew, not because of anything in itself but because the air bore it along.
Thus am I, a feather on the breath of God.
~Hildegard of Bingen
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