posted January 18, 2013 06:04 PM            

quote:

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Originally posted by Swift Freeze: posted January 18, 2013 05:27 AM

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

A Dream Within A Dream - Edgar Allen Poe

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost

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posted January 18, 2013 07:20 PM            

In the scented bud of the morning O,
When the windy grass went rippling far!
I saw my dear one walking slow
In the field where the daises are.

We did not laugh, and we did not speak,
As we wandered happ'ly, to and fro,
I kissed my dear on either cheek,
In the bud of the morning O!

A lark sang up, from the breezy land;
A lark sang down, from a cloud afar;
As she and I went, hand in hand,
In the field where the daisies are.

--James Stephens (1882-1950)

posted January 19, 2013 04:32 AM            

XCVII

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,—
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.

posted January 19, 2013 04:34 AM            

If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went --
Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face--
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost --
Then count that day as worse than lost.

posted January 19, 2013 04:48 AM            

quote:

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Originally posted by Yin:
Count That Day Lost

If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went --
Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face--
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost --
Then count that day as worse than lost.

~George Eliot

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That is a beautiful poem Yin =)

posted January 19, 2013 07:46 AM            

@Venus: That poem is GORGEOUS! I feel more alive after reading it. And it seems very Libran to me.

@yin: That's my new favorite Dickinson poem.

@Chris: The Road Not Taken is a masterpiece.

posted January 19, 2013 07:48 AM            

quote:

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Originally posted by mirage29:
And so, I leave this in your honor for the love and work of childhood, coloring books and markers...

Shumann:Scenes from Childhood [1:55] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlJT1FefvR4

Nursery Rhymes ... and 'she shall have music wherever she goes' [1:10] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ch7cA6q6FU4&feature=player_embedded

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'Love these!!!

posted January 21, 2013 12:59 PM            

Gabriela Mistral (1889 - 1957) belongs to Chile, the same land as of the greatest poet of the 20th century - as according to Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Neruda.

Here are some poems by her. I absolutely adore this woman. She has a very strong, a very deep voice.

The Rose

The treasure at the heart of the rose
is your own heart's treasure.
Scatter it as the rose does:
your pain becomes hers to measure.

Scatter it in a song,
or in one great love's desire.
Do not resist the rose
lest you burn in its fire.

I am not alone

The night, it is deserted
from the mountains to the sea.
But I, the one who rocks you,
I am not alone!

The sky, it is deserted
for the moon falls to the sea.
But I, the one who holds you,
I am not alone!

posted January 22, 2013 09:17 AM            

by: George Gascoigne

posted January 29, 2013 10:20 PM            

You and I are like high mountains
And we cannot move closer.
Just send me word
At midnight sometime
through the stars.

-Anna Akhmatova
"In Dream"

posted January 29, 2013 10:46 PM            

quote:

---

Originally posted by Swift Freeze:
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

A Dream Within A Dream - Edgar Allen Poe

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost

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One of my favorites:

quote:

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The Listeners
by Walter de la Mare

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveler,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grass
Of the forest's ferny floor;
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveler's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveler;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveler's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

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posted February 12, 2013 07:02 PM            

To every man there openeth,
A high way and a low,
And every mind decideth,
The way his soul shall go.

One ship sails East, and another West,
By the self-same winds that blow,
'Tis the set of the sails and not the gales,
That tells us the way we go.

Like the winds of the sea are the waves of time,
As we journey along through life,
'Tis the set of the soul, that determines the goal,
And not the calm or the strife.

posted February 13, 2013 01:59 AM            

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Translated by Stephen Tapscott

posted February 13, 2013 08:42 PM            

Kindness glides about my house.
Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke
In the windows, the mirrors
Are filling with smiles.

What is so real as the cry of a child?
A rabbit's cry may be wilder
But it has no soul.
Sugar can cure everything, so Kindness says.
Sugar is a necessary fluid,
Its crystals a little poultice.

O kindness, kindness
Sweetly picking up pieces!
My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies,
May be pinned any minute, anesthetized.

posted February 14, 2013 05:39 AM            

quote:

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Originally posted by 12muddy:
Pablo Neruda

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Translated by Stephen Tapscott

I love this poem because I can relate. It describes so well how I feel.

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posted February 15, 2013 03:53 AM            

quote:

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Originally posted by mirage29:
Cancer/Scorpio729... WOW, that's full, really full.

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posted February 16, 2013 02:24 PM            

quote:

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Originally posted by Cancer/Scorpio729:
I do love me some Sylvia Plath...definitely Lady Lazarus is still my favorite though *heart*

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ADDED -- 2/20/2013 Wednesday 1020pm

Oh! Cancer/Scorpio729.... h:no! My oops!

So Sorry-- I was mixing up Sylvia Plath with Anne Sexton!!

(A long while ago I looked at her chart, and the charts for her two daughters, Linda & Joy.

posted February 19, 2013 09:31 AM            

quote:

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TIME: You were 14 before you learned the truth about your mother's death. How did you find out?

Hughes: I was in a literary course, a little weekend course or something, and the girl in the room I was sharing was reading The Bell Jar. Normally when people would say, "are you related to Sylvia Plath Hughes?" I'd go, "well, I can't imagine why you'd think that," and pass it off. I was very shy about it. But on this occasion, I couldn't help myself. I said, "oh, that's my mother." And she looked out of the window and she said, "but it can't be. Sylvia Plath committed suicide and your mother is walking across the forecourt with your father." [My father and stepmother] had just dropped me off. And I remember sitting on the bed, so shocked. I didn't really believe her.

That was the first you knew of it.

Yes. Because my father hadn't told me. The girl put the book down on the bed and walked out. I pick up the book and I see, yes, sure enough, there's Sylvia Plath, absolutely. I can't remember if suicide or not was written on the book, but I knew she had been telling the truth. Then an article was published. My father actually took me and my brother out of school so that he could tell us the truth before we read it in the papers that our mother had committed suicide. Because up until then, he had always told us she died of pneumonia. I asked him once, "Why did you do that?" He said, "What do you tell a three-year-old who doesn't understand?" And he said, "Once having told a three-year-old something that they could cope with at the time, how do you determine the age at which you tell them the truth? Every year would go by and I'd say, could I tell them now? It was because of the pain that I put it off and put it off." It's so hard, he said. This time we were taken out of school and so we came home. We talked about it.

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