Nothing to tell why I cannot write in re Nobody; nobody to narrate this latter acknowledgement: the self that counts words to a line, accountable survivor pain-wedged, pinioned in the cleft trunk, less petty than a sprite, poisonous as Ariel to Prospero's own knowledge. In my room a vase of peacock feathers. I will attempt to describe them, as if for evidence on which a life depends. Except for the eyes they are threadbare, the threads hanging as from a luminate tough weed in February. But those eyes—like a Greek letter, omega, fossiled in an Indian shawl; like a shaved cross section of living tissue,
Your soul is like a landscape fantasy, Where masks and Bergamasks, in charming wise, Strum lutes and dance, just a bit sad to be Hidden beneath their fanciful disguise.
Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The young, the noble Strephon is no more. Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing light, And ne’er shall rise from Death’s eternal night, So rich a prize the Stygian gods ne’er bore, Such wit, such beauty, never graced their shore. He was but lent this duller world t’ improve In all the charms of poetry, and love; Both were his gift, which freely he bestowed, And like a god, dealt to the wond’ring crowd. Scorning the little vanity of fame, Spight of himself attained a glorious name. But oh! in vain was all his peevish pride, The sun as soon might his vast luster hide, As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright,
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace My life through its first years, and measured back The way I travell'd when I first began To love the woods and fields; the passion yet Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal, By nourishment that came unsought, for still, From week to week, from month to month, we liv'd A round of tumult: duly were our games Prolong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd; No chair remain'd before the doors, the bench And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep The Labourer, and the old Man who had sate, A later lingerer, yet the revelry Continued, and the loud uproar: at last,
I’ve carved a cave in the mountainside. I’ve drilled for water, stocked provisions to last a lifetime. The walls are smooth. We can live here, love, safe from elements. We’ll invent another love that can’t destroy. We’ll make exquisite reproductions of our selves, immortal on these walls.
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: Go where I will, to me thou art the same A lov'd regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny— A world to roam through, and a home with thee.
The heavy, wet, guttural small-plane engine fights for air, and goes down in humid darkness about where the airport should be. I take a lot for granted, not pleased to be living under the phlegm- soaked, gaseous, foggy and irradiated heavens whose angels wear collars in propjets
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