These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God today. There is no time for them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live… Continue reading Ralph Waldo Emerson
we sit and talk I wish to be with you abed, we two as if the bed were the bed of a stream —I have much to say to you We sit and talk, quietly, with long lapses of silence and I am aware of the stream that has no language, coursing beneath the quiet… Continue reading William Carlos Williams
What will survive of us is love. — Philip Larkin, from “An Arundel Tomb”, Collected Poems. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; American ed edition April 1, 2004) Originally published October 10th 1988.
How sad they are, the promises we never return to. They stay in our mouths, roughen the tongue, lead lives of their own. Houses built and unwittingly lived in; a succession of milk bottles brought to the door every morning and taken inside. And which one is real? The music in the composer’s ear or… Continue reading Jane Hirshfield
Blue gives us an impression of cold, and thus, again, reminds us of shade. We have before spoken of its affinity with black. — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Theory of Colours. (The M.I.T. Press; 1st edition March 15, 1970) Originally published 1810.
Pain — has an Element of Blank — It cannot recollect When it begun — or if there were A time when it was not — It has no Future — but itself — Its Infinite realms contain Its Past — enlightened to perceive New Periods — of Pain. — Emily Dickinson, “Pain — has… Continue reading Emily Dickinson