A Quoi Bon Dire Seventeen years ago you said Something that sounded like Good-bye; And everybody thinks that you are dead, But I. So I, as I grow stiff and cold To this and that say Good-bye too; And everybody sees that I am old But you. And one fine morning in a sunny lane… Continue reading Charlotte Mew
The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice. ― Virginia Woolf, Orlando. (Penguin Classic; Abridged edition, October 3, 2000) Originally published October 11th 1928.
Peter Quince at the Clavier I Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the selfsame sounds On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you, Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It… Continue reading Wallace Stevens
She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxicabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. — Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway. (Harcourt, October 28, 2002) Originally published May 14th 1925.
the sky a silver dissonance by the correct fingers of April resolved into a clutter of trite jewels — E. E. Cummings, from “Impressions: the sky a sliver,” Tulips and Chimneys. (Liveright; 2nd Revised ed. Edition, August 17, 1996) Originally published 1923.
It is remarkable how quickly they learn But if they learn and it is very remarkable how quickly they learn It makes not only but by and by And they may not only be not here But not there Which after all makes no difference After all this does not make any does… Continue reading Gertrude Stein
It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she… Continue reading Wallace Stevens