Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. — … Continue reading W. B. Yeats
Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree, While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell Between its chords; and as the wild notes swell, The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea. — Dante Gabriel Rossetti, “A Sea-Spell (for a Picture),” composed in 1870 to accompany his painting A Sea-Spell (1875-7).
The Red Leaves take the Green Leaves place and the Landscape yields. We go to sleep with the Peach in our Hands and wake with the Stone, But the Stone is the pledge of Summers to come— — Emily Dickinson, . New Poems of Emily Dickinson. (The University of North Carolina Press January 1,… Continue reading Emily Dickinson
I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles,… Continue reading Walt Whitman
Time is the mercy of Eternity; without Time’s swiftness Which is the swiftest of all things: all were eternal torment. — William Blake, from “Milton,” Milton, A Poem (The Illuminated Books of William Blake, Volume 5) Princeton University Press; Reprint edition (September 4, 1998) Originally published 1810.
A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in—what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars. — Victor Hugo, Les Misérables. (A. Lacroix, Verboeckhoven & Cie. 1862)
Some moralist or mythological poet Compares the solitary soul to a swan; I am satisfied with that, Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it, Before that brief gleam of its life be gone, An image of its state; The wings half spread for flight, The breast thrust out in pride Whether to play, or to… Continue reading W. B. Yeats