It’s like the Light -
A fashionless Delight -
It’s like the Bee -
A dateless - Melody -
A fashionless Delight -
It’s like the Bee -
A dateless - Melody -
It’s like the Woods -
Private - Like the Breeze -
Phraseless - yet it stirs
The proudest Trees -
Private - Like the Breeze -
Phraseless - yet it stirs
The proudest Trees -
It’s like the Morning -
Best - when it’s done -
And the Everlasting Clocks -
Chime - Noon!
Best - when it’s done -
And the Everlasting Clocks -
Chime - Noon!
- It’s Like the Light by Emily Dickinson
My life has the color yellow like the bright and blazing sun; that which
radiates light and vigor. My life has the color orange like a blooming
marigold; that which gives its songs to the bumblebees. It has the color light green
like that of a freshly cut grass; that which gives shelter to the soft morning
dew. It has the color light blue like the bold and beautiful sky; that which
stretches its hand across the whole horizon like an envelope of comfort. It has
the color white like the beautiful lily; that which gives solemnity and
tranquility to the mind. It has the color misty gray like that of the mighty mountains;
that which gives peace to the soul. It has the color red like that of a
blossoming rose; that which gives color to those beautiful cheek.
We knew that land once, You and I,
and once we wandered there
in the long days now long gone by,
a dark child and a fair.
Was it on the paths of firelight thought
in winter cold and white,
or in the blue-spun twilit hours
of little early tucked-up beds
in drowsy summer night,
that you and I in Sleep went down
to meet each other there,
your dark hair on your white nightgown
and mine was tangled fair?
and once we wandered there
in the long days now long gone by,
a dark child and a fair.
Was it on the paths of firelight thought
in winter cold and white,
or in the blue-spun twilit hours
of little early tucked-up beds
in drowsy summer night,
that you and I in Sleep went down
to meet each other there,
your dark hair on your white nightgown
and mine was tangled fair?
But side by side a little pair
with heads together, mingled hair,
went walking to and fro
still hand in hand; and what they said,
ere Waking far apart them led,
that only we now know.
with heads together, mingled hair,
went walking to and fro
still hand in hand; and what they said,
ere Waking far apart them led,
that only we now know.
- The Little House of Lost Play by J.R.R. Tolkien
My life has the color silver
like that of shimmering blade; that which cuts deep down inside. My life has
the color blue like that of a burning flame; that which devours the happiness
of a dented soul. It has the color orange like that of mighty volcano; that
which burns the shreds of a visible life. It has the color pale yellow like
that of a viper’s venom; that which scorches the soul of a human kind. It has
the color red like the devils soul; that which lights the fire of vengeance
inside. It has the color black like that of a tainted soul; that which invokes
the scorn of a broken mind.
I lost a World - the other day!
Has Anybody found?
You'll know it by the Row of Stars
Around its forehead bound.
A Rich man - might not notice it -
Yet - to my frugal Eye,
Of more Esteem than Ducats -
Oh find it - Sir - for me!
Has Anybody found?
You'll know it by the Row of Stars
Around its forehead bound.
A Rich man - might not notice it -
Yet - to my frugal Eye,
Of more Esteem than Ducats -
Oh find it - Sir - for me!
- I lost a World - the other
day! by Emily Dickinson
My life has the color gray like
that of a misty winter morning; that which makes my face look so pale. My life
has the color white like that of the cold snow; that which gives color to
death. It has the color black like that of dark night; that which takes the
light away. It has the color crimson like that of a broken rusty string; that
which has lost its music behind. It has the color violet like the deciduous
rhododendrons; that which breaks and thusly fades. Or perhaps is has no color
at all, like the chilly winds; that which shrivels the soul away.
In dreams I crossed a barren
land,
A land of ruin, far away;
Around me hung on every hand
A deathful stillness of decay;
And silent, as in bleak dismay
That song should thus forsaken be,
On that forgotten ground there lay
The broken flutes of Arcady.
A land of ruin, far away;
Around me hung on every hand
A deathful stillness of decay;
And silent, as in bleak dismay
That song should thus forsaken be,
On that forgotten ground there lay
The broken flutes of Arcady.
- Ballad of Broken Flutes by
Edwin Arlington Robinson
But then again, perhaps it is
as Henry David Thoreau says, “Not until we are lost do we begin to understand
ourselves.”