Saturday, 7 February 2009
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
Sting... Have You Seen The Bright Lily Grow (John Dowland)
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Exilde for ever: Let me morne
Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorne.
Downe vaine lights shine you no more,
No nights are dark enough for those
That in dispaire their last fortunes deplore,
Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pittie is fled,
And teares, and sighes, and grones
My wearie days of all joyes have deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment,
My fortune is throwne,
And feare, and griefe, and paine
For my deserts, are my hopes since hope is gone.
Hark you shadowes that in darknesse dwell,
Learn to contemne light,
Happy that in hell
Feele not the worlds despite.
Sunday, 1 February 2009
Veiling the ice-bowed trees;
Their branches tinkle faintly
With crystal melodies.
The larches bend their silver
Over the hush of snow;
One star is lighted in the west,
Two in the zenith glow.
For a moment I have forgotten...
Sara Teasdale, From Flame and Shadow, 1920.