August 2012
86 posts
To The Moon: Sonnet XVIII do not love you as if... →
frost-at-midnight:
Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of…
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“A photograph isn’t necessarily a lie, but nor is it the truth. It’s...”
– Martine Franck
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Even When We Sleep
Even when we sleep we watch over each other And this love heavier than a lake’s ripe fruit Without laughter or tears lasts forever One day after another one night after us.
- Paul Eluard
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Upon His Picture
When age hath made me what I am not now, And every wrinkle tells me where the plow Of time hath furrowed; when an ice shall flow Through every vein, and all my head wear snow; When death displays his coldness in my cheek, And I myself in my own picture seek, Not finding what I am, but what I was, In doubt which to believe, this or my glass: Yet though I alter, this remains the same As it was...
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frost-at-midnight:
Night My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning, Disturbs night’s dreamy calm… Pale at my bedside burning, A taper wastes away… From out my heart there surge Swift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing. I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing, Meet mine… I see your smile… You...
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