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Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and distant voice in the darkness; So the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and silence. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Tales of a Wayside Inn, Part III, The Theologian's Tale, 1873 Across the fields of yesterday He sometimes comes to me, A little lad just back from play- The lad I used to be. -T. S. Jones, Jr., Sometimes Love is but a mist in the night, a summer breeze, a bird in flight. Love is a cloud floating in the sky, the ashes in the wind, a soft anguished cry. Love is the lonely cry of the loon, the absence of light, the dark of the moon. Love is the tears of the mind, the throe of thought, the mirage of the blind. Love is the tormented struggle to fathom the illusions, the heart's aching pain, the soul's delusions. -Dede, Love Is But A Mist All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. How like a younker or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return, With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind! -William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom-- Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings Of waters--with a sound but half its own, Such as a feeble brook will oft assume, In the wild woods, among the mountains lone, Where waterfalls around it leap for ever, Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. -Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mont Blanc, 1817 O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance? -William Butler Yeats, Among School Children, 1927 Happy those early days! when I Shined in my angel-infancy. Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought, When yet I had not walked above A mile or two, from my first love, And looking back (at that short space) Could see a glimpse of his bright face; -Henry Vaughan, The Retreat I'd be a butterfly; living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away! -Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797-1839), I'd Be Butterfly As lines, so loves, oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet. -Andrew Marvell (1621-1678), The Definition of Love Weep you no more, sad fountains; What need you flow so fast? -Anonymous (c.1400-c.1600), Weep You No More, Sad Fountains Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: -John Keats (1795-1821), Ode on a Grecian Urn And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), My Lost Youth Lost angel of a ruined paradise! She knew not 'twas her own,--as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. -Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), Adonais Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief with his rememberd lay; And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray, Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; -Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), Adonais
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