Saturday, August 15, 2009

I am the song that sings the bird.
I am the leaf that grows the land.
I am the tide that moves the moon.
I am the stream that halts the sand.
I am the cloud that drives the storm.
I am the earth that that lights the sun.
I am the fire that strikes the stone.
I am the clay that shapes the hand.
I am the word that speaks the man.

Charles Causley, I am the song.


The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
The highwayman came riding-
Riding- riding
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

Alfred Noyes, The Highwayman


"Tell me a story," says Alba, leaning against me like a cooked pasta.
I put my arm around her. "What kind of story?,"
"A good story. A story about you and mama.."
"Hmm. Okay. Once upon a time--"
"When was that?"
"All times at once. A long time ago, and right now,"

Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveller's wife


Death is great.
Laugh as we may,
we are its own.
In life's bright day
It weeps itself away
Into our hearts.

Rainer Maria Rike, Closing Piece.


When I was a child,
I was a squirrel a bluejay a fox
and spoke with them in their tongues
climb their trees dug their dens
and knew the taste
of every grass and stone
the meaning of the sun
the message of the night

Norman H. Russel, The message of the rain


Through this toilsome world, alas!
Once and only once I pass;
If kindess I may show;
If a good deed I may do
To a suffering fellow man,
Let me do it while I can.
No delay, for it is plain
I shall not pass this way again.

Anonymous, I shall not pass this way again


I lost a world the other day,
Has anybody found?
You'll know it by the rows of stars
Around its forehead bound.

Emily Dickinson, Collected Poems

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