when i think of you
the waves of current still
like frozen pathways in the tundric green, spread across
the horizon as fog
black eyes, eyes that have seen me through
i am stilled by you
the ever drenching stream of samsara
like koi in turbulent streams gushing,
if the sea should rise
i shall go under
no longer breath a mystery
down in the deep aqua cavern
Emerson - The poet says that apollo tended the flocks of admetus; so too, each man is a God in disguise who plays the fool
now cracks a noble heart. good night sweet prince. and flights of angles sing thee to thy rest!
Beware the company of young men of persons of the great word...Do not seek to be seen in the company of the great.Imitation christ Book 1 Chapter VIII
lean not upon the reed that the wind sways, and put not thy faith in it, for all flesh is as grass, and its glory passeth like the flower of the fields.
as crabs ,goats, scoprions, the balance and the water-pot lose their meanness when hung as signs in the zodiac, so i can see my own vices, without heat in..distant persons- emerson
to anyone who hast lost that which can never..never be recovered! -Baudelaire
so the poet's habit of living should be set on key so low that the common influences should delight him. His cheerfulness should be the gift of the sunlight; the air should suffice for his inspiration, and he should be tipsy with water.- Emerson
-- ' the truth is that as we grow older, we kill the heart that loves us by reason of the cares we lay on it, by reason of that uneasy tenderness that we inspire and keep forever stretched upon the rack. Could we but see in the beloved body the slow work of destruction that is the product of the painful tenderness which is the mainspring of its being, could we but see the faded eyes, the hair against which valiant blackness times had so long been powerless, now sharing in the body's general defeat and suddenly turned white; could we but see the hardened arteries, the congested kidneys, the overworked heart; could we but watch courage failing under the blows of life, the slowing movements, the heavy step, the spirit once so tireless and unconquerable, now conscious of hope gone forever, and that former gaiety, innate and seemingly immortal, so sweet a consort for sad moments, now finally withered- perhaps, seeing all this in a flash of that lucidity now come too late, which even lives spent in a long illusion may sometimes have, as Don Quixote once had his-perhaps, then, like Henri Van Blarenberghe when he stabbed his mother to death, we should recoil before the horror of our lives, and seize the nearest gun , and make an end. In most men these painful moments of vision ( even assuming they can gain the heights from which such seeing is possible) soon melt in the early beams of the sun which shines upon the joys of life. But what joy , what reason for living, what life can stand up to the impact of such awareness? Which is true, it or the joy of life? Which of them is the truth?
- written in such prose that tips and tumbles and the words and richness of their meaning, by perhaps the single most influential and deep writer of the western globe, - Marcel Proust- in Les plaisirs et les jours- Pleasures & Days
