Monday, September 26, 2005

Quote

Still falls the rain
dark as the world of man,
black as our loss
blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
upon the Cross.

- Edith Sitwell

posted by Jake @ 1:24 AM 1 comments

Friday, September 23, 2005

Time and space 

        If Time and Space, as sages say,
      Are things which cannot be,
      The sun which does not feel decay
      No greater is then we.
      So why, Love, should we ever pray
      to live a century?
      The butterfly that lives a day
      Has lived eternity.

              The flowers I gave thee when the dew
              Was trembling on the vine,
              Were withered ere the wild bee flew
              To suck the eglentine.
              So let us haste to pluck anew
              Nor mourn to see them pine,
              And though our days of love be few
              Yet let them be divine.

      If Space and Time, as sages say,
      Are things which cannot be,
      The fly that lives a single day
      Has lived as long as we.
      But let us live while yet we may,
      While love and life are free,
      For time is time, and runs away,
      Though sages disagree.


  T. S. Eliot

posted by Jake @ 1:13 PM 0 comments

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Peace by Rupert Brooke

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

- Rupert Brooke

(Minstrels' entry for 17 September 2005)

posted by Woodworm @ 1:38 AM 1 comments

Saturday, September 03, 2005

dont know the title of this one


Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
 Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
 Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
 Only in sleep Time is forgotten --
 What may have come to them, who can know?
 Yet we played last night as long ago,
 And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
 The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
 I met their eyes and found them mild --
 Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
 And for them am I too a child?

- Sarah Teasdale

posted by Jake @ 4:36 AM 1 comments