To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream- -and not make dreams your master;
1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...
3 Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ...
4 Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
5 But nothing happens.
6 Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.
7 Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
I do not ask for youth, nor for delay
in the rising of time's irreversible river
that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall
in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute,
all that I have and all I am always losing
as sunlight lights each drop fast, fast falling.
I do not dream that you, young again,
might come to me darkly in love's green darkness
where the dust of the bracken spices the air
I was a vibrant, portrait painter, bringing cherished profiles to eternal life,
Like undying life of balmy springtime, recurring in shades of green so rife.
I had long been fascinated with new faces, for it is seldom, two are alike,
As vague wonder, and deep mystery, follows each zigzag, lightning strike.
Happy, sunglow days were active, since I had a large, fastidious clientele,
Like the starry nights of moonlit magic, which put nature beneath its spell.
I lived in the house of pleasant afternoon, built to await a stunning sunset;
I was an active and happy person, whose sole hobby was collecting treasures,
As night collects vast amounts of silver, with its precious moonlight measures.
I loved to amass unusual items, like first edition books or movie memorabilia,
Vintage records, ticket stubs and posters, riveting as the scent of a gardenia.
My collection grew large over the years, like fancy blooms that follow the sun,
Strewing mixed colors over mountains and valleys, creating charming visions!
I kept this collection in the detached garage, of my house way up Sunset Hill,
Sitting detached upon her moonlit throne
Yet with the butterflies, birds and flowers,
in blithe hues, she's never, in truth alone.
Mother Nature's pearly in midnight hours,
Lost in vivid dreams of sunshine bowers!
Dark and tranquil is night, under the moon,
And she wears flowers in her hair, in June.
Fragrances from many blooms fill the air,
as redbirds invade dreams with silky tunes,
and glitter and pearls light the velvet chair.
I was a professional landscaper, with passion for nature, and a green thumb,
Like passions of smothering, dreamy nighttime, to which we gladly succumb.
My work took me to many gardens, set in the butterscotch zones of summer,
As the music with its rhythmic beat, benefits from an accomplished drummer.
I loved being able to generate beauty, with the help of lavish, Mother Nature,
Whose colors are always perfectly matched and blended, through hush labor.
I enjoyed my own house's gardens, my pretty haven, of most adored flowers,
I dreamed of purple
all through last night's sable hours
in a sunset world
lilacs danced the dusk
underneath plum colored skies
in the sun's shadow
purple martin songs
from beauty birds on a wing