Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
O camp of flowers, with poplars girdled round,
Gray guardians of life's soft and purple bud!
O silver spring, beside whose brimming flood
My pensive childhood its Elysium found!
O happy hours by love and fancy crowned,
Whose horn of plenty flatteringly subdued
My heart into a trance, whence, with a rude
And horrid blast, fate came my soul to hound!
Who was the goddess that empowered you all
Thus to bewitch me? Out of wasting snow
Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
I SAW where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's work;
A floweret crush'd in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
For darker closets of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
Up with the jolly bird of light
Who sounds his third retreat to night;
Faire Amarantha from her bed
Ashamed starts, and rises red
As the carnation-mantled morne,
Who now the blushing robe doth spurne,
And puts on angry gray, whilst she,
The envy of a deity,
Arayes her limbes, too rich indeed
To be inshrin'd in such a weed;
Tide of the midnight ocean soon to peak.
The turtles crawl to the moon their souls seek.
Across the golden front they go to war,
A kindness to those who don’t reach the shore.
Comfort sought in the chaos of clashing waves.
No tombstones beside their premature graves.
Who bears the burden for those who are cursed?
How about fate like music well rehearsed?
One turtle reaches the shoreline with grace,
One is cursed with thoughts it can not erase.
Oh, black man of the night
Robber of every soul
destroyer of the strongest heart
Melter of the most beautiful eyes
Why do you make us wail in hate?
Why become our unpredictable fate?
Why take away our voice?
Why make us feel like we don’t have a choice
how could we know
we’d get on so
that morning in Vienna
a cocktail bar
and shining stars
we shared a cab
now here we are
Where does my role lay in the universe?
Am I a spec of dust or the collapse of it
The stones are in place or they lay loose
A war of fate fighting volatility
None of us knows who wears the crown
Knowledge is that both cannot be true
Am I a living creature that can make decisions
That impact every event after such
Which I am held liable for all that occurs
Or do we float on a rock destined to crumble
It came in the blackness of midnight,
A beam in the darkness, glowing white,
And soared to space, above the crowd,
Where scintillating gleam is allowed!
His torch lit the way for many others,
Pursuing his footsteps through the years,
And altered extremely, so much of fate,
So that for destiny they weren't late.