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It used to be so full in here
Until a while ago.
There was another presence here;
I can't remember who.
A sharing of a plastic bridge,
A glass owl, or some sand.
But now they're all my own to have;
All mine, this watery land.
It's always been like this in here,
But always isn't long...
Is that a bridge I see just there?
That's new, if I'm not wrong...
-OS Dunn |
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Two
households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whole misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
-Shakespeare
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Mountain Interval1916 I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
-Robert Frost |
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