Memories

Peach Rose

God

gave us memory so that

we might have roses in December.

–James M. Barrie

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Thrill Of The Chase

As I have gone alone in there
And with my treasures bold,
I can keep my secret where,
And hint of riches new and old.

Begin it where warm waters halt
And take it in the canyon down,
Not far, but too far to walk.
Put in below the home of Brown. Read more

give chase

virgo and the wolf, by Sebastian Luczywo
virgo and the wolf, by Sebastian Luczywo

When frost bites the moon

as she bathes in the snow And ice freezes the flow from her vein When you long to cry out but fear takes your voice Yet you secretly yearn for the pain.When the wind whispers long and low to the night While caressing the star-silvered coats Of four-footed children who thrill to the chase And the surge of warm blood in their throats.When the song of the pack resounds in the woods
And the notes drip, bright red, with the kill
Then you’ll sink to your knees, exhausted, at last
Feel the beat of your heart slow and-     still.

Written by Mary Ann Love

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Premonition

The muffled syllables that Nature speaks

Fill us with deeper longing for her word; 
She hides a meaning that the spirit seeks, 
She makes a sweeter music than is heard. 

A hidden light illumines all our seeing, 
An unknown love enchants our solitude. 
We feel and know that from the depths of being 
Exhales an infinite, a perfect good.

Though the heart wear the garment of its sorrow 
And be not happy like a naked star, 
Yet from the thought of peace some peace we borrow, 
Some rapture from the rapture felt afar. 

Our heart strings are too coarse for Nature’s fingers 
Deftly to quicken as she pulses on, 
And the harsh tremor that among them lingers 
Will into sweeter silence die anon. 

We catch the broken prelude and suggestion 
Of things unuttered, needing to be sung; 
We know the burden of them, and their question 
Lies heavy on the heart, nor finds a tongue. 

Till haply, lightning through the storm of ages, 
Our sullen secret flash from sky to sky, 
Glowing in some diviner poet’s pages 
And swelling into rapture from this sigh. 

George Santayana 

More poems from George Santayana 

We’re All Mad Here

 

 

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, or you wouldn’t have come here.”

― Lewis CarrollAlice in Wonderland