Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno un milione di scalee ora che non ci sei è il vuoto ad ogni gradino.Anche così è stato breve il nostro lungo viaggio.Il mio dura tuttora, né più mi occorronole coincidenze, le prenotazioni,le trappole, gli scorni di chi credeche la realtà sia quella che si vede.Ho sceso milioni di scale dandoti il braccionon già perché con quattr'occhi forse si vede di più.Con te le ho scese perché sapevo che di noi duele sole vere pupille, sebbene tanto offuscate,erano le tue.

To the sea, to the sea! The white gulls are crying,The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.West, west away, the round sun is falling, Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling, The voices of my people that have gone before me? I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;For our days are ending and our years failing.I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,In Eressea, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,Where the leaves fall not: land of my people forever!

A Note Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to tell pain from everything it's not; to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes. An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off; and if only once to stumble upon a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another, mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes; and to keep on not knowing something important.

Did I live the spring I’d sought?It’s true in joy, I walked along,took part in dance, and sang the song.and never tried to bind an hourto my borrowed garden bower;nor did I once entreata day to slumber at my feet.Yet days aren’t lulled by lyric song,like morning birds they pass along,o’er crests of trees, to none belong;o’er crests of trees of drying dew,their larking flight, my hands, eschewThus I’ll say it once and true…From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered,I learned that time cannot be spent,It only can be squandered.

I opened a book and in I strode.Now nobody can find me.I've left my chair, my house, my road,My town and my world behind me.I'm wearing the cloak, I've slipped on the ring,I've swallowed the magic potion.I've fought with a dragon, dined with a kingAnd dived in a bottomless ocean.I opened a book and made some friends.I shared their tears and laughterAnd followed their road with its bumps and bendsTo the happily ever after.I finished my book and out I came.The cloak can no longer hide me.My chair and my house are just the same,But I have a book inside me.

I had been hungry all the years-My noon had come, to dine-I, trembling, drew the table nearAnd touched the curious wine. 'Twas this on tables I had seenWhen turning, hungry, lone,I looked in windows, for the wealthI could not hope to own. I did not know the ample bread,'Twas so unlike the crumbThe birds and I had often sharedIn Nature's diningroom. The plenty hurt me, 'twas so new,--Myself felt ill and odd,As berry of a mountain bushTransplanted to the road. Nor was I hungry; so I foundThat hunger was a wayOf persons outside windows,The entering takes away.

February. Get ink, shed tears.Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,While torrential slush that roarsBurns in the blackness of the spring.Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,Race through the noice of bells and wheelsTo where the ink and all you grievingAre muffled when the rainshower falls.To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,Fall down into the puddles, hurlDry sadness deep into the eyes.Below, the wet black earth shows through,With sudden cries the wind is pitted,The more haphazard, the more trueThe poetry that sobs its heart out.

كم ثعباناً في قميصِكَ أيها القدر؟كم سكيناً خلفَ ظهرك أيها الغد؟كم قبراً مخبوءاً فيكَ أيها الميت؟

A rua dos cataventosDa vez primeira em que me assassinaram,Perdi um jeito de sorrir que eu tinha.Depois, a cada vez que me mataram,Foram levando qualquer coisa minha.Hoje, dos meu cadáveres eu souO mais desnudo, o que não tem mais nada.Arde um toco de Vela amarelada,Como único bem que me ficou.Vinde! Corvos, chacais, ladrões de estrada!Pois dessa mão avaramente aduncaNão haverão de arracar a luz sagrada!Aves da noite! Asas do horror! Voejai!Que a luz trêmula e triste como um ai,A luz de um morto não se apaga nunca!

NightNight came, sirens.Dark and breathless, it camewith the limp shape of my mother in its arms./In its white coat, it came with her from the bath/laid her on the floor in the hall./It struck her blue mouthforced the metal of its own mouth over the water of hers./It blew into her againand again. It said, Stay.It asked her name.Morning came. Tender it cameas tender as the one before.It brought wallsand the doors of the house stood swinging open and closing upon our secrets/for everyone to see. For days,I slept with the wordsI'd heard her singing in the tubHello, darkness.

He was weary of himself, of cold ideas and brain dreams. Life a poem? Not when you went about forever poetizing about your own life instead of living it. How innocuous it all was, and empty, empty, empty! This chasing after yourself, craftily observing your own tracks--in a circle, of course.This sham diving into the stream of life while all the time you sat angling after yourself, fishing yourself up in one curious disguise or another! If he could only be overwhelmed by something--life, love, passion--so that he could no longer shape it into poems, but had to let it shape him!

Tom Dancer’s gift of a whitebark pine coneYou never knowWhat opportunityIs going to travel to you,Or through you.Once a friend gave meA small pine cone-One of a fewHe found in the scatOf a grizzlyIn Utah maybe,Or Wyoming.I took it homeAnd did what I supposedHe was sure I would do-I ate it, ThinkingHow it had traveled Through that roughAnd holy body.It was crisp and sweet.It was almost a prayerWithout words.My gratitude, Tom Dancer, For this gift of the worldI adore so much And want to belong to.And thank you too, great bea

How I go to the woodsOrdinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a singlefriend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours. Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can siton the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almostunhearable sound of the roses singing.If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must loveyou very much.

This is the creature there has never been.They never knew it, and yet, none the less,they loved the way it moved, its suppleness,its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.Not there, because they loved it, it behavedas though it were. They always left some space.And in that clear unpeopled space they savedit lightly reared its head, with scarce a traceof not being there. They fed it, not with corn,but only with the possibilityof being. And that was able to confersuch strength, its brow put forth a horn. One horn.Whitely it stole up to a maid - to bewithin the silver mirror and in her.

However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.” “And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!” “I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,” said Darcy. “Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.