Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:
To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.
I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.
I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.
What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
fragments of the ether
are not ever going to fly away;
they stay there floating softly
to the ether
Stairs spiral upwards
as the dust falls down.
The man is sitting
as a creature of the stars.
Photo from http://inspirationfeed.com/inspiration/architecture/50-crazy-stairs-from-around-the-world/
Ever more, your eyes are like
stones. Ripples have left in
the shadow of our lost
through open meadow,
clouds make darkened
spectral shapes. The story
of Sisyphus is formed –
mists carrying weights
they could have lost
long ago, if they’d been
honest with the world.
Perhaps rain will fall,
and new forms be made;
storms, obvious to all
who look, or feel weightless
pressure in the air.
Image: The painting “Sisyphus” by Kolesnikov Sergey, taken from http://www.russianpaintings.net/artists/artist_kolesnikov_sergey_246953/sisyphus_250500/
You are a flowering abyss:
everyday you grow more beautiful
and more empty.
Like a storm in its eye,
sublime in its power,
becomes so suddenly
silent, in one place,
as the billowing winds
and capsizing waves
rage around it.
You are so much more
than I can say,
than I can see.
To me you are just a collection:
of what is reflected and triggered in my memories.
Trickling adjectives, they are
the way of the words
flowing from your sleeping mind
where no one tries to be, create,
or halt whatever’s coming,
for “I need my attention
to be ready,
so will not focus it on anything”,
to stay within this world
that stifles, suffocates, reality.
to do what is right
only ends up with anger
and far worse wrongs
to him and not me;
they’re only concerned
with reaching the sun