My heart in middle age found the Way.
And I came to dwell at the foot of this mountain.
When the spirit moves, I wander alone
Amid beauty that is all for me....
I will walk till the water checks my path,
Then sit and watch the rising clouds --
And some day meet an old wood-cutter
And talk and laugh and never return.

As the years go by, give me but peace,
Freedom from ten thousand matters.
I ask myself and always answer:
What can be better than coming home?
A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash,
And my lute is bright with the mountain moon.
You ask me about good and evil fortune?....
Hark, on the lake there's a fisherman singing!

waiting on a battery for 'Freda the Red Ferrari'
single seat mower, idle thus far this summer.
The battery will have to come on the ferry from the Main Isle,
when that will happen, how long is a piece of string.

749

All but Death, can be Adjusted—
Dynasties repaired—
Systems—settled in their Sockets—
Citadels—dissolved—

Wastes of Lives—resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs—
Death—unto itself—Exception—
Is exempt from Change—

136

Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so—

And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there—

Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go—

And later, in August it may be—
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!

Who One eventually becomes
depends heavily upon
the choices One makes-
the passions One nourishes-
the opportunities One pursues-
the perseverance One is willing to embody.

I wander thro’ each charter’d street.
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow
A mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man.
In every Infants cry of fear.
In every voice; in every ban.
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackening Church appalls.
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath;
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

Packages arrive, a scent of dreams unfurled,
The world spins on, secrets tightly curled.
Whispers of truth, in wrappings they disguise,
Promises gleam, beneath deceptive skies.

Like wishes granted on a winter's night,
Deliveries dance, bathed in fleeting light.
Clues unfold, a trail of hopeful signs,
News glimmers bright, where fortune aligns.

I pined for this
I yearned for this
But empty
I feel hollow
Undeserving and unwanted
You say 'i love you'
But I don't feel it
I feel like an obligation
Perhaps I can't feel loved
Or perhaps there isn't any to feel
We don't know what's best for us