302

Like Some Old fashioned Miracle
When Summertime is done—
Seems Summer’s Recollection
And the Affairs of June

As infinite Tradition
As Cinderella’s Bays—
Or Little John—of Lincoln Green—
Or Blue Beard’s Galleries—

Her Bees have a fictitious Hum—
Her Blossoms, like a Dream—
Elate us—till we almost weep—
So plausible—they seem—

Her Memories like Strains—Review—
When Orchestra is dumb—
The Violin in Baize replaced—
And Ear—and Heaven—numb—

Blessed am I to dwell where travellers roam,
weary on their aching feet
they sit here, sand between toes, sunburnt scalp and ice-cream hands.

Where lit fires warm content bones, sheltered from storms beyond the panes.
But our storms are never ugly here,
rain dances bout' the cliffs, wind shaking woods, sky full of bruise coloured clouds.

Not neat,
this land is not of order, she is made of wilder stuff;
of 'untamed'- of 'free',
of rolling land and sprawling wood.
Not neat, no, but peace.

And wilt thou weep when I am low?
  Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so—
  I would not give that ***** pain.

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
  My blood runs coldly through my breast;
And when I perish, thou alone
  Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
  Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:
And for a while my sorrows cease,
  To know thy heart hath felt for mine.

Oh lady! blessèd be that tear—
  It falls for one who cannot weep;
Such precious drops are doubly dear
  To those whose eyes no tear may steep.

Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
  With every feeling soft as thine;
But Beauty’s self hath ceased to charm
  A wretch created to repine.

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so—
I would not give that ***** pain.

Life is a pool
So deep we could drown
We are all diving in the ocean  
Holding our breath our whole life long
And when the time comes
As our lives are done
We finally surface
To see what may come