"atomies" poems - Hello Poetry

Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the tears that drip all over Huge moons there wax and wane— Again—again—again— Every moment of the night— Forever changing places— And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down—still down—and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain’s eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be— O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— Over spirits on the wing— Over every drowsy thing— And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light— And then, how deep!—O, deep! Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like—almost any thing— Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as before— Videlicet a tent— Which I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented thing!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.

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7.3k

Edgar Allan Poe

Fairyland

Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the tears that drip all over Huge moons there wax and wane— Again—again—again— Every moment of the night— Forever changing places— And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down—still down—and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain’s eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be— O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— Over spirits on the wing— Over every drowsy thing— And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light— And then, how deep!—O, deep! Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like—almost any thing— Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as before— Videlicet a tent— Which I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented thing!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.

46

This not quite the underground, but still a strange corridor- Scurrying in skirts and argyle and Two-piece research paper suits. They get together in the new Underground, they Smoke old memories and sit in a stoner semicircle To listen to old attendance records. Humming the anecdotal lark, a man with a prim tie Rises and steps into the middle to slam. Over the deafening Hookah comes David Copperfield. Hello Voltaire, have you brought your Reading glasses? The secret anatomies Held in the inked atomies Are all we come for. Let us in on this electric Canvas. Let us paint out plots of plots that All of us have known, Around and underneath, and speak out our Crayon set opinions, to tell the dim-eyed boys and girls About in detail later. Ooh, say eight o’clock?

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Apr 13, 2010

Apr 13, 2010 at 3:18 PM UTC

cody-edwards

InterNotoriety

This not quite the underground, but still a strange corridor- Scurrying in skirts and argyle and Two-piece research paper suits. They get together in the new Underground, they Smoke old memories and sit in a stoner semicircle To listen to old attendance records. Humming the anecdotal lark, a man with a prim tie Rises and steps into the middle to slam. Over the deafening Hookah comes David Copperfield. Hello Voltaire, have you brought your Reading glasses? The secret anatomies Held in the inked atomies Are all we come for. Let us in on this electric Canvas. Let us paint out plots of plots that All of us have known, Around and underneath, and speak out our Crayon set opinions, to tell the dim-eyed boys and girls About in detail later. Ooh, say eight o’clock?

18

we are small particles, atomies and dust tucked away in the back pockets of the universe -- --we still exist in seconds in flashes across the sky in sparks and matches in drops of ink on paper in love and touch in movement and breath and even in the dark the stars remember us.

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May 5, 2012

May 5, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC

julia-low

Atomies

we are small particles, atomies and dust tucked away in the back pockets of the universe -- --we still exist in seconds in flashes across the sky in sparks and matches in drops of ink on paper in love and touch in movement and breath and even in the dark the stars remember us.

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