theophage: (sky and space)
I've found a place where they wander about, like so much unripe fruit...

I'm hungry.
theophage: (thoughtful)
A question of some importance. Especially if I'm invited to go visiting.
theophage: (silhouette with hat)


Pets. Very interesting.
theophage: (tea)


Tarot! What a wonderful conversation! Such a lovely woman of lovely manners.
theophage: (snuffed-out candles)
There are so many beautiful things.
theophage: (silhouette with hat)
It should be the right
of all places and people
when they fall
to fall with grace.
theophage: (silhouette bright light)
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

~William Wordsworth
theophage: (snuffed-out candles)
Lo! 't is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Woe.

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude:
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And over each quivering form
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

~Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)

Death

Dec. 8th, 2006 11:22 pm
theophage: (silhouette bright light)
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

~John Donne
theophage: (watch in hand)
Of all works I prefer
Those used and worn.
Copper vessels with dents and flattened rims
Knives and forks whose wooden handles
Many hands have grooved: such shapes
Seemed the noblest to me. So too the flagstones around
Old houses, trodden by many feet and ground down,
With clumps of grass in the cracks, these too
Are happy works.

Absorbed into the use of the many
Frequently changed, they improve their appearance, growing enjoyable
Because often enjoyed.
Even the remnants of broken sculptures
With lopped-off hands I love. They also
Lived with me. If they were dropped at least they must have been carried.
If men knocked them over they cannot have stood too high up.
Buildings half dilapidated
Revert to the look of buildings not yet completed
Generously designed: their fine proportions
Can already be guessed: yet they still make demands
On our understanding. At the same time
They have served already, indeed have been left behind. All this
Makes me glad.

~Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)

Profile

theophage: (Default)
Theophage

December 2010

S M T W T F S
   1234
567891011
12 131415161718
19202122232425
262728293031 

Style Credit

Syndicate

RSS Atom
Page generated Sep. 24th, 2017 08:55 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags

Most Popular Tags