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May Sarton

  • horizonsofabyssцитируетв прошлом году
    Now we are able only to graph the flight;

    For we never actually rose from the ground,
  • horizonsofabyssцитирует8 месяцев назад
    By Moonlight
    We are true lovers without hope

    Whose hearts are locked to time,

    So lie with me on the grassy sward

    On the cool black-shadowed slope,

    For we’ll not sleep in a close warm room:

    Whatever we are moving toward

    An ample bed’s not our reward

    Who are mad with the moon.

    Wherever passionate love is leading

    We’ll be discovering alone,

    So little hope it can endure,

    So wild, so deep, so dark the needing

    That even fastened bone to bone,

    We’ll not have lasting peace, that’s sure,

    Nor any haven from despair

    Who love by light of moon.

    So come, though we shall never rest

    In any house to call our own,

    By any hearth we light and tend,

    Lie here upon the cold earth’s breast

    And lean your length hard on the stone:

    Hearts break and they may also mend

    But here until the certain end,

    Wed me by light of moon.

    Now the great open sky is ours

    And the long light across the loam,

    And we, gigantic hearts of dust,

    Lie open like night-blooming flowers.

    The homeless moon is our bright home,

    And we shine too because we must,

    Oh magic that we cannot trust,

    The lovely changing moon!
  • horizonsofabyssцитирует7 месяцев назад
    Moving In
    I moved into my house one day

    In a downpour of leaves and rain,

    “I took possession,” as they say,

    With solitude for my domain.

    At first it was an empty place

    Where every room I came to meet

    Watched me in silence like a face:

    I heard the whisper of my feet.

    So huge the absence walking there

    Beside me on the yellow floor,

    That one fly buzzing on the air

    But made the stillness more and more.

    What I possessed was all my own,

    Yet not to be possessed at all,

    And not a house or even hearthstone,

    And never any sheltering wall.

    There solitude became my task,

    No shelter but a grave demand,

    And I must answer, never ask,

    Taking this bridegroom by the hand.

    I moved into my life one day

    In a downpour of leaves in flood,

    I took possession, as they say,

    And knew I was alone for good.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитируетв прошлом году
    Portrait by Holbein
    For E. B.
    In a moment exaggeration,
    the brilliant image
    exploding in the mind,
    will fade like fireworks,
    leaving it dark.
    But for this moment
    your face is there,
    landscape by lightning:
    Your face is drawn in pencil,
    startling the sense
    with its perfected shape,
    the tension of the outline,
    the curious created purity—
    used as a painter would, yourself,
    interpreted and mastered—
    the comment of the mind.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитируетв прошлом году
    Bent to her sewing, she looks drenched in calm.
    Raw grief is disciplined to the fine thread.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитируетв прошлом году
    These Pure Arches

    A Painting by Chirico
    “The Delights of the Poet”

    Here space, time, peace are given a habitation,

    Perspective of pillar and arch, shadow on light,

    A luminous evening where it can never be night.

    This is the pure splendor of imagination.

    To hold eternally present and forever still

    The always fugitive, to make the essence clear,

    Compose time and the moment as shadow in a square,

    As these pure arches have been composed by will.

    As by a kind of absence, feat of supersession

    We can evoke a face long lost, long lost in death,

    Or those hidden now in the wilderness of oppression—

    Know the immortal breath upon the mortal breath:

    A leaping out of the body to think, the sense

    Of absence that precedes the stern work of creation.

    Now when the future depends on our imagination,

    Remember these pure arches and their imminence.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитируетв прошлом году
    To be still, to be silent, to stand by a window

    Where time not motion changes light to shadow,

    Is to be present at the birth of creation.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитируетв прошлом году
    For her all love, all praise,
    All honor, as for trees
    In the hot summer days.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитируетв прошлом году
    Love

    This cup holds grief and balm in equal measure,
  • Ivana Melgozaцитируетв прошлом году
    The hearts of lovers as they walk, how pure;

    How cool the wind upon the open palm

    As they move on toward harvest, and so sure

    Even this ripening has a marvelous calm

    And a still center.
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