Emily Dickenson
Arthur Rimbaud
William Blake






    

      
          
    
    I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,

    I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

    
    Press close bare-bosom'd night - press close magnetic nourishing night!

    Night of south winds - night of the large few stars!

    Still nodding night - mad naked summer night!

    
    Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!

    Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!

    Earth of the departed sunset - earth of the mountains misty-topt!

    Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!

    Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!

    Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!

    Far-swooping elbow'd earth - rich apple-blossom'd earth!

    Smile, for your lover comes.

    
- Walt Whitman, from 'Song of Myself'
      

    

    
  
                  
    
    
    
    

      
      
      
He fumbles at your Soul

As Players at the Keys

Before they drop full Music on -

He stuns you by degrees -

Prepares your brittle Nature

For the Etherial Blow

By fainter Hammers - further heard -

Then nearer - Then so slow

Your breath has time to straighten -

Your Brain - to bubble Cool -

Deals - One - imperial - Thunderbolt -

That scalps your naked Soul



When Winds take Forests in their Paws -

The Universe - is still -


     

      - Emily Dickenson
      

    

    
  
                  
    
    
    
    

         
         
(he is art! love! beauty! infinity!)

             
    
    
    

    


FAIRY


For Helen, in the virgin shadows and the impassive radiance in astral silence, ornamental saps conspired. Summer's ardour was confided to silent birds and due indolence to a priceless mourning boat through gulfs of dead loves and fallen perfumes.

-After the moment of the woodswomen's song to the rumble of the torrent in the ruin of the wood, of the tinkle of the cowbells to the echo of the vales, and the cries of the steppes.-

For Helen's childhood, furs and shadows trembled, and the breast of the poor and the legends of heaven.

And her eyes and her dance superior even to the precious radiance, to cold influences, to the pleasure of the unique setting and the unique hour.


- Arthur Rimbaud


    

    
  
                  
    
    
    
    


    

      
      
		Song


		Memory, hither come,

	               	And tune your merry notes

		And, while upon the wind

			Your music floats,

		I'll pore upon the stream,

			Where sighing lovers dream,

		And fish for fancies as they pass

		Within the watery glass.


		I'll drink of the clear stream

			And hear the linnet's song;

		And there I'll lie and dream

			The day along:

		And, when night comes, I'll go

			To places fit for woe,

		Walking along the darken'd valley

		With silent melancholy.

                


- William Blake