I can wade grief,
Whole pools of it,
I’m used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet,
And I tip – drunken.
Let no pebble smile,
‘T was the new liquor,
That was all!
Power is only pain,
Stranded, through discipline,
Till weights will hang.
Give balm to giants,
And they’ll wilt, like men.
Give Himmaleh, –
They ‘ll carry him!
Poems: Series 2, Poem 9, The Test
A fairly helpful discussion/analysis can be found here:
“Is the spring coming?” he said. “What is it like?”…
“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine…”
― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Pigment (an iOS app) on an Apple iPad Pro.
Perspective is everything
“April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.”
~ T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
“Spring is the time of year when it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade.”
~ Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
I think being a woman is like being Irish… Everyone says you’re important and nice, but you take second place all the time.
Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy. ~
I’m Irish!…When I feel well I feel better than anyone, when I am in pain I yell at the top of my lungs, and when I am dead I shall be deader than anybody.
~ Morgan Llywelyn
Let me tonight look back across the span
Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience say
Because of some good act to beast or man
The world is better that I lived today.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
love leaves a memory no one can steal.
But a blue butterfly waits upon my flowers and waits for me,
as if to say hello.
I have not forgotten you nor you i,
so in this moment linger…
for as long as you remember
i shall wait.
… First stanza from a headstone in Ireland
… Second stanza by Della Ewald
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there ‘s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They ‘d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Poems: Volume I by Emily Dickinson