Author: Henry David Thoreau (---.Moscow.dial.rol.ru)
Date: 02-05-06 17:23
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Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our
being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
T. S. Eliot
The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.
Don't be afraid to see what you see.
I had seen birth and death but had thought they were different.
T. S. Eliot