As age has come upon me, I’ve begun to understand how to be very still while all the world is clamouring about;
at what point did all this scurrying ever make it all better?
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
Is it possible to be sustained for all of life on just the sweetness of a few soft words
And if you cannot say them to me again, I will repeat them in my own ear, remembering the texture of your voice
She laughed, embarrassed that Monet could make her cry after all these months of sequestered loneliness.
I smiled back,
“Oh dear, Monet should make you cry. Welcome to how all the artists & poets live—such exquisite agony. “
It’s in all this refuse that Spring had made some empty promise to rise, and bring beauty, and bring life—
But we know it rises simply to die again.
I feel the melancholy of all these years weighing down upon my chest.