excerpt from Elizabeth Bowen's 'Death of a Heart' and lovely, dramatic sentiment and dialogue from the early 1900's
"Darling, I don't want you; I've got no place for you; I only want what you give. I don't want the whole of anyone.... What you want is the whole of me~ isn't it, isn't it? ~and the whole of me isn't there for anybody. In that full sense you want me I don't exist."
Eddie to Portia, The Death of a Heart
and the horses in the paddock.....
"Again the early-morning sun was generous with its warmth. All the sounds dear to a horseman were around me - the snort of the horses as they cleared their throats, the gentle swish of their tails, the tinkle of irons as we flung the saddles over their backs - little sounds of no importance, but they stay in the unconscious library of memory"...Wynford Vaughan-Thomas
"The child is father to the man." How can he be? The words are wild. Suck any sense from that who can. "The child is father to the man." No; what the poet did write ran, "The man is father to the child." "The child is father to the man!" How can he be? The words are wild!
I hammered hard upon the door, confused, My soul in pain: "What! Am I to be abused, A pilgrim in the rain?
A dragon-fly with wings still yet to dry From Mammon's mire, May yet outshine a butterfly And set the lake a-fire".
But as I raved and battered at the keep A voice within Spoke sweetly to my troubled sleep: "Twas never locked- Come in."
I know I know
I took too much
but the tree was there
with its enticing skins,
the garden intolerably quiet,
the snake so colorful, resolute,
I thought if I could just fondle
the fruit . . but now, Please God,
I want to go back to the beginning
of the day so I can say no thank you:
it's all considerably more than I can handle.
Try to Praise the Mutilated World
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtains fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes