Sunday, September 6, 2015

From too much love of living

I was browsing Books Actually today, and came across a quote that I remember as:

Do not make the mistake of believing your thoughts too complex for words to express; one needs only to read books by great philosophers to see that any thought, no matter how complex or nuanced, can be expressed by the written word. 

I will go back and find that book and the exact quote. It has left a lot of food for thought. *munch munch* Since it will be some time before I go back, I might as well start by reading some of the great philosophies... except Hume, since I've heard that one is pretty hard. Socrates sounds like a nice guy. Heh :)

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All it takes is a bit of cream-lavender sky with a shadowed branch to make me dream - of places wide and eerie, or high and cold.

It takes so much energy to get there, though...

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A poem that's pure art, pure pleasure:

Garden of Proserpine
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Here, where the world is quiet;
         Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
         In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
         A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
        And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
        For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
        And everything but sleep.


[it continues for a few more stanzas, which I doubt is a decent length to include in my blog post...and finishes with these:] 


We are not sure of sorrow,
       And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
       Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
       Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
       From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
       Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
       Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
       Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
       Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
       In an eternal night.

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