There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
love
All posts tagged love
Music when Soft Voices Die (To –)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
“There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche
“We are born of love; Love is our mother.” — Rumi
“I want to see you.
Know your voice.
Recognize you when you
first come ’round the corner.
Sense your scent when I come
into a room you’ve just left.
Know the lift of your heel,
the glide of your foot.
Become familiar with the way
you purse your lips
then let them part,
just the slightest bit,
when I lean in to your space
and kiss you.
I want to know the joy
of how you whisper
“more”
Rumi
We are stardust
Billion year old carbon
We are golden
Caught in the devil’s bargain
And we’ve got to get ourselves
Back to the garden
🐤
“In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove;
In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love” — Alfred, Lord Tennyson
“Then “love,” or “falling in love,” an extra density
textured into the weave of the days, a craziness,
an orchidaceous inter-dimensional blossoming
of the otherwise-linear creatures we were.”
— Albert Goldbarth
Miracle of Life
By Maureen Hawkins
Before you were conceived,
I wanted you.
Before you were born,
I loved you.
Before you were here an hour,
I would give my life for you.
This is the miracle of life.
🎈
My April Lady
by Henry Van Dyke
When down the stair at morning
The sunbeams round her float,
Sweet rivulets of laughter
Are bubbling in her throat;
The gladness of her greeting
Is gold without alloy;
And in the morning sunlight
I think her name is Joy.
When in the evening twilight
The quiet book-room lies,
We read the sad old ballads,
While from her hidden eyes
The tears are falling, falling,
That give her heart relief;
And in the evening twilight,
I think her name is Grief.
My little April lady,
Of sunshine and of showers,
She weaves the old spring magic,
And breaks my heart in flowers!
But when her moods are ended,
She nestles like a dove;
Then, by the pain and rapture,
I know her name is Love.
Maverick Mist 