Of Sisters he sung
And of Ancient Mariners;
And wrote of such death
As made death seem fine.
He brought joy and even tears
When he penned such depth.
And when he sung of
Xanadu and Kubla Kahn,
And his caves of Ice,
I dreamt along with
Him about his honey dew
And his paradise.
Alas, though I have searched throughout the nation,
Finding none alive as fair as she;
I thought, most certainly, that some would be
As they, who might approximate her station.
But, there lived not one in all creation;
Not withstanding that, already, we
Have formed a bond unbreakable. To thee
I’m joined, yet none awakened one temptation
That could steal my heart, from thee, away.
Such hurt do now I feel–when I renew
My certainty–for other men, who yet
May never know the firmament to sway
Upon the merest trace of she; forgetting
Time, while they, as mee, their hearts, pursue.
I pity these men
who will never find a love
such as I with thee.
What incredibly large ears this pianist had!!! It is said, and oft repeated, that ones ears continue to grow. I will admit mine to have rather a head start on this; however If such growth has taken place, it is dwarfed by what we see here!
This is a fine example of an unfortunate accident while making a composite photograph wherein the result is much more interesting than the one intended by the photographer or layout artist.
Goodnight world, may your days be full of hope,peace and love. Be kind to each other for when all these things and stuff are gone or useless to us, we are only left with each other.
Namaste
Benjamin
Very lovely,
girl not Sue not even Sioux;
very lovely indeed.
breath
death
Her silent feet would pace the night away,
(This feline, onyx, crost my path apace;)
From thwarting silence, thoughts of lost love stray,
(Though padding softly, sporting lost love’s face.)
Appeared she, lofty, when I saw her then.
(Though not sincerely real, an I lament)
I felt her smile, soft; I feel, as when…
(We dwelt in hours, not of ours, spent.)
Love of my heart, O whither hast thou gone!
(Doth silent now and withered step thy wake;)
How empty hath thy pedestal, thereon,
(Condemnt our path–recalleth our mistake.)
But no! lamenting love were wrong; but O!
Unspent, thy steps have left me, long ago.
David Emeron: Sonnets 