My goodness, Marcia, we do have so much in common! Many times I have despised myself for letting my happiness depend upon whether or not HE would condescend to be nice to me that day, but I can't seem to stop it. I was in therapy for two years, listened to grief counselors, but nothing seems to have been successful in getting him out of my heart. I'm wondering if separation might do the trick, since we have to work in such close proximity to one another and every time I see him it just opens the wounds anew.

Separation may be the only way to heal the wounds and to let you see what more worthy gentlemen are out there looking for someone just like you. Alas, at the proximity in which you find yourself, all you can see is unworthy him. If you ever discover the secret to not depending on the sun's rising on another, please let me know...!

And I find myself not wanting to be separated from him, either--I deliberately chose not to go away for graduate school so I could still be near him. I think I would go bonkers if I didn't know that if I really get desperate, I can always pop in and say hello, just to get my bearings. I'm hopeless, I know.

I know. I truly know. If you are hopeless, you are not alone...I am in the same situation. But, I am not allowed to speak - or if I do, he is not allowed to respond...(very long story)

I have the same kind of situation (I think)--administration has said that we're not supposed to be talking to one another about anything "personal" (ie, anything other than school or literature,) so I have to think for a while to come up with a question to ask him about either of those things. There are ways around THE RULES (as I so nastily call them,) but I haven't figured out how to use them terribly effectively yet.

...ah, yes...THE RULES...it is an interesting challenge to your intellect (aided and abetted by your libido) to find a way to use them effectively. It can be done...(similar situation with different agents governing the rules) but he is either unable or unwilling to go against them.

Well, my Belov�d is a bit on the spineless side these days--he used to be very brave and thumb his nose at administration (once, I had a very bizarre conversation with him about "what if people think we're having an affair?" and he said, "Who cares? Honi soit qui mal y pense,") but now he acts like he's afraid someone is going to see him talking to me. He only talks to me when there's no one else around, and if his wife is around, he makes every effort to get out of the area as soon as he can.

...hmmm...also interesting. Sounds like he is covering his backside, as it were, for the time being. This might be a temporary situation till things cool down for a bit...that is what I am hoping for with mine.

It's been two years since we "split up"...

Oh, My Dear! How extraoridnarily painful for you! My utmost symapthies. Mine is still fresh...thus the wounds are still raw and might be felt on both sides of my situation...I shall continue doing the usual and trying to be as open to things as possible without destroying what is Me! You, as I, will always carry part of him in your heart - and he, like it or not, will do likewise...*hugs*

I know--my therapist once told me that no matter what happens, I'll always have him in here (tapping her chest.) I nearly burst into tears when she said that.

i must be quite a strange bird. because these things haven't happened to me. oh yes, i've had my crushes and thought the sun set and rose on those people but that was long ago. the only people i care about loving me are my children. i've never been in love so desperately (that i can remember). nor have i obsessed over anyone (save movie stars, who don't count anyway). and what about these rules? what rules are you talking about? am i living my life with my eyes shut? well, the above isn't entirely true. i ve had major adult crushes too, but let them go as that. and in the heat of those moments, a word or not could make the day. i'm sorry that you both feel so isolated in your grief. *HUGS* thanks for rediscovering this topic and do keep posting! and what a sad piece by EBB. hope her mother didn't really say those things (and if she did, i can relate)

Oh, THE RULES I'm talking about have nothing to do with anything in the outside world--purely academic rubbish. Not that absurd book that was so popular a short while ago. To continue with the poems of loss (like we're supposed to be doing,) here is one that tears my heart apart every time I read it: THE SPRING AND THE FALL by Edna St. Vincent Millay In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The trees were black where the bark was wet. I see them yet, in the spring of the year. He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach That was out of the way and hard to reach. In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The rooks went up with a raucous trill. I hear them still, in the fall of the year. He laughed at all I dared to praise, And broke my heart, in little ways. Year be springing or year be falling, The bark will drip and birds be calling. There's much that's fine to see and hear In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year. 'Tis not love's going that hurts my days, But that it went in little ways.

And I got chastised for mentioning Jesse Ventura...

Poor John...*hugs* (The rules you were talking about were THE RULES of academia I know so well...and of the whole sorry mess we find ourselves in...!)

Goodness, I thought you would have forgotten all about that, John! I'm sorry--it was a frivolous comment and I meant no personal offense by it at all. *Hugs*

(Thank you for saying that, Amy...he was going to gather up his talent and silently go away...our loss, indeed!) Great poem about breaking her heart in little ways. Oh Man! Can I ever relate!

Thank you, Amy. I feel better now.

You're welcome. Sometimes I get to be a haughty intellectual and I need to be taken down a notch.

John is worthy company of academics as he is one, as well. My dear John, you also qualify for the screwed in love topic at 163 if you care to join us...!

Unfortunately, I am screwed, but only in the sadly most figurative sense.

...um...just guessing about this, but I have the feeling you are NOT alone in this lamentable condition...*sigh*

Quite right, Marcia--we're all pretty much s**t out of luck when it comes to love!

...sounds like the lyrics of a country-western song..."I'm s**t out of luck..." (*lol* a little levity to keep me from crying)

Since we're all feeling a little crummy tonight, how about another Edna St. Vincent Millay poem that is just as bitter as we are? SPRING To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing. An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

I love it! Caterpillers reeling down out of the trees and down my back tickling and squashing when I finally caught them...Yuck! Give me Fall any time!

Not sure under which category this Dorothy Parker Gem should be posted... Ultimatum I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend, Of worry and strain and doubt; Before we begin, let us view the end, And maybe I'll do without. There's never the pang that was worth the tear, And toss in the night I won't- So either you do or you don't, my dear, Either you do or you don't! The table is ready, so lay your cards And if they should augur pain, I'll tender you ever my kind regards And run for the fastest train. I haven't the will to be spent and sad; My heart's to be gay and true- Then either you don't or you do, my lad, Either you don't or you do!

I think DP needs her own topic! Wolfie, can I create it? Or shall you?

Although I love both DP and ESVM and their wry, sardonic wit, here's another view of loss, the hopeful one that I still have and wish that my own words could express one-tenth so eloquently: What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. from William Wordsworth "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" stanza 10.

Here are a couple of English Renaissance lute songs over which I have wept a time or two: Oft I have sigh'd for him who hears me not: Who absent hath both love and me forgot. O yet I languish still through this delay. Days seem as years, when wish'd friends break their day. Had he but lov'd as common lovers use, His faithless stay some kindness would excuse: O yet I languish still, still constant mourn For him that can break vows, but not return. --Thomas Campion Now, o now, I needs must part, Parting though I absent mourn. Absence can no joy impart: Joy once fled cannot return. While I live I needs must love, Love lives not when hope is gone. Now at last despaire doth prove, Love divided loveth none. Sad despair doth drive me hence, This despaire unkindness sends. It that parting bee offence, It is shee which then offends. Deare, when I from thee am gone, Gone are all my joyes at once. I loved thee and thee alone, In whose love I joyed once. And although your sight I leave, Sight wherein my joyes do lie, Till that death doth sense bereave, Never shall affection die. Deare, if I do not returne, Love and I shall die together. For my absence never mourne, Whom you might have joyed ever: Part we must though now I die, Die I do to part with you. Him despaire doth cause to lie, Who both lived and dieth true. --John Dowland

Ms Dorothy Parker and Ms Edna St. Vincent Millay have their own topics! please enjoy!!!

I don't know much about American literature and poetry. But I once bought a book with poems from Robert Frost, because I was looking for a special one that I found (some lines) cited in a novel, but I couldn't find the one I was looking for... :-[ (All I remember is that it had something to do with a tree and winter...)

Could it have been this one, Isabel? STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING by Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

It's lovely! Thanks, Amy! That's why his poems impress me so much,they seem so mmh - yearning... But sorry it's not the one I'm searching... I remember something like an apple tree in winter (???), which should not bloom, otherwise it could froze...mmh, something like that. It was a bit sad...but expressed a feeling I had some time ago, when I lost somebody very close to me... That's why I want to find it.

Sorry--I don't have anything like that in my anthology of American lit, and I'm not a big Frost fan so I couldn't tell you exactly what one it is. I don't do the American thing--I'm a British and French lit person.

Isn't it a bit curious that a lot is happening now in the Poetry conf.? Now, when it got autumn and the days are getting shorter and darker, I felt a strong urge to unpack my books, that's what I will do in the next week, besides getting the garden ready for winter. I got some new books and reading is my favorite habit in winter, besides needlework, when in summer I don't find any time to do so. In the cold season I like to sit on the sofa with a good book and just dream of better seasons coming...

Angles By Debra Tenney 4/19/98 I awaken to a bed devoid of sharp angles & deep furrows and I am reminded of a light house on a windy strand, September waves rolling over its base, and of yesterdays when that was enough. Of time when the chilled wind of February did not fill me with spring longing. Buried beneath this desert of tangled bed, in which I am drowning, in a space once my asylum, I am a winter cottonwood surrounded by tumbleweeds, static form amidst chaos. I lay awake and drink deeply of your pillow�s essence hoping as the first hyacinth purples March�s burnt umber I will hear your footsteps in twilight�s first blush.

WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN by A.E. Housman With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipt maiden And many a lightfoot lad. By brooks too broad for leaping The lightfoot boys are laid; The rose-lipt girls are sleeping In fields where roses fade.

Debra, that is a lovely poem. Amy, I've always considered Housman underrated.

Prophetstown by John Burnett, copyright 1994 I grew up in Prophetstown, a place of farms, frost and football-- where once an Indian prophet named White Cloud counseled the mighty Sauk and Fox chief Black Hawk, where a young Indian fighter named Abraham Lincoln learned to respect the savvy of adversaries most called savages, a place whose hallowed history vanished with the vanquished. There were towns not far away which still bore names they were called by natives: Annawan, Kewanee, Oneida, Winnebago, Wataga, and Tiskilwa-- names with power, pride and poetry. The names were all that was left. Sometimes in right field while waiting for the ball to be batted my way, wedging the rubberized tips of my Converse All-Stars into the dirt, I'd unearth a significant discovery: an Indian arrowhead or a piece of tomahawk that somehow surfaced when the wind and rain stripped away the topsoil, where the grass had been eroded by the incessant shuffling of youthful feet. I'd take my find home and put it in a shoe box. My Florsheim box of antique stone was a precious to me as a pirate's treaure chest filled with gold doubloons. One night after inventory I ran downstairs and asked my father, "Dad? What happened to the Indians?" "Most of them are dead," he said. "Killed by the white man's guns or by disease they had no resistance to. Those who survived the Black Hawk War in 1832 were rounded up and driven West to a reservation." "Will they ever come back?" I asked through tears I vainly fought to keep from coursing down my cheeks. He shook his head and softly answered, "No, Son."

...oh John...how poignant...! (I love how the meter insinuates itself in my brain as I read this...)

Nicely done John.

Shit River by John Burnett, copyright 1994 Pinatubo sunset exuding beauty that bursts the prismic envelope. Poverty blankets the atmosphere like the fecal coliform stench permeating the brackish air from the burnt-brown surface skin of Shit River. There are rowboats, eight abreast riding high on the toxic tributary, positioned on each side of the bridge with plaintive voices rising from the scum: "Hey Joe, you boo-koo guapo! C'mon, Joe! Throw me pesos!" There's a young girl in each dinghy all dressed in the uniform of the day: Spandex bike shorts, skin-tight midriff blouses, stuffed brassieres and sailor caps embroidered with their names. They use the caps to catch coins the sailors throw to them. Each girl has a younger boy on board clad in skimpy Speedo knock-offs. The boys plummet headlong into the merciless mire to retrieve the coins the girls miss, some of which are purposely thrown awry.

Been tossing coins awry in the Philippines, have you?! Hmmm...Pinatubo did not erupt that long ago that you were in the Navy then...either it was another eruption (leaving that untouched) or you are taking justifiable poetic license (where else could it be more appropriate?!)

Good grief, I nearly forgot this poem! VITAE SUMMA BREVIS SPEM NOS VETAT INCOHARE LONGAM (The brief sum of life forbids us hope of enduring long) by Ernest Dowson They are not long, the weeping and the laughter, Love and desire and hate: I think they have no portion in us after We pass the gate. They are not long, the days of wine and roses: Out of a misty dream Our path emerges for a while, the closes Within a dream.

Pinatubo was used to mark the setting (poetic license, I suppose)...and I NEVER purposely threw a coin awry to make a kid take a dip in that foul ditch (between the Subic Bay Naval Base and Olongapo City). I would never do that to another human being.

I know you to be a gentle man in all things...I am happy you were not one of those perverse enough to....was it really raw sewage? I had hoped that was poetic license, as well. Pinatubo was splendid, and I was immediatley transported to the Philippines...(I DO know my volcanoes!)

Raw sewage it was...it is a third-world country.

I remember visiting Mexico - one never appreciates the good old USA than when they have seen how bad it can be in other places...! Thanks for not causing the boys (or any human being) to have to get into that filth! There is no other stench quite like it!

SINCE THERE'S NO HELP, COME LET US KISS AND PART by Michael Drayton Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part; Nay, I have done, you get no more of me, And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hand for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.

Ah, chacteristic personification...

One of my favorites -- It's possible I am pushing through solid rock in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone; I am such a long way in I see no way through, and no space: everything is close to my face, and everything close to my face is stone. I don't have much knowledge yet in grief -- so this massive darkness makes me small. You be the master: make yourself fierce, break in: then your great transforming will happen to me, and my great grief cry will happen to you. --Rainer Maria Rilke, from A Book for the Hours of Prayer (No. 22)

Lovely, Nan. I am not coming back here for a while. I put something from my past in posts yesterday that were read and misinterpreted. Be very careful of what you say and how you phrase it...someone just might read something entirely different into what you write and take it personally. Aloha!

NO SECOND TROY by William Butler Yeats Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage to equal desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

LEISURE by William Henry Davies What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. (I would like everyone who reads this to remember to take a moment to smell the roses today!)

NO SECOND TROY by William Butler Yeats Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage to equal desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

Milton wrote this sonnet about his blindness, considered his greatest, less than a year before his death. Sonnet XIX by John Milton - 1673 When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts: who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."

Oh Marcia -- I'm sorry to hear of that misunderstanding, whatever it was. I'll miss your voice here. Hope you're not away for long.

That's one of my favorite sonnets, John. Memorized it eons ago in high school - still hold phrases in my memory banks. Thanks. ;)

...how could I stay away when people as lovely as you are here?! Thank you, Nan... *big hugs*

...John...that is magnificent - and always moving to read...thank you! Puts things into perspective, does it not?!

To put it in its simplest terms, I like it.

(wonder how many people quote that last line and never know from whence it came)

I've used it when pitchers who warm up don't get into the game (but I always give Milton credit).

marcia, don't worry about what other people think or read into your poetry, do not let them stop you from writing or visiting. afterall, i had one misread too, but that's the way things go. please don't leave us here in poetry!

*hugs* Wolfie...thanks more than I can say...*sniff*

Don't let the irony of the title line of this sonnet fool you. It IS a poem of loss, and one of Wordsworth's better "later" (beyond his 30s) works: Surprised by Joy by William Wordsworth - 1815 Surprised by joy - impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind - But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss! - That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

Lovely, John - very moving, indeed...

But for lust we could be friends, On each other's necks could weep, In each other's arms could sleep, In the calm the cradle lends, Lends awhile, and takes away - But for hunger, but for fear, Calm could be our day and year, From the yellow to the grey, From the gold to the grey hair - But for passion we could rest, But for passion we could feast On compassion everywhere. Even in this night I know, By the awful, living dead, By this craving tear I shed, Somewhere, somewhere, it is so. Ruth Pitter

nice one but sad.....thanks mark :)

That is an amazing poem, Mark. So beautifully poignant and so true!

I should know better than to come into this topic to read. Lovely, Mark! 'Tis true....*sigh*

ok, y'all don't pass out, but i've got a new piece to share: My Friend How I miss you, my friend, Mere words cannot express. Although I saw you rarely, You meant the world to me. Your kindness and steadfast Love and friendship was an Unexpected treasure. Please rest where you are And miss nothing of This life. Look upon Me with forgiveness, I Never said I love you. (for Jeff Chambers, 1967-1999) i miss him very much!

My heart weeps with yours knowing how incredible this man was to you. That last sentence says it all, really! My sympathies, again *hugs* Thank you for sharing something so deeply felt...

that is beautiful, wolf. thanks for bringing it here -- you have my sympathies too.

DEATH WATCH -- (for Allyn) He died as night rolled back on the next to last day of the year, when frost coats dead weeds by the road and old leaves glow with cold fire like pale glass that winks in the sun. Ice takes its own slow time to melt, flows out of my heart the way hope leaks, like red wine spilled from a glass by his bed in drips - It may be my own blood - I can't see yet - but the stains have marked a sort of map of the sky on the backs of my eyes, and this dark weight sinks deep like silt in my veins. Breath of life flies like a gasp from his gaunt frame - he lies still as wax. We sit stunned on his bed and watch it go. Hear the clocks tick. Where is the thing that was once his laugh? Off on a jaunt? Will it be right back? Dawn broke pink and orange that morn, I saw it light the clouds, meet the bright star that pulled the new day up to the tip of the sky, and I knew then he could fly - My heart rose like a lark with the sun, grew wings - His race was won. He was home.

Just when I though there were no more tears to shed...I find them blessing my keyboard (as the Hawaiians say of the gentle rain we get here) again... Nan...I am speechless with sorrow and the beauty of your poem. I am wrapping my arms around you and Wolfie and having virtual catharsis *HUGS*

((((((((marcia)))))))) thank you.

It was very difficult for me last evening (perhaps I was ovely tired) to relive your loss. I am not sure there is anyone on earth who has ever loved me that much. I have loved that much, and understand your feelings so strongly, but to have been loved that much is a gift I cannot even imagine. You were, indeed, blessed with a most excellent brother. Again, thank you for sharing. *hugs*

thanks nan and marcia *hugs* nan, i can't imagine what you went through (and still go through). please find comfort in the knowledge that "he could fly". my piece was really a lame attempt at words. how can someone describe what it meant? but thank you for obliging!

...and you, Wolfie, were blessed with a most excellent friend. I was very moved by your poem...perhaps because you honored me by allowing me in on your grieving. Hugs and love to you both from this lady in Hawaii *sniff*

I am blessed to be able to share what was, with you. Thank you for accepting it with such tenderness. Being able to stay with my brother for his last journey and help him go home was a precious gift, and seeing that incredible dawn -- and the morning star that drew back the night's curtain -- well, it's an image I'll never forget.

I am sitting here with chicken-skin just thinking of your divine revelation. What else could it have been?! *hugs* again...

Intransiet Modes of transportation, Vehicles of conveyence Always smell -- Of cleaning fluid and vinyl. I'm intransiet. A disjointed traveler looking out the window Feeling nebulous. Reflected in the darkness I notice All the cracks and fissues in my face -- That no one else can see. Outside Splinters of myself are flying by. I'm shattering. They say even the stars die. Sometimes I think that under the gravity of the situation, I'll start collapsing into myself. I am filled with sweet memories that cloy. Maybe I'll learn to remember Without pain. My memories are sweet, But they stick -- Like an icepick in the mind.

thank you for stopping in and leaving a piece of you here, cheryl *HUGS*

Oh Cheryl...my heart cries with yours! Does the pain ever go away? I think not. At least not for me... not yet... It remains a dull ache in the back of your psyche ever ready to leap to the forefront and bring fresh tears.

Thank you for the encouragement and comments. This poem is actually several years old. I was one of the easiest things I ever wrote. It was written backwards, as it were. I got the lines: My memories are sweet/But they stick --/ Like an icepick in the mind., as my first thought. It just seemed that these had to be the last lines of a poem, not the start. I pretty much worked back from that point to the completed piece, and it was the complete piece. There really was no rewriting to speak of, I took out about three words of the original draft. Still, this is basically the orignal concept. Oddly, I've never really thought of it as a particularly personal poem. It was written from my own experience, but it could apply to just about anybody. I've never felt it to be specific to, nor about me.

It surprised me that it is not intimately personal to you. Perhaps I plugged into your words my own loss. It still effects me profoundly and could reduce me to tears if I read it at a time I was feeling vulnerable.

I think it may well have been a conscious decision on my part to distance myself from it. Maybe a way to cope with my pain by placing it in what I perceive as a more universal context. Everybody hurts, it isn't unique to me. In writing it, perhaps I found a way to define what I was feeling. In definition I found limits, and by doing that I found that move on with my life. Of course, it could be that it is extraordinarily personal, and I just can't perceive it because I'm too close and want to keep an illusion of distance.

Let is rest as a sublimation. I think it is a form of catharsis to put down on paper and send it out to the world. It transforms it from being merely personal angish to a universal "been there, felt that" truth. Thanks!

Thank you for reading my babbling about it. Thanks for you kind words.

O handsome chestnut eyes, evasive gaze, O fiery sighs and falling tears, O night Obscurely black through which I wait for light for nothing, O clear dawn of the futile days! O lamentations, O obstinate desires, O wasted time, O grief scattered about, O thousand deaths, O thousand nets throughout my life among the worst insidious fires, O laughing lips, brow, hair, arms, hands, and fingers, O funereal lute, viol, bow, and voice! A woman's heart always has a burned mark. I sob because of you. Your fire lingers in every place my seared heart would rejoice, Except in you who keep no single spark. --Louise Lab�