Comments on: A line of french poetry http://halfmoon.voxtropolis.com/2008/06/09/a-line-of-french-poetry/ We Await Your Arrival Fri, 05 Dec 2008 11:22:44 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.3.3 By: Tennyson http://halfmoon.voxtropolis.com/2008/06/09/a-line-of-french-poetry/#comment-2870 Tennyson Tue, 10 Jun 2008 22:31:39 +0000 http://halfmoon.voxtropolis.com/2008/06/09/a-line-of-french-poetry/#comment-2870 "The stars," she whispers, "blindly run; A web is woven across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun..." “The stars,” she whispers, “blindly run;
A web is woven across the sky;
From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun…”

]]> By: emily http://halfmoon.voxtropolis.com/2008/06/09/a-line-of-french-poetry/#comment-2869 emily Mon, 09 Jun 2008 18:05:21 +0000 http://halfmoon.voxtropolis.com/2008/06/09/a-line-of-french-poetry/#comment-2869 Oh, so so many. W.B. Yeats: I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Emily Brontë: Oh, dreadful is the check - intense the agony - When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again, The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain. Edna St. Vincent Millay: It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would. Oh, so so many.

W.B. Yeats:
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Emily Brontë:
Oh, dreadful is the check - intense the agony -
When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again,
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

Edna St. Vincent Millay:
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

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