Every means of communication what is call languages are mysteries
I am a foreigner in an insulated capsule
I taste. I explore. I take samples to try and break loneliness
I'm learning. Maybe, one day, I will be truely able to write and talk.

mercredi 15 septembre 2010

The Dead by Rupert BROOKE

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness.
He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the nights


"Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain? ... Oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?"

(from 'The Old Vicarege, Grantchester')

Rupert BROOKE ( 1887-1915)