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.

samedi 11 février 2012

Meeting and Passing by Robert FROST

As I went down the hill along the wall
There was a gate I had leaned at for the view
And had just turned from when I first saw you
As you came up the hill.  We met.  But all
We did that day was mingle great and small
Footprints in summer dust as if we drew

The figure of our being less than two
But more than one as yet.  Your parasol
Pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust.
And all the time we talked you seemed to see
Something down there to smile at in the dust.
(Oh, it was without prejudice to me!)
Afterward I went past what you had passed
Before we met and you what I had passed.

lundi 6 février 2012

The house on the hill by E. A. ROBINSON

 Those on the hill
They are all gone away,
   The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.
Through broken walls and gray
   The winds blow bleak and shrill:
They are all gone away.
Nor is there one to-day
   To speak them good or ill:
There is nothing more to say.
Why is it then we stray
   Around the sunken sill?
They are all gone away,
And our poor fancy-play
   For them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.
There is ruin and decay
   In the House on the Hill:
They are all gone away,
There is nothing more to say.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)