[Exit, Persued By A Bear]

The Ivy Crown by William Carlos Williams

The whole process is a lie,

unless,

crowned by excess,

it break forcefully,

one way or another,

from its confinement —

or find a deeper well.

Antony and Cleopatra

were right;

they have shown

the way.  I love you

or I do not live

at all.

Daffodil time

is past.  This is

summer, summer!

the heart says,

and not even the full of it.

No doubts

are permitted —

Though they will come

and may

before our time

overwhelm us.

We are only mortal

but being mortal

can defy our fate.

We may

by an outside chance

even win!  We do not

look to see

jonquils and violets

come again

but there are,

still,

the roses!

Romance has no part in it.

The business of love is

cruelty which

by our wills,

we transform

to live together.

It has its seasons,

for and against,

whatever the heart

fumbles in the dark

to assert

toward the end of May.

Just as the nature of briars

is to tear flesh,

I have proceeded

through them.

Keep the briars out,

they say.

You cannot live

and keep free of

briars.

Children pick flowers

Let them.

Though having them

in hand

they have no further use of them

but leave them crumpled

at the curb’s edge.

At our age the imagination

across the sorry facts

lifts us

to make roses

stand before thorns.

Sure

love is cruel

and selfish

and totally obtuse —

At least, blinded by the light,

young love is.

But we are older,

I to love

and you to be loved,

we have,

no matter how,

by our wills survived

to keep

the jeweled prize

always

at our fingertips.

We will it so

and so it is

past all accident.

“I Could Take”

I could take

two leaves
         and give you one.
Would that not be
a kind of perfection?

But I prefer
one leaf
         torn to give you half
              showing

(after these years, simply)
love’s complexity in an act,
         the tearing and
              the unique edges —
one leaf (one word) from the two
imperfections that match.

(Source: rabbit-light, via lovedare)

Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats

1.

That is no country for old men.  The young

In one another’s arms, birds in the trees

- Those dying generations - at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in the sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unaging intellect.

2.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

3.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire

As in the golld mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing-masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

4.

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

For all the military SO’s who have started following me, you should follow my other blog.  This blog is completely unrelated to my personal/military life =)

soitsnoworneverisntit asked: Thank you so much!!

Anytime! You’ve got me listening to my own mixes again and even contemplating creating another sometime soon.