Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite...

[dark_enraptured]

It would seem that my body wishes me awake at this hour. I can't fathom why. In an effort to still my racing thoughts, I've pulled out a favorite book of poetry in the hopes that it and the steady breathing nearest me will lull me back to slumber

Comments

[the_mo0n]

Oh, that's very lovely. Stars are--they are rubbish, though. The Moon, I am steadfaust and erezite. Never cared much for young Keats anyway. I quite like Mr. Shell. The Silverstein.

[dark_enraptured]

Care to share a poem you enjoy?

[the_mo0n]

There are many that I enjoy, some--they are even about me! This one always makes me smile. :)

Hug O' War
I will not play at tug o' war
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses
And everyone grins
And everyone cuddles
And everyone wins.

I tried to tug--to play hugowar with Saturn once, but he called child protected service.

Bet you didn't know the Moon know HTML. :) Eeyyyy! Technological proficiency.

[the_mamazoom]

This is my favorite thing Silverstein ever wrote. lol

[vectorslens]

You should have woken me. X

[dark_enraptured]

You were fast asleep and looked so peaceful. Why would I want to disturb that?

[vectorslens]

So that you had someone to read the poetry aloud to. X

[dark_enraptured]

No Pixie. You needed your rest.

[screened] [drunk]

[sir_bainbridge]

Oh that was lovely young man. I have always loved this poem and it seems quite apt of late, I hope you do not mind me sharing it?

To Earthward

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air
That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of - was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?
I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.
I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.
Now no joy but lacks salt
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain
Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.
When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,
The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

Robert Frost.