Beloved
Too often I think I was born in the wrong time. I like to cry at the movies. I relish in the sensations of hiccupping with sobs when overcome by weighty dramatic moments in film or lyrical passages of prose. I hate the Lifetime channel but swoon over 19th century literature.
It’s just me.
On the same bookshelf I have a copy of Edna St. Vincent Millay and the History of Quidditch. I dont’ make sense and make any excuse for it.
Let it be to no doubt of anyone that I Shmoo dearly, my shmoo but I wane with grace and epic sorrow the lack of “beloved”-ness that may yet come. Who can say.
Elizabeth Barret Browning -Sonnets of The Portuguese #14
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except ofr love’s sake only. Do not say
‘I love her for her smile…her look…her way
Of speaking gently,… for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease ons uch a day’ –
As for these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or chane gor the, — and love, so wrought,
May be unwroought so. Neither love me for
Thien own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry, –
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and thlose thy love thereby!
But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.
*swoon* to a puddle that may be mopped up on the morrow.
Edna St. Vincent Millay - Sonnets
When you, that at this moment are to me
Dearer than words on paper, shall depart
And be no more the warder of my heart,
Whereof again myself shall hodl the key;
And be no more — what now you seem to be–
The sun, from which all excellenses start
In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart
Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea;
I shall remember only of this hour —
And weep someout, as now you seem me weep–
The pathos of your love, that , like a flower;
Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep,
Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed,.
the wind whereon its’ petals shall be laid.
There are others.
And in my whisperous attempts?
Poetica Spontenaium - Don’t read too much Into It(Not a sonnet)
I am frought with guilt and treipidation that
Your heart may not be keen as mine
To be knotted in skeins unfathomable
With this thorny and roughened twine
That is this word that dare not make it’s presence known
Within whispers said only in forgotten dreams
And this noise that shudders both our pulses
and drags our hearts, timidly, between
And in Sunday eves while twighlight graces
From pinkish amber into darkest night
That you might say the words with your hands
In mine before the dawn alights
It need not be said that you are beloved, within my childlike heart
You know I can’t really end a poem without a kimchi fart
My thoughts are entangled wordlessly within this lovely art.
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