lines, planes, bodies, atoms

What tho' the moon- the white moon
      Shed all the splendour of her noon,
      Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
      In that time of dreariness, will seem
      (So like you gather in your breath)
      A portrait taken after death.
      And boyhood is a summer sun
      Whose waning is the dreariest one-
      For all we live to know is known,
      And all we seek to keep hath flown-
      Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
      With the noon-day beauty- which is all.


 “Every man has his own way of telling things. If the feeling exists, it will out somehow. But when I read novels, I always fancy that crestfallen look of Lieut. Stelsky or Alfred, when he says ‘I love you, Eleanora,’ and expects something wonderful to happen at once, and no change at all takes place in either of them — their eyes and noses and their whole selves remain exactly as they were.
new post this evening...