The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
she rides the night
on wings of dream
across star filled skys
and oceans green
to come to me
in tales untold
she bows her head
and steals my breath
radient you shine,
brighter than the morning star,
a purity no light could match
as the sun, your glow
fills my soul
chasing out the dark
no picture could capture
no mortal hand fasion
such as you
In coils of night
through twisted forests
she rides
DarkHope
red is the colour of my true loves hair

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure,
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look,

Possessing or pursuing no delight

Save what is had, or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
I feel time like a heartbeat,
the seconds pumping in my breast like a reckoning.
The luminous mysteries that once seemed so distant and unreal,
threatening clarity in the presence of a truth entertained not in youth,
but only in it's passage.
I feel these words as if their meaning were weight being lifted from me,
knowing that you will read them and share my burden,
as I have come to trust no other.
That you should know my heart,
look into it, finding there the memory and experience that belong to you,
that are you,
is a comfort to me now as I feel the tethers loose and the prospects darken
for the continuance of a journey that began not so long ago,
and which began again with a faith shakened and strengthened by your convictions
,
if not for which I might never have been so strong now.
As I cross to face you and look at you incomplete,
hoping that you will forgive me for not making the rest of the journey with you
I, too, have spent a life the sages' way and tread once more familiar paths.
Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance an age ago...
and in that act, a prayer for one more chance went up so earnest, so...
instinct with better light let in by death that life was blotted out not so comp
letely...
but scattered wrecks enough of it to remain dim memories...
as now...
when seems once more...
the goal in sight again. .
(the field where i died)
robert browning parcelsus ii 5 of 7
At times I almost dream
I too have spent a life the sage's way,
And tread once more familiar paths.
Perchance
I perished in an arrogant self-reliance
Ages ago; and in that act, a prayer
For one more chance went up so earnest, so
Instinct with better light let in by death,
not so completely
That life was blotted out
But scattered wrecks enough of it remain,
Dim memories, as now, when once more seems
The goal in sight again."
I find myself wondering about humanity.
Their attitude to my sister's gift is so strange.
Why do they fear the sunless lands?
It is as natural to die as it is to be born.
But they fear her.
Dread her.
Feebly they attempt to placate her.
They do not love her.
neil gamian

That is not dead which can eternal lie.

And with strange aeons even death may die
hp lovecraft
The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
That stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forrest king.
And folks who never had to toil,
Who never had to win their share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never quite knew the greater plan
But lived and died as they began.
Good timber does not grow in ease,
The stronger wind the tougher trees.
The more the storm, the greater strength.
By sun and cold, by rain or snows,
In trees, or man, good timber grows.
Where thickest stands the forrest growth,
We find the matriarch of both;
And upwards reach towards the stars
Through broken branches, touched with scars
Of many winds and much of strife,
Here is our strength and hope of life
That time I thought I was in love
and calmly said so
was not much different from the time
I was truly in love
and slept poorly and spoke out loud
to the wall
and discovered the hidden genius
of my hands
And the times I felt less in love,
less than someone,
were, to be honest, not so different
either.
Each was ridiculous in its own way
and each was tender, yes,
sometimes even the false is tender.
I am astonished
by the various kisses we're capable of.
Each from different heights
diminished, which is simply the law.
And the big bruise
from the long fall looked perfectly white
in a few years.
That astounded me most of all.