We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
Yesterday in this blog I scanned Rosa ‘Ebb Tide’ to illustrate one of Alfonsina Storni’s (born in Switzerland but emmigrated as a little girl to Argentina) first poems. I forgot to throw away the rose and this morning there it was looking shriveled. Emily Dickinson has come to the rescue.
We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
These words they sing
Of hope
Of joy
These words leave me to
Play
Within my mind
Within my heart
Within my newer day
My newest day
Sparkling bright
Washing cares away
My newest day
Born afresh
Born afresh…
Today
Giving me
Once again
The chance to Seek
And pray
Giving me
The chance
To thank
The One who gives this day
Behold!
My newness…
Startling me
Though mirrors are away…
As in my mind
Once again
Life’s magic has its way
Has its way
Comforts me
Walks hand in hand with age
Walking towards that Promised Land…
Where newness wins the day!
More Emily Dickinson
Now I am ready to go
Dilapidation’s processes Are organized Decays
I find my feet have further goals
A melancholy of a waning summer
Just as green and as white
It’s full as opera
I cannot dance upon my Toes
a door just opened on the street
Amber slips away
Sleep
When August burning low
Pink Small and punctual
A slash of blue
I cannot dance upon my toes
Ah little rose
For hold them, blue to blue
The colour of the grave is green
To know if any human eyes were near
Linda Melsted — the music of the violin does not emerge alone
The Charm invests her face
A sepal, a petal and a thorn
The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman
T were blessed to have seen
There is no frigate like a book
I pay in satin cash
Emily Dickinson’s White Dress & a Hunter of Lost Souls
El vestido blanco — The White Dress
Water makes many beds
The viola da gamba
But sequence ravelled out of reach
A parasol is the umbrella’s daughter
Without the power to die
Lessons on the piny
Ample make this bed
How happy is the little stone
Sleep is supposed to be
The shutting of the eye
I dwell in possibility
when Sappho was a living girl
In a library
A light exists in spring
The lady dare not lift her veil
I took my power in my hand
I find my feet have further goals
I cannot dance upon my toes
The Music of the Violin does not emerge alone
Red Blaze
He touched me, so I live to know
Rear Window- The Entering Takes Away
Said Death to Passion
We Wear the Mask That Grins And Lies
It was not death for I stood alone
The Music in the Violin Does Not Emerge Alone
I tend my flowers for thee
Lavinia Norcross Dickinson
Pray gather me anemone!
Ample make her bed
His caravan of red
Me-come! My dazzled face
Develops pearl and weed
But peers beyond her mesh
Surgeons must be very careful
Water is taught by thirst
I could not prove that years had feet
April played her fiddle
A violin in Baize replaced
I think the longest hour
The spirit lasts
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2014/03/i-left-them-in-ground-emily-dickinson.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2014/01/i-felt-my-life-with-both-my-hands.html
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http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/03/and-zero-at-bone-with-dirks-of-melody.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/05/charm-invests-her-face.html
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http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/adjusted-to-tomb.html
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http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/blonde-assasin-passes-on.html
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