O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. - Romeo -
That moon which the sky never saw even in dreams has risen again
Think about a cloud. Just float around and be there.
The cloudlets are lazily sailing O'er the blue Atlantic sea; And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o'er me.
Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.
A stage play ought to be the point of intersection between the visible and invisible worlds, or, in other words, the display, the manifestation of the hidden.
You're water. We're the millstone. You're wind. We're dust blown up into shapes. You're spirit. We're the opening and closing of our hands. You're the clarity. We're the language that tries to say it. You're joy. We're all the different kinds of laughing.
"He mentioned it!" one of the ghosts whimpered.
While about one-third of Americans believe in ghosts, you won't find many exhibits on these spooky beings down at the local science museum. Why? Well, one explanation that you might consider, ghosts are just figments of our highly fertile imaginations!
Like other ghosts, she whispers; not for me to join her, but so that, when I'm close enough, she can push me back into the world.
Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.
An Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards.
And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky.
How like an angel came I down!
All forces that reside in the body are angels.
His soul was bigger than a body's ought to be.
Thus all things altered. Nothing dies. And here and there the unbodied spirit flies.
The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited.
Then came a moment of renaissance, I looked up - you again are there, A fleeting vision, the quintessence Of all that's beautiful and rare.
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joyand fear, Which make thee terrible and dear, Swift be thy flight!
The seraph looked up, and pain sliced through my head as our eyes met, almost blinding me. "I honor you. You can do something I cannot," it said softly. "For all I am and all I have been, you are human. You are loved for your inventiveness, both good and bad. I can kill, but you can create. You can even create...an end," it said wistfully. "That's something I will never be able to do. Accept this. Create.
At night I would lie in bed and watch the show, how bees squeezed through the cracks of my bedroom wall and flew circles around the room, making that propeller sound, a high-pitched zzzzzz that hummed along my skin. I watched their wings shining like bits of chrome in the dark and felt the longing build in my chest. The way those bees flew, not even looking for a flower, just flying for the feel of the wind, split my heart down its seam.
The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.
Creamy and leggy, with long azure hair and the eyes of a silent-movie star, she moved like a poem and smiled like a sphinx.
