A poem by J.F. Conant

He who loves an old house never loves in vain. How can an old house used to sun and rain, to lilac and to larkspur and an elm above-ever fail to answer the heart that gives it love?

Monday, October 17, 2011

Sonnet by Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dreams flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.


Shirley said...

Hi Terri,
Love the new look to your blog and the name is awesome..I love, love,love your big grand house..
I'm so glad you have it back...

Life in the Big Grey Victorian On The Corner said...

And I, Shirley, love you! Hope you and Ellen and I can get together sometime soon! Let's do a tea party this time. Want to?