The mind, exalted to a sense of ill,
Soon sinks beyond it into utter sadness,
And sees its grief before it like a hill.
Oh! I have suffered till my brain became
Distinct with woe, as is the skeleton leaf
Whose green hath fretted off its fibrous frame,
And bare to our immortality of grief.
Marian. Like the light line that laughter leaves
One moment on a bright young brow;
So truth is lost ere love believes
There can be aught save truth below.
Festus. But as the eye aye brightlier beams
For every fall the lid lets on it,
So oft the fond heart happier dreams
For the soft cheats love puts upon it.
Marian. I never dreamed of wretchedness;
I thought to love meant but to bless.
Festus. It once was bliss to me to watch
Thy passing smile, and sit and catch
The sweet contagion of thy breath--
For love is catching--from such teeth;
Delicate little pearl-white wedges,
All transparent at the edges."
Downsiz*d Antichrist. (via M*tafilt*r)
"...chess, like ice sculpture or cave painting or architecture, was an art of dreamlike impermanence." --Th* Ch*ss Artist