The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Monody to the Sound of Zithers

I have wanted other things more than lovers ...
I have desired peace, intimately to know
The secret curves of deep-bosomed contentment,
To learn by heart things beautiful and slow.
 
Cities at night, and cloudful skies, I've wanted; 
And open cottage doors, old colors and smells a part;
All dim things, layers of river-mist on river--
To capture Beauty's hands and lay them on my heart.
 
I have wanted clean rain to kiss my eyelids,
Sea-spray and silver foam to kiss my mouth. 
I have wanted strong winds to flay me with passion;
And, to soothe me, tired winds from the south.
 
These things have I wanted more than lovers...
Jewels in my hands, and dew on morning grass--
Familiar things, while lovers have been strangers. 
Friended thus, I have let nothing pass.
 
--Kay Boyle

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