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.

Sunday, November 21, 2021

The Lost Lagoon

 

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,And we two dreaming the dusk away,Beneath the drift of a twilight grey—Beneath the drowse of an ending dayAnd the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark on the Lost Lagoon,And gone are the depths of haunting blue,The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,The singing firs, and the dusk and—you,And gone is the golden moon.

O lure of the Lost Lagoon—I dream to-night that my paddle blursThe purple shade where the seaweed stirs—I hear the call of the singing firsIn the hush of the golden moon.

--Emily Pauline Johnson

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