Fragment: a part broken off, something cut or detached from the whole, something imperfect... something perfectly imperfect, unnoticed, yet beautiful in its own right.
What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this is if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
William Henry Davies
Up here. A face Loses its lines
I look to see The colour of your eyes … They have turned To water.
I lean forward To catch The scent of your hair – All I smell is heather.
I touch your hand And all I feel is earth and stones. There is nothing left But the hillside’s breast
Your flesh and bones Have vanished.
For Nature, true and like in every place, Will hint her secret in a garden patch, Or in lone corners of a doleful heath, As in the Andes watched by fleets at sea, Or the sky-piercing horns of Himmaleh; And, when I would recall the scenes I dreamed On Adirondac steeps, I know Small need have I of Turner or Daguerre, Assured to find the token once again In silver lakes that unexhausted gleam And peaceful woods beside my cottage door.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Very little grows on jagged rock. Be ground. Be crumbled. So wild flowers will come up Where you are. You have been stony for too many years. Try something different. Surrender.
And when thou art weary, I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses, and flowers, to pillow thy head; There, beauteous Emma, I’ll sit at thy feet, While my story of love I enraptur’d repeat.
Love holds me captive again and I tremble with bittersweet longing
As a gale on the mountainside bends the oak tree I am rocked by my love