ee punye…

Hope is a thing with feathers, which perches in the soul, sings a tune without words, and never stops at all. And sweetest, in the gale, is heard and sore must be the storm that could abash the little bird that keeps so many warms. I’ve heard it in the chilliest land and on the strangest sea yet, never, in extremity it ask a crumb of me.

La Nuova Vita

Filed under: Weblogs — queenster at 12:32 pm on Saturday, March 15, 2008

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In that book which is
My memory . . .
On the first page
That is the chapter when
I first met you
Appear the words . . .
Here begins a new life

Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears
Today of past regrets and future fears;
Tomorrow? Why, tomorrow I may be,
Myself, with yesterday’s sev’n thousand years.



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