Much Madness is divinest Sense --
To a discerning Eye --
Much Sense -- the starkest Madness --
'Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail --
Assent -- and you are sane --
Demur -- you're straightway dangerous --
And handled with a Chain --
the color blobs
cast onto floor & wall
by stained glass light
are brightest just before
the sun drops out of sight.
What they undertook to do
They brought to pass;
All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass.
a quiet valley,
sheltered from the world:
flowers rivet monks.
To be under a cloud
Is not so sad a thing;
If you can love the rain,
And you can dance and sing.
I am not now.
I was not then.
That makes it sound
Like I've never been.
But I once was
And will be again,
But who can know
Just where & when?
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
