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And your eyes, I see them like two golden bowls, them.
As I pass out into the blackness,
I wonder if I have ever really known you—
Or if you exist at all,
And are not but a twisted, fevered, silver creation of my brain,
And the unreality of you comes over me,
Like a mist upon a lonely sea.
As I pass out into the blackness,
I wonder if I have ever really known you—
Or if you exist at all,
And are not but a twisted, fevered, silver creation of my brain,
And the unreality of you comes over me,
Like a mist upon a lonely sea.
Poetry, A Magazine of VerseMercedes de Acosta
LACRIMAE RERUM
Rossetti walked his sorrow to a field,
Lay in the grass, and watched the wood-spurge flower.
The three-cupped wood-spurge: all that earth would yield
Rossetti to remember of that hour.
He lay with grief, as others too have lain
Who must remember strangely other things.
Things that still keep the contours of their pain,
Whose colors cling longer than sorrow clings.
Lay in the grass, and watched the wood-spurge flower.
The three-cupped wood-spurge: all that earth would yield
Rossetti to remember of that hour.
He lay with grief, as others too have lain
Who must remember strangely other things.
Things that still keep the contours of their pain,
Whose colors cling longer than sorrow clings.
The tears of things that have not any words,
Deeper than music, stronger than the sea,
And sadder than the flight of homing birds:
Remembered things, outlasting memory.
The shapes of suffering hold, when you and I
And sorrow, and this cause for sorrow, die.
Deeper than music, stronger than the sea,
And sadder than the flight of homing birds:
Remembered things, outlasting memory.
The shapes of suffering hold, when you and I
And sorrow, and this cause for sorrow, die.
The New RepublicBabette Deutsch
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