nightlight twelve twenty

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The Soul's Expression
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

With stammering lips and insufficient sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night
With dream and thought and feeling interwound
And only answering all the senses round
With octaves of a mystic depth and height
Which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual ground.
This song of soul I struggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
And utter all myself into the air:
But if I did it,—as the thunder-roll
Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there,
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.

If thou must love me... (Sonnet 14)
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say,
"I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry:
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

By Nightlight1220

and this thing called poetry,

plucked from a pocket

of space and time.


a blindly adorned subtlety

flowing from the wings

of angels' thoughts unthought,

but with sultry desires.


a rhythmic taste

of word salad

that fumbles all

too easily and too often

from poets that choke

on the salty aftertaste of

frivolous candor,

with a raucous brouhaha

likened to a howl

from the maw

of a banshee.


untamed and yet,

so wildly untainted

in the heat

of it's innocent discourse

that one can only

breathe deeply,

the sensation of the moment,

and know how it feels to

wear the cloak of truth.


4:03 AM 8/11/2013 ©




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