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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358651" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The House Of Dust: Part 04: 05: The Bitter Love-Song</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, I shall not say why it is that I love you&mdash;<br>Why do you ask me, save for vanity?<br>Surely you would not have me, like a mirror,<br>Say 'yes,&mdash;your hair curls darkly back from the temples,<br>Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness,<br>Your eyes are April grey. . . .with jonquils in them?'<br>No, if I tell at all, I shall tell in silence . . .<br>I'll say&mdash;my childhood broke through chords of music<br>&mdash;Or were they chords of sun?&mdash;wherein fell shadows,<br>Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight;<br>Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me<br>With wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. .<br>I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning,<br>My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover,<br>And drowsed there like a bee. . . .blue days behind me<br>Stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic,<br>Enchanted, silent, timeless. . . .days before me<br>Murmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold,<br>Green evenings streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights.<br>Confused soft clouds of music fled above me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me.<br>I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight,<br>Shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty,<br>Or crept once more to the warm white cave of sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, I shall not say 'this is why I praise you&mdash;<br>Because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .'<br>You would not have me say what you know better?<br>Let me instead be silent, only saying&mdash;:<br>My childhood lives in me&mdash;or half-lives, rather&mdash;<br>And, if I close my eyes cool chords of music<br>Flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . .<br>Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls,<br>Deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them,<br>Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them,<br>Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. . .<br>I lay in my bed and through the tall night window<br>Saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds,<br>And heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. . . .<br>How should I know&mdash;how should I now remember&mdash;<br>What half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me?<br>What wings like swords? What eyes with the dread night in them?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This I shall say.&mdash;I lay by the hot white sand-dunes. .<br>Small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny,<br>Stared at the sky. And silently there above us<br>Day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge,<br>Presences swept, and over us streamed their shadows,<br>Swift and blue, or dark. . . .What did they mean?<br>What sinister threat of power? What hint of beauty?<br>Prelude to what gigantic music, or subtle?<br>Only I know these things leaned over me,<br>Brooded upon me, paused, went flowing softly,<br>Glided and passed. I loved, I desired, I hated,<br>I struggled, I yielded and loved, was warmed to blossom . . .<br>You, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them,<br>Set these dunes before me, these salt bright flowers,<br>These presences. . . .I drowse, they stream above me,<br>I struggle, I yield and love, I am warmed to dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You are the window (if I could tell I'd tell you)<br>Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight.<br>You are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me)<br>In which I remember a thin still whisper of singing.<br>It is not you I laugh for, you I touch!<br>My hands, that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs,<br>Coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops;<br>And clover, heavy with rain; and cold green grass. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Conrad+Potter+Aiken">Conrad Potter Aiken</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358651" data-title="The House Of Dust: Part 04: 05: The Bitter Love-Song de Conrad Potter Aiken" data-description="No, I shall not say why it is that I love you&mdash;
Why do you ask me, save for vanity?
Surely you would not have me, like a mirror,
Say 'yes,&mdash;your hair curls darkly back from the temples,
Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy swee..."></div>
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