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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368819" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sadness</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">1<br>Dear ghosts, dear presences, O my dear parents,<br>Why were you so sad on porches, whispering?<br>What great melancholies were loosed among our swings!<br>As before a storm one hears the leaves whispering<br>And marks each small change in the atmosphere,<br>So was it then to overhear and to fear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">2<br>But all things then were oracle and secret.<br>Remember the night when, lost, returning, we turned back<br>Confused, and our headlights singled out the fox?<br>Our thoughts went with it then, turning and turning back<br>With the same terror, into the deep thicket<br>Beside the highway, at home in the dark thicket. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">3<br>I say the wood within is the dark wood,<br>Or wound no torn shirt can entirely bandage,<br>But the sad hand returns to it in secret<br>Repeatedly, encouraging the bandage<br>To speak of that other world we might have borne,<br>The lost world buried before it could be born. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">4<br>Burchfield describes the pinched white souls of violets<br>Frothing the mouth of a derelict old mine<br>Just as an evil August night comes down,<br>All umber, but for one smudge of dusky carmine.<br>It is the sky of a peculiar sadness— <br>The other side perhaps of some rare gladness. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">5<br>What is it to be happy, after all? Think<br>Of the first small joys. Think of how our parents<br>Would whistle as they packed for the long summers,<br>Or, busy about the usual tasks of parents,<br>Smile down at us suddenly for some secret reason,<br>Or simply smile, not needing any reason. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">6<br>But even in the summers we remember<br>The forest had its eyes, the sea its voices,<br>And there were roads no map would ever master,<br>Lost roads and moonless nights and ancient voices— <br>And night crept down with an awful slowness toward the water;<br>And there were lanterns once, doubled in the water. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">7<br>Sadness has its own beauty, of course. Toward dusk,<br>Let us say, the river darkens and look bruised,<br>And we stand looking out at it through rain.<br>It is as if life itself were somehow bruised<br>And tender at this hour; and a few tears commence.<br>Not that they are but that they feel immense.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Donald+Justice">Donald Justice</a><div class=q>
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Dear ghosts, dear presences, O my dear parents,
Why were you so sad on porches, whispering?
What great melancholies were loosed among our swings!
As before a storm one hears the leaves whispering
And marks each small change in the atmosphere,
So..."></div>
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