Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.
Pablo Neruda
In celebration of May Day, a short excerpt from Slim Chances:
‘Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height.' E. M. Forster
Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.
Still grows the vivacious lilac a generation after the door and lintel and the sill are gone, unfolding its sweet-scented flowers each spring, to be plucked by the musing traveller; planted and tended once by children’s hands, in front-yard plots, – now standing by wall-sides in retired pastures, and giving place to new-rising forests; the last of that stirp, sole survivor of that family.
| Photo by EP |
Bright baffling Soul, least capturable of themes,
Thou, who display’dst a life of common-place,
Leaving no intimate word or personal trace
Of high design outside the artistry
Of thy penned dreams,
Still shalt remain at heart unread eternally.
What a wide, free, careless spirit was this man Shakespeare’s — incarnate lesson to narrow-headed mortals, their strait moralities, and pedantic hearts! And what a Song he sang; clothing beauty for all time in actuality, in strangeness, and variety!
| Holy Trinity by William Wells Quatremain |
| Photo by EP |
Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, & Future sees ...
This, as a coherent whole, only casually observed;
never as yet tried in suffering or succeeding,
held together for an enduring fulfillment,
yet so as if for times to come, out of these scattered things,
something serious and lasting were being planned.
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| Photo by EP |