These days leave me cold. I feel the need for beauty and for truth. The beauty I can see just outside the window at sunrise and sunset, in the maples, oaks, red osier and prairie grasses waving in the wind I cannot see. But inside the human house where lies freely fly, truth is scorned and hard to find. Only the poets give voice to what I feel.
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth – the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a-night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
- Emily Dickinson, I died for beauty but was scarce
` Gordon C. Stewart, Chaska, MN, October 17, 2018
That is one of those rare poems that has stuck in my memory. Permanently.
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
I think the moss is already growing and I’m not even dead.
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I my case, I think it’s mold, Marilyn. 😱
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Beautiful
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