Saturday, January 14, 2006

A Clear Midnight

by Walt Whitman

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.


1 Comments:

Blogger Theresa Williams said...

How telling this poem is, in light of your next on insomnia. The thing you are missing: it must be a key to your soul, Cynthia. As I keep saying, something to do with unfulfillment of your creative life. This poem speaks to me (I love Whitman, and more and more as I age). Reading it, I couldn't help but think of last night, which was a clear cold night, a big moon lighting the snow. Allen and I stepped outside in the early morning, around 2:00 a.m., to listen to two owls who-whoing in our yard. It was magical, and nothing compares. You are a beautiful soul, Cynthia. We will all benefit as soon as you dedicate yourself completely to your art.

January 15, 2006 2:51 PM  

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