trouvaille.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ˚ . + ˚ ⊹ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,
Winding about their dimness the mist’s grey cerements, after
The street lamps in the darkness have suddenly started to bleed.

The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass
To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes
That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤ ㅤ · + 　　　·　 * ✫ 　*                ⊹


We cannot live, except thus mutually We alternate, aware or unaware, The reflex act of life: and when we bear Our virtue onward most impulsively, Most full of invocation, and to be. Most instantly compellant, certes, there. We live most life, whoever breathes most air. And counts his dying years by sun and sea. But when a soul, by choice and conscience, doth. Throw out her full force on another soul, The conscience and the concentration both. Make mere life, Love. For Life in perfect whole. And aim consummated, is Love in sooth, As nature’s magnet-heat rounds pole with pole.

° ❦ Ꮆemintang.