Sunday, August 12, 2007

Time for a little Edna

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.


She was only 32 when she wrote this so we're not supposed to take the first person seriously. But I know what she was talking about. You can be 32 and feel 60. You can be 35 and feel 70.

Midway through the journey of life I found myself in a dark wood because I had lost the right path.

That ever elusive la verace via.

What lips my lips have kissed.

Indeed.

It is the blight man was born for
it is Margaret you mourn for.

2 comments:

goldennib said...

I hate that old feeling. That feeling of being in a rut. Feeling that life has nothing new and exciting to offer. It is such a bleak feeling.

Jenn said...

Bleak. In a word, you've captured it, Nessa. Or maybe it is how you feel, everytime you're sick and the world turns just a little greyer.