Friday, July 29, 2005


Oh, my soul
if I could but take the chains off of you
and set you free. . .

Oh, my heart
if I could but give you away to someone
who would not give you back to me. . .

Oh, my tears
if I could but bottle you up and preserve you
for only moments of delight. . .

Oh, my eyes
if I could but keep you from the darkness of
another night. . .

Oh, my life
if I could but lock you away
and never let you go. . .

but with no tribulation,
happiness I would never know.


Ronnie said...

To your soul:
Your yoke is soft, and your chains are weak. . .stretch and you will surely be free.

To your heart:
But it is your job to be broken and passed around. . .you are but a small creature, and much pain you will endure, but there will come one who will make it all worth the while. When will this person come, and in what form? That only time will tell. Till then dear heart do not be sad, for your trials will soon be over.

To your tears:
Without the moments of sadness you would not recognize the moments of delight, and while the moments of sadness may be intense, they are few and far between. . .while you flow through happiness all the while.

To your eyes:
How can such a pretty shade of blue fear the dark so? Do you not know that soon the day will come again. . .and the entire sky will light into your color.

To your life:
Oh, but time waits for none. . .so live your life and enjoy the rising of the sun. . .tomorrow will come surely enough, but we will not all be a part of it. So, take joy in the pain and never let it go for pain alone will let your happiness flow.

Ronnie said...

Ode on Melancholy:
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-Bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anquish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from Heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Of if they mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep, upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

by John Keats 1819/1820

I thought it might help with how you are feeling. . .it is one of my absolute favorites

Anyhow, will you do me a favor? Take a chance and get to know me before you do any speed-dating or otherwise. You might like what you find, and if you don't. . .then you haven't lost much. . .till tomorrow goodnight