Sunday, January 8, 2012

ars poetica

The look of the world's a lie, a face made up
 O'er graves and fiery depths; and nothing's true
 But what is horrible. If man could see
 The perils and diseases that he elbows
 Each day he walks a mile; which catch at him
 Which fall behind and graze him as he passes;
 Then would he know that life's a single pilgrim,
 Fighting unarmed amongst a thousand soldiers
 It is this infinite invisible
 Which we must learn to know, and yet to scorn,
 And, from scorn of that, regard the world
 As from the edge of a far star

Death's Jest Book, Thomas Lovell Beddoes

ars poetica

Miracles are to come.
With you I leave a remembrance
of miracles: they are by
somebody who can love
and who shall be continually reborn,
a human being.
—E.E. Cummings