Our elders say that youthful Hope and ever-ageless Trust,Created the blushing western sunset and pensive eastern duskUpon discovering their precious earth was but a stiffened trailAnd their sky would never bear the rains nor sprinkle icy hail—That they, in fact, were leading lives too focused on some goal—Some two-dimensioned peaks to climb, colorless and cold…So…
On the way home, heaven loveryou’ll encounter a juvenile flowerdo not hold it, for it will crumblejust behold itand it will double.Next thing you know a field will growrepeating mirror images ablossom,infinite beauty, sown in the abyssof your deceasing eyes.
Pick up, fear.Pick up and come here.Pick the pace up a gear, clearly I’m in it but uncommitted, long as you live I fear for thee, commit my suicide for me.For I can’t unrationalize thy passionate cries, and fore the knife takes arms against life, against the harm I had, my mind tells me “life…
A city is a placeWhere one can’t scream in peace.
This is as much for my own reference, to return to and finish reading later, as it is for anyone interested in this small roll I’m on with classicism. T.S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent”
Laver may be the greatest,The historians opine,Sampras may be the greatest,The winners opine,Federer may be the greatest,The perfectionists opine,Nadal may be the greatest,The athletes opine,Djokovic may be the greatest,The rankings opine,But when I hit that winner up the line,I, I, was the greatest of all time. February 2011