This poem was written by Maxwell Bodenheim
The sunset is near its end-A drenching red Upon the undecipherable Innocence of low clouds Upon the sky's so matchless, blue, Impersonal acpuiescence. oh, if this far horizon did not stand And light remained in one eternal morning, There would be sunsets still of mind and heart, For sunsets are but poetry And pessimism, lending strength and softness To the lives of human beings Needing much to creep away From all the broken promises of light Poetry and pessimism then, Meeting in the line of understanding Which must be in every brooding man's horizon This scene is not an actual sun That slipped below the shoulder of a hill And left great flakes of apple-blossem red To paint a cravenly untrue good-bye This drenching red contains the blood Of men who died upon the earth In many mornings, Afternoons, And rise again to say that night is false To say it for a moment, in all The ineffable pathos and frailness of there challenge, Before the night swoops down again And seems to end it, as it once Seemed to endtheir breath and make them naught In moments never end, nor do the nights Imaginary victories, and none But poets hoping past the death of hope Will dare to say that sunsets are more real Than night and day, because sunsets alone Can drench the swelling sky and make it find Beauty to keen to live, to strong to die.
Once again that was Maxwell Bodemhiem PLEASE COMMENT I WANT TO KNOW IF ANYONE LIKE THIS OR IF IM JUST WEIRD!
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Saxy_Misty · Sat Jan 14, 2006 @ 03:02am · 0 Comments |