Eternity mourns that. 'T is an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow 's held intrusive and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity."
Sir Henry Taylor
Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 5.
WIND
I have died, but you are still among the living.
And the wind, keening and complaining,
Makes the country house and the forest rock -
Not each pine by itself
But all the trees as one,
Together with the illimitable distance;
It makes them rock as the hulls of sailboats
Rock on the mirrorous waters of a boat-basin.
And this the wind does not out of bravado
Or in a senseless rage,
But so that in its desolation
It may find words to fashion a lullaby for you.
Boris Pasternak
