He must feel blooded with the spirit of a god
to sit opposite you and listen, and reply,
to your talk, your laughter, your touching,
breath-held silences. But what I feel, sitting here
and watching you, so stops my heart and binds
my tongue that I can’t think what I might say
to breach the aureole around you there.
It’s as if someone with flint and stone had sparked
a fire that kindled the flesh along my arms
and smothered me in its smoke-blind rush.
Paler than summer grass, it seems
I am already dead, or little short of dying.
Robert Frost
(1874 – 1963)
William Shakespeare
(1564 – 1616)
Maya Angelou
(1928 – 2014)
Pablo Neruda
(1904 – 1973)
Emily Dickinson
(1830 – 1886)
Langston Hughes
(1901 – 1967)
Rabindranath Tagore
(1861 – 1941)
William Wordsworth
(1770 – 1850)
Shel Silverstein
(1930 – 1999)
William Blake
(1757 – 1827)
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