tori

[forevermorejustme]

I never told the buried gold

Upon the hill- that lies-

I saw the sun - his plunder done

Crouch low to guard his prize.

by Emily Dickinson

[forevermorejustme]

There is a word

Which bears a sword

Can pierce an armed man -

It hurls its barbed syllables

And is mute again -

by Emily Dickinson

[forevermorejustme]

The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — To her divine Majority — Present no more —

by Emily Dickinson

[forevermorejustme]

I never told the buried gold

Upon the hill- that lies-

I saw the sun - his plunder done

Crouch low to guard his prize.

by Emily Dickinson

[forevermorejustme]

Love - thou art Veiled-

A few - behold thee-

Smile-and alter-and prattle-and die-

Bliss - were an Oddity - without thee-

Nicknamed by God-

Eternity-

by Emily Dickinson

[forevermorejustme]

All the pages of all the books

are blank.

It's a big secret.

The readers say nothing about it

to each other.

by Charles Simic

[forevermorejustme]

They had a secret

Which they were about to

Make known to me,

And then didn’t.

by Charles Simic

[forevermorejustme]

The sun pointed to one or two

Things that had survived

The long night intact,

The simplest things

by Charles Simic

[forevermorejustme]

It is not the moon, I tell you.

It is these flowers

lighting the yard.

by Louise Glück

[forevermorejustme]

On the first page of my dreambook

It’s always evening

In an occupied country.

Hour before the curfew.

A small provincial city.

The houses all dark.

by Charles Simic

[forevermorejustme]

Sometimes the

green pasture

of the mind

tilts abruptly.

The grazing horses

struggle crazily

by Kay Ryan

[forevermorejustme]

Past cure I am, now reason is past care, 

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,

At random from the truth vainly expressed:

by William Shakespeare

[forevermorejustme]

It is not the moon, I tell you.

It is these flowers

lighting the yard.

by Louise Glück

[forevermorejustme]

Inconceivably solemn!

Things so gay

Pierce - by the very Press

Of Imagery-

by Emily Dickinson

[forevermorejustme]

Unit, like Death, for Whom?

True, like the Tomb,

Who tells no secret

Told to Him-

by Emily Dickinson

[forevermorejustme]

Over the still world, a bird calls

waking solitary among black boughs.

You wanted to be born; I let you be born.

When has my grief ever gotten

in the way of your pleasure?

by Louise Glück

[forevermorejustme]

Like all images, these were the conditions of a pact:

on your cheek, tremor of sunlight,

my finger pressing your lips.

by Louise Glück