microscopic muses

  You will be gone soon enough  But when you come back (Next year); will  you be the same?

They cut you down They strip you bare So words can be written  *on you*

  I want you to feel what I feel When you see what I see Then I want to feel how you feel

                                                                          Hanging on                                                                      Autumn lingers                                                                       Winter’s snub

   My Shadow Robert Louis Stevenson  - 1850-1894 I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all. He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see; I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. This poem is in the public domain. Born on Novem

Shadow of self   Shadowing self No one else can dance with you  quite as well as your own shadow  and  no one else will dare to air your faults, or virtues  (in such a subtle way); quite as well as your own shadow                                                ‘will you dance with me?’

  When a picture says it all  Words are,  not needed Simplicity awoken ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sometimes words aren’t needed because eyes that NEED to see them WILL *and understand their meaning *

  Hours lost, eaten up by time, as amnesia breaks the hands of the clock Making you forget * what day it is *

                                             I climb the same steps                                               Breathe the same air                                                    Waiting for you                                                           *to ignite my words*

                                                              Autumn Moon                                                             Struggles to sleep                                                             Awake in my morn

  News Opinion Sport Culture Lifestyle Show caption Carol Rumens's poem of the week Poem of the week: Rest by Christina Rossetti This serene vision of death reads rather like the dream of a good night’s sleep Carol Rumens Mon 22 Nov 2021 05.00 EST Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Share via Email Rest O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hush’d in and curtain’d with a blessèd dearth Of all that irk’d her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long. Framed by  Christina Rossetti  in mainly secular terms, this prayer for rest seems at times simply

  The Macmillan Collector's Library collection,  Selected Poems , celebrates Keats’s greatest works, drawing on the poetry published both during his lifetime and after his death. Discover a selection of our favourite John Keats poems from the collection, below. Discover our edit of  the best poetry books. The poet  John Keats  wrote with great insight and emotion about art and beauty, love and loss, suffering and nature. His famous poems include ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ and ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’. Despite his first volume of poetry being published only four years before he died from tuberculosis at the age of twenty-five, he came to be regarded as one of the greatest poets of the Romantic movement, alongside Byron, Shelley and Wordsworth. This year marks the 200th anniversary of Keats' death. During his lifetime, however, his writing was not well-received by critics and his talent remained largely unrecognized.  Two hundred years after his death, he is one of England’s most b