I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd a host of golden daffodils.

That's the only poem I remember - Go Wordsworth 30 plus years and I can still remember this.

Hope we remain friends. I don't tend to use my DW account I just pop in occasionally xx

Hi I am still here waving from the back row!

Between my finger and my thumb,
the squat pen rests snug as a gun...

The first line of Seamus Heaney's 'Digging'

I's still here!! *flails and clings* I'M STILL HERE!!

The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

**glomps you**

and sends a poem your way:

The Peace Of Wild Things

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

~Wendell Berry

You know I'm here, however, I'll play. How about some Les Murray?

I shot an arrow in the air,
It fell to earth in Taylor Square
Transfixing, to my vast delight,
A policeman and a sodomite.

oh very nice!

howzabout:

Termite

Some primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good!
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.

~Ogden Nash

Hi, still reading your great stories. I'm no good with quotes but hope long term loyalty counts. Please keep me on your flist, I so enjoy your stories!

((huggles and snuggles you))

of course you are staying on my flist!

here - hands you a poem:

I carried my TV down the stairs
buried it on a hill
with a beautiful view

by spring a small antenna
sprouted in that place

somewhere under the earth
wispy clouds and the wingbeats of birds

Planting Consent, by Gary Baldwin

I'm sorry I don't have a poem to share, but I'm still around and reading!

that's OK - I'll hand you a poem back anyway:

Deranged with moonlight,
the neighbor's dog
eases out of its fur,
slips on a record, pours
a glass of red wine. Seduces
passing cars.

~Dog, by Christian Ward

I give you my favorite quote:

“…all companionship can consist in only the strengthening of neighboring solitudes, giving oneself is by nature harmful to companionship: for when a person abandons himself, he is no longer anything, and when two people both give themselves up in order to become closer to each other, there is no longer any ground beneath them and their being together is a continual falling – I have learned over and over again, there is scarcely anything more difficult than to love one another.”

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Please don't delete me. :D I have been reading occasionally, but I've not had time lately. (Btw, I used to be acollapsingdream, but I changed it not too long ago.)

don't worry - you're a keeper! :D

thats a great quote - how about a poem in reply?


Fear corrodes my dreams tonight and mist has greyed
my hills,
Mountains seem too tall to climb, December winds
are chill.
There's no comfort on the earth, I am a child
abandoned,
Till I feel your hand in mine
And laugh down lonely canyons.

Snow has bent the trees in grief, my summer dreams
are dead,
Flowers are but ghostly stalks, the clouds drift
dull as lead.
There's no solace in the sky, I am a child abandoned,
Till we chase the dancing moon
And laugh down lonely canyons.

Birds have all gone south too soon and frogs refuse to
sing,
Deer lie hidden in the woods, the trout asleep till
spring.
There's no wisdom in the wind, I am a child
abandoned,
Till we race across the fields
And laugh down lonely canyons.

Darkness comes too soon tonight, the trees are silent
scars,
Rivers rage against the rocks and snow conceals the
stars.
There's no music in the air, I am a child abandoned,
Till I feel my hand in yours
And laugh down lonely canyons.

- Laughing Down Lonely Canyons, James Kavanaugh

I haven't really talked to you, but i love your stories, so I was wondering if you could add me?




History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.

-Little Beast, Richard Siken

aw, ty, glad u like my fic.

That's a fantastic quote. I've added you and here's a poem in return:

The wind of Saying

The words dance in the wind of saying.
They are leaves that crispen,
sere, turning to dust. As long
as that language runs its blood-

rich river through the tongues
of people, as long as grand
mothers weave the warp and woof
of old stories with bright new

words carpeting the air
into dreams, then the words
live like good bacteria
within our guts, feeding us.

We catch the letters and trap
them in books, pearlescent butterflies
pinned down. We fasten the letters
with nails to the white pages.

Most words dry finally to husks
even though dead languages
whisper, blown sand through
the dim corridors of library stacks.

Languages wither, languages
are arrested and die in prison,
stories are chopped off at the roots
like weeds, lullabies spill

on the floor and dry up.
Conquerors force their words
into the minds of their victims.
Our natural language is a scream.

Our natural language is a cry
rattling in the night. But tongues
are how we touch, how we reach,
how we teach, the spine of words.

~Marge Piercy

I am very new and very green, and not familiar with this great and wonderful planet,but I would love to sail of and explore. Also, English is not my first language, but here goes:

When pain has come and love has gone,
Then life remains and so does song.

Something in Afrikaans my native tongue:

Alles het grense, 'n begin en 'n einde, maar jy? is vormloos soos wolke en net so gevaarlik.

hey you - I haz approved you :)

also, poetry would be very, very boring if we all spoke English, so don't ever apologize for speaking another language fluently!

Oh, South African poetry! Most awesome! How about some
Amitabh Mitra in return?

and when it rains
in tantrums gold in such cities living
long
i think of you often
when traffic lights
clothe a road
of swarming blues
and your eyes
in a flicker
stagger
ferns of old memories
again...

So (hands on chin) whose your favorite African poet? hmmmm?

Hey!
I arrive from lj! I like your fics a lot and I would love to have the opportunity to read them again!
Thank you in advance!!

Btw English is not my first language so that's why there isn't any poem... Sorry

I would so love to be added. I'm no poet, so I'm including here an excerpt from Cristina Rossetti's "Goblin Market", my very favorite poem.   

  Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other’s wings,
They lay down in their curtain’d bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipp’d with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gaz’d in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapp’d to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Lock’d together in one nest.

Done - an invite has been sent!

Rosetti is always a good choice! And since you're not a poet, howabout I introduce you to Dorothy Walters, who is often overlooked but awesome:

Scars of Rapture

Shams, I have done everything I know
so this would not happen.

You came into my life
like a wing of fire,
possessing and possessed
by something not seen.

When you first spoke
my books turned to clay,
and my throat closed
around a lost syllable.

Your eyes burned over me,
leaving scars of rapture,
my spirit became a field
swept clean by flame.

Can you think how it was
that morning I woke first,
and found you,
an unbound mystery
by my side.

Or the day we did not eat,
but drank from one another's light
till we were ribboned by dusk.

The air here holds only emptiness,
a little dust stirring.
I think there will be wind tonight,
and the camels will cry out
in their sleep.

Hi! I read your Beasts and Outlaws fic a while ago and have been looking forever for it to read again and I FINALLY FOUND IT! Please friend me so I can continue reading :o3 (...that's supposed to be puppy dog eyes. I guess).

Not exactly a poem but a quote I particularly like:
“Happiness resides not in possessions and not in gold; the feeling of happiness dwells in the soul.”
-Democritus

ok, I've approved you! And here, have a poem about happiness:

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.
Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
burst forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon
laugh at the twisted
dtreets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

~Pablo Neruda

It would be wonderful if I can friend (read cattle raid) this journal. That aside, this is beautiful quote. :)

you have been friended! And here's another early poem, this time by the Viking poet Egil. One of his sons died by fever, another was drowned in a storm, and this is from the lament he wrote about their deaths:

...My mouth strains
To move the tongue,
To weigh and wing
The choice word:
Not easy to breathe
Odin's inspiration
In my heart's hinterland,
Little hope there.

...But I've no strength to subdue
The slayer of my son
Nor the boldness to beat
Down my boy's killer:
Obvious to all,
An old man, unaided,
Helpless, unhappy,
Can hold out no hope.

The rough storm has robbed me
Of my best riches,
It's cruel to recall
The loss of that kinsman,
The safeguard, the shield
Of the house has sailed
Out in death's darkness
To a dearer place.

~Egill Skallgrímsson

Hi, I've come across your journal and was intrigued by your stories. May I request an invite to read them? I leave you an excerpt from one of my favourites by T.S. Eliot:

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair,
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

~ A Game of Chess, The Wasteland

Sure - I just approved you! Wasteland is awesome - how about some William Stafford in return?


What's in My Journal

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
Thing, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find them. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.

Throws self at you. I just sent you an email begging you to send me a pdf of Beasts and outlaws. I've never been to dreamwidth and couldn't figure out how to find you, I stumbled on this with pure dumb luck. I couldn't join the community and maybe it's because i didn't friend you first. I'm a little slow on the uptake. Either way may I be a friend? I've searched high and low for you. I'll even humbly offer you a quote from a poem I wrote called Oblivion:

"and the gods will look down upon the broken ball, spinning uselessy in the starry night, and sigh"

I can't find the paper with he rest of it but it's around here somewhere.

Here's another one:

"I saw the world through a dead man's eyes, and was told a tale full of dead man's lies."

My stuff tends to be a little bleak.

That noise you just heard was my knees hitting the floor as I grip my hands together in supplication.

Ta so much

ooohh, I really love this line:

"I saw the world through a dead man's eyes, and was told a tale full of dead man's lies."

I have added you to the comm. Here, have one of my poems:


My head,
tipped by your hand,
Guided like a coursing hound
into
The heated blood of your kiss.

If I tremble,
forgive.

I am pawsore
and
famished.

(if you like poetry, my poems and my poetry recs are at: goneahead.dreamwidth.org)

"The friends thou hast and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel."
I can't manage Dreamwidth properly, but don't unfriend me!
Ax

of course I won't defriend you, you're a keeper!

Love The Bard! Here' have one of his sonnets:

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

I am really not good with the poetry, so I shall sing to you!

There is nothing like a dame! Nothing in the world! There is nothing you can name that is anything like a dame!
Nothing else was built the same! Nothing in the worls! As the soft and wavy frame, like a silhouette of a dame!

Oh South Pacific!

And in return, I bring you a Hilaire Belloc poem, 'The Yak':

As a friend to the children
commend me the Yak.
You will find it exactly the thing:
It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
Or lead it about with a string.

The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet
(A desolate region of snow)
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know!
Then tell you papa where the Yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich
He will buy you the creature --
or else
he will not.
(I cannot be positive which.)

Not that I bid you spare her the pain!
Let death be felt and the proof remain;
Brand, burn up, bite into its grace--
He is sure to remember her dying face!

Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose
It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close:
The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee--
If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,
You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!
But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings
Ere I know it -- next moment I dance at the King's!

The Laboratory by Robert Browning

and I will hand you Poe's immortal El Dorado in return:

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

I meant to ask you a long time ago, but had laptop troubles that I finally got taken care of. It took me a while to find the email Kaz had sent me for this site, so I hope you don't mind friending me. I still mainly hang out at LJ, so I don't have much here if that is your litmus test.

I have friended you BUT you still owe a poem! **taps foot**

Hello there! I'm not sure if you're still checking this post? But I'm hoping that you are so I can read your wonderful fics! I absolutely LOVED your Beasts and Outlaws, and am so excited to see you have MORE fic!

I'm not very knowledgeable about poems, but one of my favourite quotes is:
But the wild things cried, “Oh please don't go- We'll eat you up- we love you so!”
― Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

(Also, I'm very new to Dreamwidth and really only use it to comment so I hope this works...)

Hanah

just sent you an invite and am handing a poem by Hillaire Belloc:

The Lion

The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.

Hi, I would like to read your fiction and I love westerns so stopping a cattle raid sounds exciting (and dangerous).
I hope a song is alright, I don't know much poetry.

Big gorilla at the LA Zoo
Snatched the glasses right off my face
Took the keys to my BMW
Left me here to take his place.

I wish the ape a lot of success,
I'm sorry my apartment's a mess
Most of all I'm sorry if I made you blue
I'm betting the gorilla will too.

They say Jesus will find you wherever you go
But when He'll come looking for you,
They don't know.
In the meantime, keep your profile low,
Gorilla, you're a desperado.

a song is fine - I have sent you an invite!

Howzabout 'Custard the Dragon' by Ogden Nash in return?

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

I created this account just so I could read your stories. Please add me !

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of the easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

I have sent you an invite!

And here's another Robert Frost poem, The Pasture, cuz there can never be too much Robert Frost:

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too

I would love to be able to read your amazing stories again!!
Here is my favourite poem of all time for you:

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Oh the imagery!!! ^.^

Oh yes,, I love that poem!

Here have another favorite of mine:

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

~Wendell Berry

Hi there! I'm just starting to learn how to navigate in Dreamwidth, but I think I can manage a poem!

Have some Blake...it was the first poem that I ever tried to memorize as a kid...with mixed results...but it gave me a love of the written word in all forms, so...


THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience)

By William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

oh thats a great poem. Here's the first poem I ever memorized, the Duel by Eugene Field:

The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I was n't there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went "Bow-wow-wow!"
And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(Now mind: I 'm only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw---
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(Don't fancy I exaggerate---
I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!
(The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)

Hi there! I was hoping to be able to read your fic again! I was a big fan of it back in the day. Is there a chance that I can get PDFs of them, or access them at this journal? Thank you!

Poem:
ANIMALS by Frank O'Hara

Have you forgotten what we were like then
when what we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days

***

I have approve you!

have a bit of Tarafa, an early Middle Eastern poet:

There are traces yet of Khaula in the stony tract of Thahmad
apparent like the tattoo-marks seen on the back of a hand;
there my companions halted their beasts awhile over me
saying, “Don’t perish of sorrow; bear it with fortitude.

~Tarafa, trans by Arberry

Some Nabokov?

My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.

awesome poem!

puts me in mind of Neol Coward's Marvelous Party (ok technically its a song)

nI've been to a marvellous party
We played a wonderful game:
Maureen disappeared
And came back in a beard,
And we all had to guess at her name..
.Cecil arrived wearing armour, 
Some shells and a black feather boa—
Poor Millicent wore a surrealist combMade of bits of mosaic from
St. Peter's in Rome, But the weight was so great
that she had to go home!
And I couldn't have liked it more!

there's more, but thats my favorite bit :)