Thursday, December 13, 2012

117. Il fiore della gioventù

Frost melts in the morning sun:
it is beginning and the

Everything is just as always,
and it will be, evermore;

On the final days,
when silence looms more present on the distant fields,
there does not seem to be enough
to count the branches and their

the blades of grass
or their migrant residents

there was only time for so much
before the moment is lost and
replaced, cycling
nowhere and

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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson