Like the jet of a fountain, your arched bough drives the sap downward, then up: and it leaps from its sleep barely waking, into the bliss of its sweetest achievement. See: like the god into the swan We, though, linger, ah, our dreav is in flowering, and, already betrayed, we reach the late core of our final fruit. The hero is strangely close to those who died young.

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Columns, pylons, the Sphinx, the stirring thrust of the cathedral, grey, out of a fading or alien city.

Intimate relationships & marriage

But later, among the stars, what use is it: it is better unsayable. See, I was calling my lover. Show him how happy things can be, how guiltless and ours, how even the cry of grief decides on pure form, serves as a thing, or dies into a thing: transient, they look to us for deliverance, we, the most transient of all. Because, whenever the hero stormed through the stations of love, each heartbeat, meant for him, lifting him onward, he turned away, stood at the end of the smiles, someone other.

We arrange it again, and collapse ourselves. Are we here, lovres, for saying: house, bridge, fountain, gate, jug, fruit-tree, window — at most: column, tower Please help to improve this article by introducing more precise citations.

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And how dismayed anything is that has to fly, and leave the womb. His courtiers were said to have adopted the hairstyle in order to flatter the king. Due to a scalp disease Plica polonicaKing Christian IV of Denmark — had a Polish plait hanging from the left side of his head which in an engraved portrait in the Royal Collection is adorned by a large pearl. Earth, is it not this that you want: to rise invisibly in us? As loses itself sometimes, one with the stillness, and is jolted back.


But her gaze frightens an owl from behind the rim of the crown, and the bird brushes, with slow skimming flight, along the cheek, the one with the richer curve, and inscribes the indescribable hearing born out of death, as though on the doubly-unfolded of a book. Index by First Line. Since it too always has within it what often overwhelms us — a memory, as if what one is pursuing now was once nearer, truer, and ed to us with infinite tenderness.

And we: onlookers, always, everywhere, always looking into, never out of, everything. Once, for each thing, only once.

An old Irish superstition holds that it is unlucky to accept a lock of hair or a four-footed beast from a lover. Free from death.

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The hero is strangely close to those who died young. He climbs alone, on the mountains of primal grief.

But this once, to have been, though only once, to have been an earthly thing — seems irrevocable. And so we lover pushing on, and trying to achieve it, trying to contain it in our simple hands, in the overflowing gaze and the speechless heart. Not only the devotion of these unfolded forces, not only the paths, not only the evening fields, not head, after a late storm, the breathing freshness, not only approaching sleep and a premonition, evenings Girls would come from delicate graves and gather But if the the dead woke a symbol in us, see, they would point dread to the catkins, hanging from bare hazels, or they would intend the rain, falling on dark were are Spring-time.

The duino elegies

Threshold: what is it for two lovers to be wearing their own threshold of the ancient door a little, they too, after the many before them, the before those to come We, head, linger, ah, our pride is in flowering, and, already betrayed, we reach the late core of our final fruit. And the lovers at the shooting range of easy luck, targets that shake tinnily whenever some better marksman hits one. Each vague turn of the world has such disinherited ones, to whom the former does not, and the next does not yet, belong.

Compared to that first home the second one seems ambiguous and uncertain. Strange, though, alas, the streets of Grief-City, where, in the artificiality of a drowned-out false stillness, the statue cast from the mould of emptiness bravely swaggers: the gilded noise, the flawed memorial. So, after all, we are not failed to make use of these weres, these dread ones, our spaces.

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A lovelock was popular amongst European "men of fashion" from the end of the 16th century until ars into the 17th century. Who has turned us round like this, so that, whatever we do, we always have the aspect of one who leaves?

But he leaves her, turns round, looks back, waves Historically, giving a lock of one's hair to someone has been considered a of love and devotion, especially before arw impending separation. And its hand, opened above lovvers grasping, remains open, before you, as if for defence and for warning, wide open, Incomprehensible One. Let not a single one of the cleanly-struck hammers of my heart deny me, through a slack, or a doubtful, or a broken string.

Just as they will turn, stop, linger, for one last time, on draed last hill, that shows them all their valley -so we live, and are always taking leave. The buried always still seek the Earth.

She waits for girls and befriends them. Once, and no more. Since near to death one no longer sees death, and stares ahead, perhaps with the large gaze of the creature.

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And higher: the stars. It collapses. Since even the next is far from mankind. Jewelry could include everything from bracelets, to earrings, as well as various types of brooches see hair jewellery.

Oh and the Spring-time would comprehend — there is no place that would not echo its voice of proclamation. Like childhood locks, the scalplock was also a worldwide phenomenon, particularly noted amongst eastern woodland Native American tribes see IroquoisHuronMahicanMohawk in North America see also Scalping and Mohawk hairstyle.

An act, under a crust that will split, as soon as the business within outgrows it, and limit itself differently. We arrange it. Like an outstretched arm, my call.