Daylight Song Quotes

Sing me no songs of daylight, For the sun is the enemy of lovers Sing instead of shadows and darkness, And memories of midnight

A Second Childhood.” When all my days are ending And I have no song to sing, I think that I shall not be too old To stare at everything; As I stared once at a nursery door Or a tall tree and a swing. Wherein God’s ponderous mercy hangs On all my sins and me, Because He does not take away The terror from the tree And stones still shine along the road That are and cannot be. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for wine, But I shall not grow too old to see Unearthly daylight shine, Changing my chamber’s dust to snow Till I doubt if it be mine. Behold, the crowning mercies melt, The first surprises stay; And in my dross is dropped a gift For which I dare not pray: That a man grow used to grief and joy But not to night and day. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for lies; But I shall not grow too old to see Enormous night arise, A cloud that is larger than the world And a monster made of eyes. Nor am I worthy to unloose The latchet of my shoe; Or shake the dust from off my feet Or the staff that bears me through On ground that is too good to last, Too solid to be true. Men grow too old to woo, my love, Men grow too old to wed; But I shall not grow too old to see Hung crazily overhead Incredible rafters when I wake And I find that I am not dead. A thrill of thunder in my hair: Though blackening clouds be plain, Still I am stung and startled By the first drop of the rain: Romance and pride and passion pass And these are what remain. Strange crawling carpets of the grass, Wide windows of the sky; So in this perilous grace of God With all my sins go I: And things grow new though I grow old, Though I grow old and die.

And today is really the happiest day of your life, because today you woke up and stumbled across the shadow of your soul in broad daylight." From Central Park Song: a Screenplay

They were a delicious bunch but always forgetting the sensible things like food and daylight and remembering only the more intoxicating ones like love and gin.

I dreamed... in the black of night a man asks all the questions he dare not ask by daylight. For me, the past years, only one question has remained. Why would the gods take my eyes and my strength, yet condemn me to linger on so long, frozen and forgotten? What use could they have for an old done man like me? ... I remember, Sam. I still remember. Remember what? Dragons, Aemon whispered.

We had become a race of eccentrics and openly declared an array of singular whims and suspicions, at least while daylight allowed this audacity.

And he will also find the little god whom girls like best: beside the well he lies, still, with his eyes shut. Verily, in bright daylight he fell asleep, the sluggard! Did he chase after the butterflies too much?... He may cry and weep - but he is laughable even when he weeps. And with tears in his eyes he shall ask you for a dance and I myself will sing a song for his dance: a dancing and mocking song on the spirit of gravity... (p.108 - The Dancing Song)

Halflings! But they are only a little people in old songs and children’s tales out of the North. Do we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?’ ‘A man may do both,’ said Aragorn. ‘For not we but those who come after will make the legends of our time.

in the black of night a man asks all the questions he dare not ask by daylight.

Week by week, month by month, it slowly faded, though even when it moved back into the daylight sky it was still easy to find if one knew exactly where to look. And at night for years it was often the brightest of the stars. Mirissa saw it one last time, just before her eyesight failed.

The Home” I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset was hiding its last gold like a miser. The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness, and the widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent. Suddenly a boy’s shrill voice rose into the sky. He traversed the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song across the hush of the evening. His village home lay there at the end of the wasteland, beyond the sugar-cane field, hidden among the shadows of the banana and the slender areca palm, the coconut and the dark green jack-fruit trees. I stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight, and saw spread before me the darkened earth surrounding with her arms countless homes furnished with cradles and beds, mothers’ hearts and evening lamps, and young lives glad with a gladness that knows nothing of its value for the world.

The poem and song “The Happy Day of Svante” by Benny Andersen is famous in Denmark. It’s all about savoring the moment and enjoying simple pleasures: “Look, real daylight soon. Red sun and waning moon. She takes a shower for me. Me whom it’s good to be. Life’s not bad, for it’s all we have got. And the coffee’s almost hot.

11:48 P.M. Central Daylight Time NEAR WICHITA, KANSAS

Lift up your dark heart and sing a song about how time drifts past you like the gentlest, almost imperceptible breeze. — Jim Harrison, from “Cold Poem,” Saving Daylight. (Copper Canyon Press 2006)

Song of the Barren Orange Tree" Woodcutter. Cut out my shadow. Free me from the torture of seeing myself fruitless. Why was I born among mirrors? The daylight revolves around me. And the night herself repeats me in all her constellations. I want to live not seeing self. I shall dream the husks and insects change inside my dreaming into my birds and foliage. Woodcutter. Cut out my shadow. Free me from the torture

AWAKENING To open both your drowsy eyes, To stretch your limbs and realise That day is here. To watch the dancing, shifting beam Of sun, awake yet half in dream, Uncertain if the fitful gleam Be far or near. To turn with soft, contented sigh, And through the window watch the sky, All opal blue. To feel the air steal in the room, Made fragrant by the soft perfume Of lime-trees, when their scented bloom Is damp with dew. To hear the rustling voice of leaves, The chirp of birds beneath the eaves, But now awake. The tiny hum of timid things That fly with gauzy, fragile wings, Where yet the dusk to daylight clings, When mornings break. To feel the soul look forth and smile, Contented with each fruitful mile That it beholds. To hear the heart beat loud and strong, In unison with Nature's song, That echoes tremulous and long While dawn unfolds. To know yourself a thing complete, With strength of mind and limb replete, With vast desire; A creature made to dominate The lesser things of earth, a fate On whom the universe must wait, With force entire. And then to cry in deep delight God made the world and made it right; Dear Heaven above! Was ere completeness so complete, Was ever sweetness half so sweet, Was ever loving half so meet; Thank God for love.

The Reverie of Poor Susan AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass’d by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. ’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass’d away from her eyes!

Not this time, Sam. I dreamed . . . in the black of night a man asks all the questions he dare not ask by daylight. For me, these past years, only one question has remained. Why would the gods take my eyes and my strength, yet condemn me to linger on so long, frozen and forgotten? What use could they have for an old done man like me?” Aemon’s fingers trembled, twigs sheathed in spotted skin. “I remember, Sam. I still remember.” He was not making sense. “Remember what?” “Dragons,” Aemon whispered. “The grief and glory of my House, they were.” “The last dragon died before you were born,” said Sam. “How could you remember them?” “I see them in my dreams, Sam. I see a red star bleeding in the sky. I still remember red. I see their shadows on the snow, hear the crack of leathern wings, feel their hot breath. My brothers dreamed of dragons too, and the dreams killed them, every one. Sam, we tremble on the cusp of half-remembered prophecies, of wonders and terrors that no man now living could hope to comprehend . . . or . . .” “Or?” said Sam. “. . . or not.” Aemon chuckled softly. “Or I am an old man, feverish and dying.” He closed his white eyes wearily, then forced them open once again. “I should not have left the Wall. Lord Snow could not have known, but I should have seen it. Fire consumes, but cold preserves. The Wall . . . but it is too late to go running back. The Stranger waits outside my door and will not be denied. Steward, you have served me faithfully. Do this one last brave thing for me. Go down to the ships, Sam. Learn all you can about these dragons.

TIME TO SACRIFICE TAURUS This is the night of union when the stars scatter their rice over us. The sky is excited! Venus cannot stop singing the little songs she's making up, like birds in the first warm spring weather. The North Star can't quit looking over at Leo. Pisces is stirring milky dust from the ocean floor. Jupiter rides his horse near Saturn, "Old man, jump up behind me! The juice is coming back! Think of something happy to shout as we go. "Mars washes his bloody sword, puts it up, and begins building things. The Aquarian water jar fills, and the Virgin pours it generously. The Pleiades and Libra and Aries have no trembling in them anymore. Scorpio walks out looking for a lover, and so does Sagittarius! This is not crooked walking like the Crab. This is a holiday we've been waiting for. It is finally time to sacrifice Taurus and learn how the sky is a lens to look through. Listen to what's inside what I say. Shams will appear at dawn; then even night will change from its beloved animated darkness to a day within this ordinary sweet daylight.

THE MEETING" "Scant rain had fallen and the summer sun Had scorched with waves of heat the ripening corn, That August nightfall, as I crossed the down Work-weary, half in dream. Beside a fence Skirting a penning’s edge, an old man waited Motionless in the mist, with downcast head And clothing weather-worn. I asked his name And why he lingered at so lonely a place. “I was a shepherd here. Two hundred seasons I roamed these windswept downlands with my flock. No fences barred our progress and we’d travel Wherever the bite grew deep. In summer drought I’d climb from flower-banked combe to barrow’d hill-top To find a missing straggler or set snares By wood or turmon-patch. In gales of March I’d crouch nightlong tending my suckling lambs. “I was a ploughman, too. Year upon year I trudged half-doubled, hands clenched to my shafts, Guiding my turning furrow. Overhead, Cloud-patterns built and faded, many a song Of lark and pewit melodied my toil. I durst not pause to heed them, rising at dawn To groom and dress my team: by daylight’s end My boots hung heavy, clodded with chalk and flint. “And then I was a carter. With my skill I built the reeded dew-pond, sliced out hay From the dense-matted rick. At harvest time, My wain piled high with sheaves, I urged the horses Back to the master’s barn with shouts and curses Before the scurrying storm. Through sunlit days On this same slope where you now stand, my friend, I stood till dusk scything the poppied fields. “My cob-built home has crumbled. Hereabouts Few folk remember me: and though you stare Till time’s conclusion you’ll not glimpse me striding The broad, bare down with flock or toiling team. Yet in this landscape still my spirit lingers: Down the long bottom where the tractors rumble, On the steep hanging where wild grasses murmur, In the sparse covert where the dog-fox patters.” My comrade turned aside. From the damp sward Drifted a scent of melilot and thyme; From far across the down a barn owl shouted, Circling the silence of that summer evening: But in an instant, as I stepped towards him Striving to view his face, his contour altered. Before me, in the vaporous gloaming, stood Nothing of flesh, only a post of wood.

When one has lived a long time alone, one wants to live again among men and women, to return to that place where one's ties with the human broke, where the disquiet of death and now also of history glimmers its firelight on faces, where the gaze of the new baby looks past the gaze of the great granny, and where lovers speak, on lips blowsy from kissing, that language the same in each mouth, and like birds at daybreak blether the song that is both earth's and heaven's, until the sun has risen, and they stand in the daylight of being made one: kingdom come, when one has lived a long time alone.

Song" The girl with the lovely face, goes, gathering olives. The wind, that towering lover, takes her by the waist. Four riders go by on Andalusian ponies, in azure and emerald suits, in long cloaks of shadow. ‘Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!’ The girl does not listen. Three young bullfighters go by, slim-waisted in suits of orange, with swords of antique silver. ‘Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!’ The girl does not listen. When the twilight purples, with the daylight’s dying, a young man goes by, holding roses, and myrtle of moonlight. ‘Come to Granada, my sweetheart!’ But the girl does not listen. The girl, with the lovely face, goes on gathering olives, while the wind’s grey arms are embracing her waist.

It happens surprisingly fast, the way your shadow leaves you. All day you’ve been linked by the light, but now that darkness gathers the world in a great black tide, your shadow joins the sea of all other shadows. If you stand here long enough, you, too, will forget your lines and merge with the tall grass and old trees, with the crows and the flooding river—all these pieces of the world that daylight has broken into objects of singular loneliness. It happens surprisingly fast, the drawing in of your shadow, and standing in the field, you become the field, and standing in the night, you are gathered by night, Invisible birds sing to the memory of light but then even those separate songs fade, tiny drops of ink in an infinite spilling. — Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, “Still Life at Dusk,” Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, eds. Phyllis Cole-Dai & Ruby R. Wilson (Grayson Books, 2017)

Unlike the gold which needed nothing, and must be worshipped in close-locked solitude — which was hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to the song of birds, and started to no human tones — Eppie was a creature of endless claims and ever-growing desires, seeking and loving sunshine, and living sounds, and living movements; making trial of everything, with trust in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in all eyes that looked on her. The gold had kept his thoughts in an ever-repeated circle, leading to nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an object compacted of changes and hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and carried them far away from their old eager pacing towards the same blank limit — carried them away to the new things that would come with the coming years, when Eppie would have learned to understand how her father Silas cared for her; and made him look for images of that time in the ties and charities that bound together the families of his neighbours.

Dear God, I love this tree. I love the light filtering through the moss and the leaves. I love all your earth songs—the breeze rustling through the grass, the rhythm of crickets, the beating of wings. I love the rain water in the bird bath and the dragonflies that flit over it. I love the air so laden with moisture that the dew rains out of the tree and bathes my face. I love the artistic little prayers that the spiders weave through the woods. I love the way you blend daylight into darkness, how dusk softens the sharp edges of the world. I love the way the moon changes shape every night. I love the slope of your hills—horizons inside and out. I feel that I’m part of it, that it’s part of me. Here, surrounded and permeated by your creation, I feel you. I feel life. I know myself connected. O God, is there anything you’ve made that can’t pour life and healing into me? When I think of the simplicity and extravagance of creation, I want to bend down and write the word yes across the earth so that you can see it.

Arin watched the fire flare crimson. Then he went outside and surveyed the grounds, saw through leafless trees that no one was near. He could steal a few minutes. When he stepped back inside the forge, he leaned against the anvil. With one hand he pulled a book from its hiding place behind the kindling box, and in the other he held a hammer so that, if in danger of being caught, he could more quickly pretend to have been working. He began to read. It was a book he had seen in Kestrel’s possession, one on the history of the Valorian empire. He had taken it from the library after she had returned it, weeks ago. What would she say, if she saw him reading a book about his enemy, in his enemy’s tongue? What would she do? Arin knew this: her gaze would measure him, and he would sense a shift of perception within her. Her opinion of him would change as daylight changed, growing or losing shadow. Subtle. Almost indiscernible. She would see him differently, though he wouldn’t know in what way. He wouldn’t know what it meant. This had happened, again and again, since he had come here. Sometimes he wished he had never come here. Well. Kestrel couldn’t see him in the forge, or know what he read, because she couldn’t leave her rooms. She couldn’t even walk. Arin shut the book, gripped it between rigid fingers. He nearly threw it into the fire. I will have you torn limb from limb, the general had said. That wasn’t why Arin stayed away from her. Not really. He forced his thoughts from his head. He hid the book where it had been. He busied himself with quiet work, heating iron and charcoal in a crucible to produce steel. It took some time before Arin realized he was humming a dark tune. For once, he didn’t stop himself. The pressure of song was too strong, the need for distraction too great. Then he found that the music caged behind his closed teeth was the melody Kestrel had played for him months ago. He felt the sensation of it, low and alive, on his mouth. For a moment, he imagined it wasn’t the melody that touched his lips, but Kestrel. The thought stopped his breath, and the music, too.

The black hole of the galaxy swallows the boiling energy of human fury. Soon my waning fume will be obscured forevermore, all insignia of my ionized essence tucked into the anonymous pleat of the universe’s billowing skirt. Until the coarse earth’s rank mustiness calls for me, can I take comfort living purposefully in the rhythms of an ordinarily life? Can I unabashedly absorb the scintillating jewels in the daily milieu? Can I savor an array of pleasantries with my tongue, ears, nose, eyes, lips, and fingertips? Can I take solace in the tenderness of the nights by singing out songs of love and heartache? Can I devote the dazzle of daylight and the vastness of the night’s starriness to investigate life, make a concerted effort to reduce imbedded ignorance, and penetrate layers of obdurate obliviousness? Can I conduct a rigorous search for wisdom irrespective of wherever this journey takes me? Can I make use of the burly pack of prior personal experiences to increase self-awareness? Can I aspire to go forward in good spirits and cheerfully accept all challenges as they come? Can I skim along the delicate surface of life with a light heart until greeting an endless sleep with a begrudging grin in the coolness of the ebbing light?

it’s one of the great sunrises in all literature. Mark Twain: from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn . . . then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres—perfectly still—just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bull-frogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line—that was the woods on t’other side—you couldn’t make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, and warn’t black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along, ever so far away—trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks—rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled-up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by-and-by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there’s a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t’other side of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh, and sweet to smell, on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they’ve left dead fish laying around, gars, and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you’ve got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!

Springs and summers full of song and revolution. The Popular Front, demonstrations and confrontations, time that takes you away from yourself and your poetry, so that you could see them as if from cosmic space, a way of looking that changes everything into stars, our Earth, you and me, Estonia and Eritrea, blue anemones and the Pacific Ocean. Even the belief that you will write more poems. Something that was breathing into you, as May wind blows into a house bringing smells of mown grass and dogs' barks, - this something has dissipated, become invisible like stars in daylight. For quite a time I haven't permitted myself to hope it would come back. I know I am not free, I am nothing without this breathing, inspiration, wind that comes through the window. Let God be free, whether he exist or no. And then, it comes once again. At dusk in the countryside when I go to an outhouse, a little white moth flies out of the door. That's it, now. And the dusk around me begins little by little to breathe in words and syllables. * In the morning, I was presented to President Mitterrand, in the evening, I was weeding nettles from under the currant bushes. A lot happened inbetween, the ride from Tallinn to Tartu and to our country home through the spring that we had waited for so long, and that came, as always, unexpectedly, changing serious greyish Estonia at once into a primary school child's drawing in pale green, into a play-landscape where mayflies, mayors and cars are all somewhat tiny and ridiculous... In the evening I saw the full moon rising above the alder grove. Two bats circled over the courtyard. The President's hand was soft and warm. As were his eyes, where fatigue was, in a curious way, mingled with force, and depth with banality. He had bottomless night eyes with something mysterious in them like the paths of moles underground or the places where bats hibernate and sleep.

… I’ll feel the magic, in the blissful daylight I’ll listen to the cheerful songs of nature And I will heal my soul, with joy and love ... (Excerpted from My kind of resilience, chapter Resilience)

For Elvis Presley, living in a completely segregated world, the one thing that was not segregated was the radio dial. There was WDIA (“the Mother Station of the Negroes,” run, of course, by white executives), which was the black station, on which a young white boy could listen to, among other people, the Rev. Herbert Brewster, a powerful figure in the world of Memphis black churches. A songwriter of note, he composed “Move On Up a Little Higher,” the first black gospel song to sell over a million copies. What was clear about the black gospel music was that it had a power of its own, missing from the tamer white church music, and that power seemed to come as much as anything else from the beat. In addition there was the immensely popular Dewey Phillips. When Elvis listened to the black radio station at home, his family was not pleased. “Sinful music,” it was called, he once noted. But even as Elvis Presley was coming on the scene, the musical world was changing. Certainly, whites had traditionally exploited the work of black musicians, taking their music, softening and sweetening it and making it theirs. The trade phrase for that was “covering” a black record. It was thievery in broad daylight, but black musicians had no power to protect themselves or their music.

There would be repercussions should I not return." Montgomery's eyes widened, blue and guileless. "You see, this is the difference between you and me. When you make a statement like that, you think it will sway me. It doesn't. I. Don't. Care. I could kill you as easily as stepping on an ant and with far less remorse. Perhaps I'd face your repercussions on the morrow. Perhaps not. But that is for the sunrise. Tonight the shadows reign and the blood is singing in my veins. My very muscles tremble with the urge to carve the meat from your bones. Tell me"- he swept wide his arms- "who in this whole dissolute world is to dissuade me from my pleasures?" Standing barefoot in his purple silk banyan, books scattered at his feet in the flickering light of a few candles, still holding that jeweled, curving dagger, he might've been some druidic priest, born before history was written. Before men knew human sacrifice was forbidden. Bridget found herself with her hand on his arm. How it had happened she could hardly think. Had it been daylight, had she been better rested, been better prepared, had at least one cup of tea inside her, she would've had better control over herself. As it was, she was left with the act already done and the duke staring at her with his dangerous, mad eyes. She swallowed, her lips trembling, and lifted her chin. "Don't. Please." He cocked his head as though hearing a new song. Or a sound he'd never heard before at all. Something alien and strange.

A candle's value diminishes when it Lit in broad daylight A song loses its allure when it plays Amid a cacophony of noise A secret loses its power when it Revealed to everyone without discretion A rare gem loses its value when it becomes Abundant and easily accessible Nothing that you do is your fault or your mistake, It’s just that you’re in the WRONG PLACE!!

Chatting to the gossip of flames waking from the slumber of our flesh-drunk night together— it’s only when I step out to pee do I notice— how far, burgundy-dark, the moon has risen…. On four paws the shepherd- dogs bound, lightly though the trees they hardly touch on earth— we saw it from far sunk here in an always-ache…. Dyeing paling twilight woods— a pair of wasps, spiraling, writhe…. Wetted lips of hers and mine, just-parted, move over each other with tongues just-coming but refuse— like mists of evening they've no place to settle…. Just-here though she's singing she’s in some song from long ago— poised on the brink of twilight longing three thousand miles rush through my heart…. Under undulating curtains— I hover above her the tips of me brushing the tips of her— breathing back and forth a column of air we share our breath slowly asphyxiating…. From burning wood campfire sparks dart off extinguishing in the wet blue dark… how you blow your long wind across my embers, through my soul, she pleads me, take away the pain— I dip a branch in blue water and plunge it into coals…. *** In pre-dawn dark, against a leaping inferno of flames black monolith of wood in the cast iron compartment softens, and—gradually— fractures to cells, warping upward, until from the top a shard splinters: pearls of flame string a fiber and leap in little tongues while the log, glowing, engulfed, is consumed by the inferno contained…. A shadow daunts me, haunts and taunts me now reaching far, now recoiling, now growing bold…. I once sang eruptions and the wind— then appeared you it took my whole life singing only the songs of you and still I sing for you what other refuge can stay me from this torment? So— my doppelganger has arrived no one said it would happen this way but the way his hands fold like mine, the style of his humor, broadness of his smile— even the way he walks…. Licking and lapping these lashings of grasses are in tongues at my feet smoldering's the fury within me— I have seen my fields of daylight warp to noxious-air infernos but still to the clean blue of the flame I take rest in her breast…. His songs I mouth, and in my head is his voice— I cannot hear my own…. in my mind I see myself— thin, stupid— my arms too weak, my own chest too frail— and besides I prefer him more…. Along spiral lines, seed-heads decay— swept away they whirl and writhe in the hot blue fire of evening…. Stuck in a mural of sticky flesh— the family… I am locked-in-arms with brothers and sisters, drooping at the thighs with nieces and nephews, grafted to parents at the scalp, and pasted with toddlers all over… hived, sapped, black I sit, subject to the flavors and aromas of your abuse…. Then— be wrapped in his presence… crescendo to his warmth the cascade of your laughter search in his wrinkles for the boy inside him… I’m just biding here, bragless, trying to admit these rival-streams that flow in one latticework of blood…. Halves of flesh and bosomy hips, lips like dark ripe fruits they're chasing— I chased them… full-feathered was their hair like floss in the sunshine fine-fingered was their style like laces cut to curves: and then there was you, returning one, just there like the midnight moon in my sky at noontime….

Riverstone: Viscount of tine stony grave Alive and well attended to; Deliverance beyond this day: I bid thee well along and thru. Despite the case at hand to see Before my eyes against me say: To rid me of my misery, A desperate call to riverine stay. The cult which led me to that place- A devil hooked on just romance-; My sister bled with solemn grace: A flower sti I I and yet to dance. Whatever for we shan't oblige For mystic chanting let alone The daemons and their just demise The daylight break to Riverstone. And well adhered to firm belief The dudgeon of a higher man Amidst my song of pear and leaf To take thee to a brighter land. A season of the greater arts A life of wealth, and will to bring The pristine health of desperate hearts- The kindness of a Druid king- And let alone the blessed face My own two eyes remember this Alone, beyond the steady race, To dance about the cold abyss. A presence well enchanted in The ways of light yet to demand My sister in the hands of sin A daughter of the ocean-brand. To sea she runs with ample stride The wave alone to render sti I I To peer along her way with pride My darling heart she kindly fills. And like the darling buds of May She dances from around and to Deliverance beyond this day: I bid thee well along and thru

They set sail for the emerald green islands in seas Where the rocks and the trade winds are brothers. There are mountains nearby and they reach to the sky, Shearing clouds and warding off others. Warm mists o’er the blue bring a mermaid or two Up fathoms from the cold briny water. Sailors in the nest may spy the beautiful breasts And the tail of the Ocean God’s daughter. It happened one morning as daylight was dawning On a ship that was already a-stirrin’. A soft salty breeze put the crew to their knees With a song that sent their senses a-blurrin’. In the gray morning light, a young sailor caught sight Of a beautiful mermaid a-swimmin’. He then made a wish to be loved by a fish That was better by far than most women. —Brik

JAMIE'S SONG 'KILL ME': In the darkness of the night, you come to me to fight. You tell me stories of your life, and make me miss you all the while. I used to crave you but now I find, I’m not living, I’m blind. And the daylight has combined, with the hollow that’s inside. This black space that’s in me, is all you’ve left me to feel. The love you took from me, was all I had, is all I feel. But now there’s nothing left of me. You should’ve killed me, or buried me alive. You could’ve shot me, even stabbed me with a knife. I wish you’d killed me; I wish you’d kill me instead.

I looked into her gray-blue eyes and saw myself in them, as clearly as looking in a mirror. Building a miniature record player for my dollhouse long past bedtime. Teaching myself to code a Web site under the covers, so my dad wouldn’t come in and tell me to go to sleep. DJing alone in my bedroom in the dark. These things could always wait until daylight, but I wanted to do them in the night.

What a howling wilderness is this world without our Lord! If once He hides Himself from us, withered are the flowers of our garden; our pleasant fruits decay; the birds suspend their songs, and a tempest overturns our hopes. All earth’s candles cannot make daylight if the Sun of Righteousness be eclipsed. He is the soul of our soul, the light of our light, the life of our life. Dear reader, what would you do in the world without Him when you wake up and look ahead to the day’s battle? What would you do at night when you come home jaded and weary if there were no door of fellowship between you and Christ? Blessed be His name, He will not leave us to face the struggle without Him, for Jesus never forsakes His own. Yet, let the thought of what life would be without Him enhance His preciousness.

The way the truth of it hits you is less white-lighting whisky more the slow arrival of fall in a place that knows little of hard, dug-in winters. Here we are southerners playing North, Appalachians denying everything by the salvation of the Lord, folks running from those people everyone tries to make us be. Daylight bends through the trees and steady songs of birds we cannot see.

Sobriety and daylight bring a new perspective that often feels like the battle between imagination and reality. It’s the space between those two forces, and the balancing of them, where a life of possibility exists.

We'd been looking to the daylight to save us, when all it did was hide and diffuse the power. Night waited for our eyes to come home. Charlie understood the stars didn't just twinkle and burn—they sang, just like us. Across the dark distance of space every star vibrated, a song belted through time—the music of life—offering more power than ever produced. All our ancestors looked up at the same night sky. In the dark, under ancient, cosmic sparkle, they found their gifts. In the dark they evolved math and poetry and song, found the language of themselves. In the dark, they discovered infinite power, black power, a heritage of and beyond the world.

I Will Always Love You Lovely words from a loving Mother When the sun does not shine And the noon becomes dull When the moon goes too soon And daylight fades on the horizon Be rest assured, I will always love you When you see my flaws Or feel like not loving me anymore When you begin to wonder If I am the Mother you expected me to be You must know that I will always love you When I cannot sing you a song In case you hear the cracks in my voice When the journey seems long Perhaps I am no more and you feel all alone Remember that I will always love you You are a star that makes my night so bright The one who lifts me high A great blessing in my life I am very proud to call you my child That is why I will always love you With the whole of my being And all that is within From the hair on my head To the heels of my feet I will always love you

It was the song of goats bleating, ponies stomping in the snow, and women and men laughing together. Tenzin opened her eyes and held her breath, willing away the pain that speared through her shoulder. Don’t curse me with memories; I’ve given them to another. But the moon and the wind had gone silent again. She turned back to the blinking, manmade lights of the ship and descended. It was getting late, and she was starting to see sunlight growing on the horizon. When she landed on the deck, she pulled her tunic over her body and retreated to the dark hold she’d claimed. She didn’t look for the moon again. Those searching for buried treasure in the daylight would have to find their own luck.

The mild heat of the morning sun is a healing gift from heaven.

The sun works the day shift; the moon, the night shift.

In the day’s last light the glowing lake below the palace-city looked like a sea of molten gold. A traveller coming this way at sunset — this traveller, coming this way, now, along the lakeshore road — might believe himself to be approaching the throne of a monarch so fabulously wealthy that he could allow a portion of his treasure to be poured into a giant hollow in the earth to dazzle and awe his guests. And as big as the lake of gold was, it must be only a drop drawn from the sea of the larger fortune — the traveller’s imagination could not begin to grasp the size of that mother-ocean! Nor were there guards at the golden water’s edge; was the king so generous, then, that he allowed all his subjects, and perhaps even strangers and visitors like the traveller himself, without hindrance to draw up liquid bounty from the lake? That would indeed be a prince among men, a veritable Prester John, whose lost kingdom of song and fable contained impossible wonders. Perhaps (the traveller surmised) the fountain of eternal youth lay within the city walls — perhaps even the legendary doorway to Paradise on Earth was somewhere close at hand? But then the sun fell below the horizon, the gold sank beneath the water’s surface, and was lost. Mermaids and serpents would guard it until the return of daylight. Until then, water itself would be the only treasure on offer, a gift the thirsty traveller gratefully accepted.

I Will Always Love You Lovely words from a loving Mother When the sun does not shine And the noon becomes dull When the moon goes too soon As daylight fades from the horizon Be rest assured, I will always love you When you see my flaws Or feel like not loving me anymore When you begin to wonder If I am the Mother you expected me to be You must know that, I will always love you When I cannot sing you a song In case you hear the cracks in my voice When the journey travelled seems long Perhaps I am no more, and you feel all alone Remember that, I will always love you You are a star that makes my night so bright The one who lifts me up high A great blessing in my life I am very proud to call you my child That is why, I will always love you With the whole of my being And all that is within me From the hair on my head To the heels of my feet I will always love you

TIPS TO BECOME A GREAT OBSERVER: ---------- 1). Watch the sunrise and sundown at least a week and make a note what you truly noticed. -- 2). Feel the daylight and dark night at least a week and notice how you are truly feeling. -- 3). Walk around the nearest market at least a month and notice whatever you are hearing. -- 4). Use google search and watch YouTube videos of your interest and keep moving. -- 5). Join social media twitter and Facebook and keep observing the people you are meeting. -- 6). Listen online radio a random song at lest 2 hours at night and keep capturing the lyrics. -- 7). And the main meditate, think, imagine at night while sleeping and keep going. -- 8). Many Congratulations you are on your way to become a great observer.

I have been brought into darkness surely against me he has turned he hath set me in dark places he hath hedged me about that I cannot get out he hath made my chain heavy he hath closed my ways with stone he was like a bear lying in wait he hath pulled me to pieces and made me desolate that I cannot get out he hath filled my teeth with dust and covered me with ashes I cried out to my rescuers and they did not hear me, I turned away, and still I was hedged about, the daylight was taken and the blanket was taken and the rope and all my childish things, I cried out with my throat and my in-my-heart and my Lord's Prayer and my now I lay me down to sleep, and my health and my hands, and my show me myself and my secrets-and-all-my-sins forgiven and I counted the ones I knew and the ones I dreamed and I measured the shadow cast by the mirror, but the sun was remote and cold to me. I turned away, and still I was hedged about and anointed in fire and ashes. I saw the blue sheen of the world through the darkness, and the crust, and the stain of another, I touched my hair to my mouth, and my arms to my legs, and my mouth to my knee. I smelled the animal sweetness and the dampness of leaves beyond the wall; I heard the murmurs of my mothers and my brother, alone in his whimpering, and I heard the strangers whisper. But when I cried they did not hear me, and when I sang they did not know my song, and when I spoke, they did not acknowledge me, and when I left they did not seek me out along the cisterns and streets of the city. Mercy is new in the morning they said, and our god will not stand for such suffering—oh god of mercy and golden light.

The Laughing Thrush O nameless joy of the morning tumbling upward note by note out of the night and the hush of the dark valley and out of what has not been there song unquestioning and unbounded yes this is the place and the one time in the whole of before and after with all of memory waking into it and the lost visages that hover around the edge of sleep constant and clear and the words that lately have fallen silent to surface among the phrases of some future if there is a future here is where they all sing the first daylight whether or not there is anyone listening

Are there not twelve hours of daylight in every day?b You can go through a day without the fear of stumbling when you walk in the One who gives light to the world.

of those campfire songs that would’ve been completely embarrassing in daylight; but in the dark, with everybody participating, it was kind of corny and fun.