With silken strings the cover of Love's eye

May 18, 2006 13:45



Well could I wish it would be ever day, If, when night comes, you bid me go away.
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Comments 21

suis_moi May 18 2006, 10:29:40 UTC
Beautiful. Everything is so delicate, so ethereal. You have a sort of fairy tale princess look, and handwriting to match.

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toffeeappledays May 18 2006, 12:26:23 UTC
that was such a beauitful entry
x

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flourishing May 18 2006, 12:39:05 UTC
Your eye makeup is always exquisite.

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fleur_divine May 18 2006, 16:04:19 UTC
You are so delicate looking and so is your handwriting. It is very flowery. I think that when you write like you do that your handwriting gives what is being said more meaning.

I keep several diaries/sketchbooks offline to write all my poems, stories, drawings, songs, dreams, thoughts etc. too. Though, my handwriting is not nearly as nice as yours-- I think it is kind of romantic to keep one.
xx,
~*~Fleur~*~

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bristolian_kam May 18 2006, 16:16:51 UTC
I'm almost there, my Love. He says "almost" - gone 1,200 words over - foolish Boy. Your thoughts, messages, concerns-for and beliefs-in me have carried me with gentle wings to where I need to be. In fact, they've dropped me a mile past the destination. :)

Had my last ever lecture today: an elegiac 'Literature of Departures' - it was quite moving. The ending really hasn't sunk in; must be with you for when it does.

Dull, sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elémented it.

^_^ ♥ ♥

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tym_spyder May 18 2006, 20:24:37 UTC


When comes the days of grief and misery
In whose halls we slave our endless toil and tire
We lose our souls amidst the grinding of the days
burning down to ashes on Fate's grand pyre.
So too has these past days been so to me
Chaos spinning me in an ever widening gyre.
To see then thy sweet visage on this screen of mine
The Aether queen, the bard's subtly plucked lyre.
From such a muse all evils flee my damned soul,
the muse then leads me onward to that which I aspire.
Then dreary days beget the moaning of the dawn
whose outstretched fingers paint the morning skies with fire

This day once broke was poorly played and written
But the sun shines now, for the soul that is muse-bitten.

peace, my muse.

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