Sarah+G

 code code code =Theme: Effects of Love=

"When my Love Swears That she is Made of Truth"
When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearnèd in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue; On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be. ~William Shakespeare

"Meeting at Night"
The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each! ~Robert Browning

"Tree at my Window"
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me. Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground, And thing next most diffuse to cloud, Not all your light tongues talking aloud Could be profound. But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed, And if you have seen me when I slept, You have seen me when I was taken and swept And all but lost. That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather. ~Robert Frost

"The Sick Rose"
O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy; And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. ~William Blake

"Sorting Laundry"
Folding clothes, I think of folding you into my life.

Our king-sized sheets like tablecloths for the banquets of giants,

pillowcases, despite so many washings, seams still holding our dreams

Towels patterned orange and green, flowered pink and lavender, gaudy, bought on sale,

reserved, we said, for the beach, refusing, even after years, to bleach into respectability.

So many shirts and skirts, and pants recycling week after week, head over heals recapitulating themselves.

All those wrinkles to be smoothed, or else ignored; they're in style.

Myriad uncoupled socks which went paired into the foam like those creatures in the ark.

And what's shrunk is tough to discard even for Goodwill.

In Pockets, surprises: forgotten matches, lost screws clinking on enamel;

paper clips, whatever they held between shiny jaws, now dissolved or clogging the drain;

well-washed dollars, legal tender for all debts public and private, intact despite agitation;

and, gleaming in the maelstrom, one bright dime, broken necklace of good gold

you brought from Kuwait, the strangely tailored shirt left by a former lover...

If you were to leave me, if I were to fold only my own clothes,

the convexes and concaves of my blouses, panties, stockings, bras, turned upon themselves,

a mountain of unsorted wash could not fill the empty side of the bed. ~Elisavietta Ritchie

__Wrap Up__
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