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To The Muse

Tho' no bold flights to thee belong;
And tho' thy lays with conscious fear,
Shrink from Judgement's eye severe,
Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song!
For, lovely Muse! Thy sweet employ
Exalts my soul, refines my breast,
Gives each pleasure keener zest,
And softens sorrow into pensive Joy.
From thee I learned the wish to bless,
From thee to commune with my heart;
From thee, dear Muse! The gayer part,
To laugh with pity at the crowds that press
Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun,
Whose hues gay varying wanton in the sun.
1789

--  Samuel Taylor Coleridge --

for the world

I recognized him right away
as a gentleman of music (magic, love)
as an angel could be dreamed up in
someone's heart when the soul cries out
for it -- a song to soothe the sorrows,
yes, soothe the soul.

Who will sing for the weeping child
who sits amongst the stars
on the road towards heaven -
towards the sky where wings fall
like a dream to embrace us?

So young and heartbroken for the world...
ancient tears and timeless songs
etched upon our hearts
we are singing and crying for the world.

-- Annie O'Neill --


Photo by Michael Doucette