Written by
Rainer Maria Rilke |
As in sleeping-drink spices
softly she loosens in the liquid-clear
mirror her fatigued demeanor;
and she puts her smile deep inside.
And she waits while the liquid
rises from it; then she pours her hair
into the mirror, and, lifting one
wondrous shoulder from the evening gown,
she drinks quietly from her image. She drinks
what a lover would drink feeling dazed,
searching it, full of mistrust; and she only
beckons to her maid when at the bottom
of her mirror she finds candles, wardrobes,
and the cloudy dregs of a late hour.
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Written by
Dejan Stojanovic |
Here lies once splendid ancient Roman Villa in ruins. Remnants of a gorgeous mosaic—Venus and a flying dove on the floor—of big gardens, fountains and pools talk about her rich and lively history.
The Roman wealthy patrician did not think of us looking at the mosaic of his Villa. He built it for posterity, yet desired to live longer than his creation. He thought he could deceive the uncompromising ruler—time. Although there was no real stock market then, he had his own treasury; he thought the treasury will live longer even than his Villa to support his posterity—buy them power, fame.
We can almost hear and see the water that once sprinkled from fountains; hear giggles and secret stories shared in the gardens among his children and servants; we can imagine his demeanor at the extravagant parties he loved; bacchanalias in the secret rooms of the Villa.
Here lies the ancient Roman Villa in ruins and little is known of her once larger-than-life owner, and even less about his stock, treasury, and posterity.
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
October is the treasurer of the year,
And all the months pay bounty to her store;
The fields and orchards still their tribute bear,
And fill her brimming coffers more and more.
But she, with youthful lavishness,
Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress,
And decks herself in garments bold
Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.
She heedeth not how swift the hours fly,
But smiles and sings her happy life along;
She only sees above a shining sky;
She only hears the breezes' voice in song.
Her garments trail the woodlands through,
And gather pearls of early dew
That sparkle, till the roguish Sun
Creeps up and steals them every one.
But what cares she that jewels should be lost,
When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers?
Though princely fortunes may have been their cost,
Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs.
Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free,
She lives her life out joyously,
Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way
[Pg 64]And turns her auburn locks to gray.
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