Nathalia Crane Quotes

I linger on the flathouse roof, the moonlight is divine. But my heart is all aflutter like the washing on the line.

Great is the rose Infected by the tomb, Yet burgeoning Indifferent to death.

Lo and behold! God made this
starry wold,
The maggot and the mold; lo and
behold!
He taught the grass contentment
blade by blade,
The sanctity of sameness in a shade.

A single-motored miracle, a lead mine on each flank; Below a shadow swept and awed the hundred-fathom bank.

You cannot choose your battlefield,
God does that for you;
But you can plant a standard
Where a standard never flew. <small> QOTD 2007·11·01 Sound file </small>

You cannot choose your battlefield,
God does that for you;
But you can plant a standard
Where a standard never flew.

(From The Colors)

Let go the lure The striving to unmake; Behold the truth Whenever heart may ache There is a glory In a great mistake.

The starry brocade of the summer night Is linked to us as part of our estate; And every bee that wings its sidelong flight Assurance of a sweeter, fairer fate.

A thousand ardent oilers swung the long spout 'twixt their nods, And tried to glimpse a meaning in the challenge of the gods. And then one night there landed on a Mineola swale A plane that looked like pewter, with a carrier of mail. Its wings were tinged like tea-box skins, each truss of shadow gray, Its cabin but an alcove slung beneath a metal ray. The Spirit of St. Louis was inscribed upon the lee; It came from out a province that had never seen the sea.

Across the downs a hummingbird Came dipping through the bowers, He pivoted on emptiness To scrutinize the flowers.

The sun shall shine in ages yet to be, The musing moon illumine pastures dim, And afterwards a new nativity For all who slept the dreamless interim.

The very serpents bite their tails; the bees forget to sting, For a language so celestial setteth up a wondering. And the touch of absent mindedness is more than any line, Since direction counts for nothing when the gods set up a sign.

And the eyes of all look upward seeing sign-word drawing nigh, The stony wings of Egypt coming back across the sky; We hear the clinking tamborine of Miriam anew; We believe in every miracle since Lindbergh flew the blue — The wonder of the long draw when the bowstring is a thread — The beauty of a courage that can raise the wings of lead.

He'll carry me off, I know that he will, For his hair is exceedingly red; And the only thing that occurs to me Is to dutifully shiver in bed.

He found the harem filled with rocking maids Surrendered to the orgies of the sob.