René Magritte, The Lovers, 1928 I could not run or playin boyhood.In manhood I could only sip the cup,not drink –for scarlet – fever left my heart diseased.Yet I lie heresoothed by a secret none but Mary knows:there is a garden of acacia,catalpa threes, and arbors sweet with vinesthere on that afternoon in Juneby Mary’s …
Richard Oelze, Expectation, 1936 I have studied many timesthe marble which was chiseled for me–a boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.In truth it pictures not my destinationbut my life.For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;ambition called to me, but …
William Blake, The bathers, 1785 All your sorrow, Louise, and hatred of mesprang from your delusion that it was wantonnessof spirit and contempt of your soul’s rightswhich made me turn to Annabelle and forsake you.You really grew to hate me for love of me,because I was your soul’s happiness,formed and temperedto solve your life for …
Solomon Joseph Solomon, The Judgement of Paris, 1891 Maurice, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree. The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass, The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls, But thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturous In the blest Nirvana of eternal light! Go to the good heart that is my husband, Who broods …
Franz Rösel von Rosenhof, Wolf and Fox, 1666 I was not beloved of the villagers, But all because I spoke my mind, And met those who transgressed against me With plain remonstrance, hiding nor nurturing Nor secret griefs nor grudges. That act of the Spartan boy is greatly praised, Who hid the wolf under his …
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