Wednesday, January 05, 2005


January 5, 2005

Morning twilight
graces my pillow,
courts my weary eyes,
reluctant to release
their failing fancies.
Hesitation proves futile,
as ever it has:
For who can hold her
when Dream perceives
her time has come,
eluding grasp as reason
waxes in the morning sun?
Ever she wanes with dawn,
ghostly and beautiful,
donning wispy,
blue-grey garments,
her visage grieved
as story dies once more
before its end.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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