In the hollows of quiet places may we meet,

In the quiet places where is neither moon nor sun,

but only the light as of amber and pale gold

that comes from the Hills of the Heart.

There, listen at times: there you will call, and I hear: there

will I whisper, and that whisper will come to you as dew is

gathered into the grass, at the rising of the moon.

Fiona Macleod from Silence of Amor

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La Fontaine

Au borde d’une fontaine je me suis reposée
Je me suis reposée au bord d’une fontaine
Au bord d’une je me suis reposée
Et l’eau était si claire que je me suis baignée

Et l’eau était si clair que je me suis baignée
Je me suis baignée et l’eau était si claire
L’eau était si claire que je me suis baignée
Avec des feuilles de chêne je me suis essuyée

Dessus la plus haute branche le rossignol chantaite
La rossignol chantaite dessus la plus haute branche
Dessus la plus haute branche la rossignol chantaite
Chante, belle rossignol, et toi a le coeur gai

Oui, je l’attends, je l’attends
Je l’attends que mon coeur aime
Oui, je l’attends, je l’attends
Je l’attends celle que mon coeur aime tant

Jean, mon ami, a la guerre et allé
A la guerre et allé Jean, mon ami
Jean, mon ami, a la guerre et allé
Pour un bouton de rose que je lui refusaiw

Je voudrais que la rose fut encore en rosier
Encore en rosier je voudrais la rose
Je voudrais que la rose fut encore en rosier
Et que mon ami, Jean, fut ici à m’aimer

Words: traditional French, adapted by Connie Dover
Music: Connie Dover

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Much My Heart Needs To Share

It seems when Autumn is almost at it’s end and winter blows the first frosty air, you come to me like no other time.  My dreams are filled with you and you seem to walk beside me in everything I do. As I watched the moon and the stars embrace the first light of sun on the horizon, it was as if I could hear your voice.  My heart is filled with aches, for the words I cannot share and quiet moments I cannot have. But now we have those first winter days when we seem to walk together in some secret place filled with a knowing and words that speak in whispers.  It is time to sleep and I am rambling again. Perhaps you will be in my dreams again.  They have been so few, those dreams of you, and now you are with me often.  Today I will sleep well and dream, and if you should choose to come and walk with me there, I have much my heart needs to share.

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Drift Quietly

There are many things

I would love to say to you today,

many words I wish

I could find a way to express

words that came to me

this morning, as I waited for sleep

words filling me last night

as you moved once more into my thoughts.

There are not enough words

to give to you on this day

and some are meant only for you

and not for those who cannot hear.

Close your eyes and

let yourself drift quietly

into my heart,

for I have drifted into yours.

There I will be waiting

and you will find

all the mysteries I cannot

say and the words

I will not share with any other.

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Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam’st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me.

Or, as thou never cam’st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth.
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Matthew Arnold

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Sleep Well and Dream

Are you awake tonight? No, it is day, just beginning for you. No doubt you are swimming in the dreams that seem to join us before we wake.  The letter, yes, I am struggling with it again, something requiring care, like the crafting of a fine piece of silver.  The words start and stop as I carefully place them on the page, struggling to speak.

My thoughts go back to someone who came here once and said I should keep the words private. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I should fill the pages of the private space I started, for you, but then I remember, you do not know where that space is nor do you, without a letter from me, have the key to enter.

Maybe these words were never meant for you, and I should keep them locked away, but I cannot think I was given something so special only to write them on the paper pages of a journal, one day to be tossed aside. Listen to me ramble now about things that to others, possibly even you, sound like foolish words. None of it is foolish, I can assure you of that, though some of it is, I will admit, rather unbelievable.

You will never know, I think, what you are to me, no matter how many words I weave.  Sleep well and dream, while I find the words that would speak from my soul.

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Sonnet 98

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress’d in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play:

Shakespeare

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Come to Me

Sometimes it seems there are no poems, not to be written or to be found, written by others.  I sift through the many poems to a fair lady or a young maiden and they just do not say what it is I need to say tonight.  Some words are hard to capture when the song of the heart and soul play such deep notes.  Tonight I sit and wish I could find you, move through you and take with me with me just a bit, enough to tell me what is in your heart. Perhaps then I would know the way to turn, the words to write, the whispers to send into the night.  Come softly to me if you will. Follow the light of the moon and the path of stars to where I will wait, all the world forgotten, to know you are near me.

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Separated Lovers

Separated lovers cheat absence by a thousand fancies which have
their own reality.  They are prevented from seeing one another and
they cannot write; nevertheless they find countless mysterious ways
of corresponding, by sending each other the song of birds, the scent
of flowers, the laughter of children, the light of the sun, the sighing
of the wind, and the gleam of the stars – all the beauties of creation.
-  Victor Hugo

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Like the Fates

Who can put a price on love

silver traded for a moment

diamonds for an hour.

Treasures paid

for a moment treasured

a price paid gladly

but it does not buy love.

For you I would gather

the moon and stars

from the sky, like the fates

if love was so easy.

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