Alone...

Alone...
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe

 Pictures by SPERA GERARDO POMARICO (ITALY)

Sunset & Moon...

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

 Pictures by SPERA GERARDO - POMARICO (ITALY)

“Sensazione”

“Nelle sere d’estate andrò per i sentieri,
pizzicato dal grano, pestando i fili d’erba;
ne sentirò, sognante, il fresco sotto i piedi.
E al vento lascerò bagnare la mia testa.

Non dirò più parole, non farò più pensieri:
ma un amore infinito mi salirà nel petto,
e andrò molto lontano, sarò come uno zingaro,
come con una donna per i campi contento.”

Arthur Rimbaud

Pictures by SPERA GERARDO - POMARICO (ITALY)

Mixed shots

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise

Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,

  The maddest noise that grows,—

The birds, they make it in the spring,

  At night’s delicious close.

Between the March and April line—

  That magical frontier

Beyond which summer hesitates,

  Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead

  That sauntered with us here,

By separation’s sorcery

  Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,

  And what we now deplore.

We almost wish those siren throats

  Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart

  As quickly as a spear,

We wish the ear had not a heart

  So dangerously near.

Pictures by SPERA GERARDO - POMARICO (ITALY)

April 2012 ...

Pictures by SPERA GERARDO - POMARICO (ITALY)