THE LIGHT OF STARS

The Light of Stars

The night is come, but not too soon;

And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven

But the cold light of stars;

And the first watch of night is given

To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?

O no! from that blue tent above,

A hero's armor gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,

When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,

The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand

And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,

And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light

But the cold light of stars;

I give the first watch of the night

To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will,

He rises in my breast,

Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,

That readest this brief psalm,

As one by one thy hopes depart,

Be resolute and calm.

O fear not in a world like this,

And thou shalt know erelong,

Know how sublime a thing it is

To suffer and be strong.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

HERE'S WHERE THE STORY ENDS

Here's Where The Story Ends

People I know, places I go

Make me feel tongue tied

I can see how people look down

They're on the inside

Here's where the story ends

People I see, weary of me

Showing my good side

I can see how people look down

I'm on the outside

Here's where the story ends

Ooh here's where the story ends

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year

Which makes my eyes feel sore

Oh I never should have said, the books that you read

Were all I loved you for

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year

Which makes me wonder why

It's the memories of the shed that make me turn red

surprise surprise surprise

Crazy I know, places I go

Make me feel so tired

I can see how people look down

I'm on the outside

Oh here's where the story ends

Ooh here's where the story ends

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year

Which makes my eyes feel sore

& who ever would've thought the books that you brought

Were all I loved you for

Oh the devil in me said go down to the shed

I know where I belong

But the only thing I ever really wanted to say

was wrong, was wrong, was wrong

It's that little souvenir of a colorful year

Which makes me smile inside

So I cynically, cynically say the world is that way

Surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise

Here's where the story ends

Ooh here's where the story ends

~ Lyrics

~ The Sundays

~ Songwriters: D. GAVURIN, H. WHEELER

MIRROR

Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. 

Whatever I see I swallow immediately 

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

I am not cruel, only truthful ‚ 

The eye of a little god, four-cornered. 

Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. 

It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long 

I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. 

Faces and darkness separate us over and over. 

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, 

Searching my reaches for what she really is. 

Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. 

I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. 

She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. 

I am important to her. She comes and goes. 

Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. 

In me she has drowned a young girl, 

and in me an old woman 

Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

~ Sylvia Plath