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The blog and the author were off due to lack of resources and lack of impulse; one of those two circumstances still remains, but the blog is back anyway.

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A pale green sky is gleaming;
The steely stars are few;
The moorland pond is steaming
A mist of gray and blue.

Along the pathway lonely
My horse is walking slow;
Three living creatures only,
He, I, and a home-bound crow!

The moon is hardly shaping
Her circle in the fog;
A dumb stream is escaping
Its prison in the bog.

But in my heart are ringing
Tones of a lofty song;
A voice that I know, is singing,
And my heart all night must long.

George MacDonald, from "Picture songs".

Scene #25

Green is the night, green kindled and appareled.
It is she that walks among astronomers.

She strides above the rabbit and the cat,
Like a noble figure, out of the sky,

Moving among the sleepers, the men,
Those that lie chanting *green is the night*.

Green is the night and out of madness woven,
The self-same madness of the astronomers

And of him that sees, beyond the astronomers,
The topaz rabbit and the emerald cat,

That sees above them, that sees rise up above them,
The noble figure, the essential shadow,

Moving and being, the image at its source,
The abstract, the archaic queen. Green is the night.

Wallace Stevens, "The candle a saint".

Scene #24

Nature rarer uses yellow
Than another hue;
Saves she all of that for sunsets,—
Prodigal of blue,

Spending scarlet like a woman,
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly,
Like a lover's words.

Emily Dickinson, XXXI.

Scene #23

Bitter–tasting ice —
Just enough to wet the throat
Of a sewer rat.

Matsuo Bashō.

Scene #22

As boiling stream of lava you are,
scorched, you scorch,
or petrify. As stone by stone
stands everything at fate's gate.
As stiffened statue is all, what more of altar-service, of dance
or trade, –
only body's images, grey as cement or ashes. –
What you were, is the tones, your eye caught
and ear bore
as sounds in the face.

Gunnar Björling.

Scene #21

I would build a cloudy House
For my thoughts to live in;
When for earth too fancy-loose
And too low for Heaven!
Hush! I talk my dream aloud—-
I build it bright to see,—-
I build it on the moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with thee.

[...]

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "The house of clouds".