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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".

Scene #20

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer, "Trees".

Scene #19

I heard the old, old men say,
"Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away."
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
I heard the old, old men say,
"All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters."

William Butler Yeats, ""The old men admiring themselves in the water"

Scene #18

Out there by the rocks, at the end of the bank,
In the mouth of the river, the Wanderer sank.
She is resting where meet the blue water and green,
And only her masts and her funnel are seen;
And you see, when is fading the sunset’s last fleck,
On her foremast a lantern—a light on a wreck.
’Tis a light on a wreck, warning ships to beware
Of the drowned iron hull of the Wanderer there;
And the ships that come in and go out in the night
Keep a careful lookout for the Wanderer’s light.
There are rules for the harbour and rules for the wave;
But all captains steer clear of the Wanderer’s grave.

And the stories of strong lives that ended in wrecks
Might be likened to lights over derelict decks;
Like the light where, in sight of the streets of the town,
In the mouth of the channel the Wanderer went down.
Keep a watch from the desk, as they watch from the deck;
Keep a watch from your home for the light on the wreck.

But the lights on the wrecks since creation began
Have been shining in vain for the vagabond clan.
They will never take warning, they will not beware,
For they hold for their mottoes ‘What matter?’ ‘What care?’
And they sail without compass, they sail without check,
Till they steer to their grave ’neath a light on a wreck.

Henry Lawson, "The light on the wreck".

Scene #17

Even on the smallest islands,
they are tilling the fields,
skylarks singing.

Kobayashi Issa.

Scene #16

By the mist clouds of fog that creep over the sun,
By the twinkles of stars that ethereally run,
By the surge of the welkin that roars from the pole,
And the deep hollow murmurs of winter that roll,
I've the moonshine to guide me, the frost to restrain,
As I journey through space, to reach heaven again.

I'm the Spirit of snow, and my compass is wide;
I can fall in the storm, in the wind I can ride;
I am white, I am pure, I am tender, I'm fair,
I was born in the seas, to the seas I repair;
By frost I am harden'd, by wet I'm destroy'd,
And, united with liquid, to Ocean decoy'd.

I have sisters of ether, have brothers of rime,
And my friendships are formed in the northerly clime.
My foes are the elements jarring with strife;
Air lets me pass on to my earth-bosomed wife;
Fire covets and melts me; but water's so kind,
That, when lost to the three, to the fourth I'm resign'd.

I have cousins of icicles, children of sleet;
Some battle with hail, others vanquish in heat;
I'm the Spirit of snow. By the will of the blast,
In the shallows and depths I am drifted at last;
And a glance of the sun, while I brighten in tears,
Dissolves my pretensions to reign in the spheres.

J. R. Prior, "The Spirit of Snow".

Scene #15

How I love to be back here, my favourite blog.

Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsy dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.

Federico García Lorca, "Romance sonámbulo".

Scene #14

It's like the light, —
A fashionless delight
It's like the bee, —
A dateless melody.

It's like the woods,
Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
The proudest trees.

It's like the morning, —
Best when it's done, —
The everlasting clocks
Chime noon.

Emily Dickinson, 297.

Scene #13

Oh they won't let us show it at the beach no they won't let us show it at the beach
They think we're gonna grab it if it gets within our reach
And they won't let us show it at the beach

But you can show it in your parlor to most anyone you choose
You can show it at a party with your second shot of booze
You can show it on the corner wearin' overcoat and shoes
But they won't let us show it at the beach
No they won't let us show it at the beach friends
Ah they won't us show it at the beach
Oh they're sure we're gonna grab it if it gets within our reach
So they won't let us show it at the beach

But you can show it in the movies on the cineramic screen
You can show it in the most sophisticated magazine
You can show it while you're bouncing on the high school trampoline
But they won't let us show it at the beach

But if you've got a gun it's legal to display it on your hip
You can show your butcher knives to any interested kid
But if it's made for lovin' then you'd better keep it hid
And they won't let us show it at the beach

Sheldon Allan Silverstein, "Show it at the beach".

Scene #12

When from afar these mountain tops I view,
I do but mete mine own distress thereby:
High is their head, and my desire is high;
Firm is their foot, my faith is certain, too.

E'en as the winds about their summits blue,
From me, too, breaks betimes the wistful sigh;
And as from them the brooks and streamlets hie,
So from mine eyes the tears run down anew.

A thousand flocks upon them feed and stray;
As many loves within me see the day,
And all my heart fore pasture ground divide.

No fruit have they, my lot as fruitless is;
And 'twixt us now nought diverse is but this—
In them the snows, in me the fires abide.

Mellin de Saint-Gelais, "The sonnet of the mountain".