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Thread: The Seasons

  1. #841
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    Love Itself
    Leonard Cohen / Sharon Robinson


    The light came through the window
    Straight from the sun above
    And so inside my little room
    There plunged the rays of love
    In streams of light I clearly saw
    The dust you seldom see
    Out of which the nameless makes
    A name for one like me
    I'll try to say a little more
    Love went on and on
    Until it reached an open door
    Then love itself
    Love itself was gone

    All busy in the sunlight
    The flecks did float and dance
    And I was tumbled up with them
    In formless circumstance
    I'll try to say a little more
    Love went on and on
    Until it reached an open door
    Then love itself
    Love itself was gone

    Then I came back from where I'd been
    My room, it looked the same
    But there was nothing left between
    The nameless and the name
    All busy in the sunlight
    The flecks did float and dance
    And I was tumbled up with them
    In formless circumstance
    I'll try to say a little more
    Love went on and on
    Until it reached an open door
    Then love itself
    Love itself was gone

    Love itself
    Love itself was gone


  2. #842
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    All the world’s a stage
    *
    William Shakespeare

    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_the_world%27s_a_stage

    All the world’s a stage
    And all the men and women merely players
    They have their exits and their entrances
    And one man in his time plays many parts
    His acts being seven ages. At first the infant
    Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms
    And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then the lover
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard
    Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice
    In fair round belly with good capon lin’d
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut
    Full of wise saws and modern instances
    And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
    Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon
    With spectacles on nose and pouch on side
    His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank and his big manly voice
    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
    That ends this strange eventful history
    Is second childishness and mere oblivion
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything



    *From a falling leaf after the rain:
    "You're playing along. I'm playing along. They're playing along. We're all playing along. As long as there's a stage to be on and a play to play on. Until the final curtain call. Can we stop? No. That would be the end of the world."

 

 

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