Where reality

  is...nobody knows.       Particles within      particles within

 

 particles...within  particles...within particles

 

  

 

  What if multiple     universes are brushing past us    each moment  within moments...

 

 

perhaps...

                  

                  we don't feel

 

         Who's to

                say we can't

                  live them?

       

  blurred reality     

        everything is

                 plausible...        

 

                 Anything...

      Anyone...

 

Create...

 

Chi

 

 

          flow

 

 

   energy

     thought

               form

 escape

             through

    mind  

             galaxy

sonance

             felt

 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

          Thou foster - child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

           A flowery tale more sweetly than our  rhyme:

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape

            Of deities or mortals, or of both,

                                 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

      What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

             What pipes and timbrals? What wild ecstasy?

 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

              Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

             Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

         Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

                         Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

           She cannot fade, though thou hast not they bliss,

                   For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

 

Ah happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed

              Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

              For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! More happy, happy love!

               For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

                             For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

               That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,

                          A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

                   To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

            And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

              Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

                        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

          Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

                     Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

 

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! With brede

           Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

             Thou silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

               When old age shall this gerneration waste,

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,                                       "Beauty is truth,truth beauty,

                            - that is all

          Ye know on earth, and all ye

                                              need to know"

Ode On A Grecian Urn

 

   John Keats

 

 

 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bats back I do fly

After summer merrily:

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

 

William Shakespeare

           

             Ariel's Song from The Tempest

 

 

 

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

 

Segment from Among School Children

 

     William Butler Yeats

 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

 

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

 

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedern cover!

A savage place! As holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waining moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half - intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

 

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me,

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me

That with music loud and long

I would build that dome in air

That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed

And drunk the milk of Paridise.

 

 

 

   Kubla Khan

 

 Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

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