Search and construct.
The eremitic heart elicits elation from its own beating, or so it has of necessity come to be.
Its blood once pumped plentifully to the abstrusest places, diminutive droplets canvassing the sempiternal sea.
Until at once a seething realization swept across its sweeping fluidity, rendering them budding beads of bother.
Its current is confined to the constitution of but one heart, never shall it simmer in the chambers of some other.
Poetry is what is lost in translation.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| The world of feelings, the world of words. | 1 | 04/14/2010 |
| When the storm settles. | 1 | 04/14/2010 |
| Within the confines of an airplane. | 1 | 04/14/2010 |
| Glass boundaries. | 1 | 04/14/2010 |
| Minuscular infinity. | 2 | 04/14/2010 |
| Raindrops in the ocean, or oceans in the raindrop. | 0 | 04/14/2010 |
| Verity and unity. | 0 | 04/14/2010 |
| Twinkle. | 1 | 04/14/2010 |
| Search and construct. | 0 | 04/14/2010 |
| She holds the universe in her eyes. | 0 | 04/14/2010 |
| Stepping. | 0 | 04/14/2010 |
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