. . .

Rumi

your love has brought us to this silence,
where the only obligation
is to walk slowly through a meadow
and look

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616) : "Sonnet CXXVIII"

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

While my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand.

To be so tickled they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom [thy] fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blest than living lips.

     Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

     give them [thy] fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

Emily Dickinson

My river runs to thee :
Blue sea, wilt welcome me?

My river waits reply.
Oh sea, look graciously !

I'll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks, - 

Say, sea,
Take me! 



The Outlet
Collected Poems of EMILY DICKINSON