Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by his heart, and his friends can only read the title.
THE PENURY IN CHIEF
“It came his turn to beg —
The begging for the life
Is different from another Alms
`Tis Penury in Chief.
I scanned his narrow realm
I gave him leave to live
Lest Gratitude revive the snake
Though smuggled his reprieve.”
Emily Dickinson holding the power of life and death over a creature that scurries about the undergrowth unseen, unloved, hated and despised.
All creatures that are so thought of possess the characteristics of serpents; slithering about on bellies of ambition corrupted by power. Looking for self advancement, hiding in dark, narrow caverns of disguise; masks of deception and deceit; unknowable except to those who wear a similar face.
To allow a serpent to slide to sanctuary despite a reputation, dread and cruel, is a favour indeed. But best not to tarry awhile, in case the beast recovers it`s cold contemplation, turns and strikes at a saviour, gentle, kind, but considered weak.
Only the strong survive in a wilderness where there is no space for kindness in a frosty heart.
Language and good literature are like fine wine upon the lips. I cannot imagine a life without the written word. It`s the music which keeps the orchestra in my head playing on an endless loop of pleasure. Give me a book to read, and I`m as happy as a French man who has invented a pair of self removing trousers. View all posts by marlovian