The mystery which binds me still . . .

Walk Alone by True Bavarian


Alone 
    ~by Edgar Allen Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —


.

Everything he wrote is golden

Dirt Tracings by Eric Vondy

The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; 

and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common

crowd, unknown to me, my king thou didst press the signet

of eternity upon many a fleeting moment of my life.

And to-day when by chance I light upon them and see thy

signature, I find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with

the memory of joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten.

Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play

among dust, and the steps that I heard in my playroom are

the same that are echoing from star to star.

 ~by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) Indian poet, playwright and essayist;

won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913.

 ~~~

This is Number Eight in a randomly-posted, continuing series of quotes by Tagore. 
Everything he wrote is golden.
Number One
Number Two
Number Three
Number Four
Number Five

Number Six
Number Seven