#when elephants last in the dooryard bloomed

[polaridadelaimagen]

Touch your solitude to mine

Sweetest love, come to meet me,  

touch your solitude to mine;

Take, enfold, protect and greet me, 

save me from my world with thine.

Give me more than I might borrow,

much of joy, yet some of sorrow; 

Search and find in Love´s high attics

horizontal mathematics,

toys to prove the simple sums

that honeys, nectar, pollens, gums

of love´s taking, giving, grieving,

sweetly seeding and conceiving

will thrive our days to myth and lore:

two separate minds, one flesh the score...

[infiniterichesinalittleroom]

And dark our celebration was, For Death was sweet to us; By that I mean it filled our sacks so full We leaned atilt round moonlit corners of the town And sprinted on to doorways where we buzzed and rang And lit the pumpkin windows and held forth our hands To take the treasures of the time, The run again, my lovely thistle girls and I Gone old within a night yet young with them. How grand such Eves, how good such girls That they slowed pace for ancient boys like me Who could not give it up, stay at home, put by that holiday. I had to go, to lurch, to tap, to laugh, to walk at last All happy-tired home in cold wind blowing With the full-lit moon to wife and hearth and aunts Come by to wait for us: the crazy man and his wild pride Of maiden beasts. Long years ahead, dear girls, on nights like those, Do please drop by at dusk, come sit upon my stone And speak glad words To spirit gone but wishing to be still. With you when you go forth with your own children Thus to filch and prize and laugh at every door. No more. I stay. But save for me a single sweet, some Milky Way to munch Or bring a pumpkin cut and lit and place it so to warm my feet. Then on the path run, go! knowing that I'm not dead, For you are my head, my heart, my limbs, my blood set free; You are the me that is warm, I am the me that is cold, You are the me that is young, I old. But what of that!? Death's mean at all his Tricks, God, yes, But you the Treats Who run to beg my life and yours In all the Future's wild, delirious, dark But warm and living streets.

• Ray Bradbury’s poem And Dark Our Celebration Was collected in When Elephants Last In The Dooryard Bloomed

[polaridadelaimagen]

The machines  beyond Shylock, 

when cut bleet not, 

when hit bruise not,

when scared shy not,

lose nothing and so nothing gain;

They are but a dumb show:

Put Idiot in

and the moron ligth you’ll know.

Stuff right, get right,

stuff rot, get rot,

for no more power lies here

the man himself has got.

Man his energy conserves?

Machineries wait.

Man misses the early train?

Then Thought itself is late.

Sum totalings of men lie here

and not the sum of all machines, 

this man’s weather, his Winter, 

his wedding forth of timr and place and will, 

his downfall snow,

the tidings of his soul.

This paper avalanche sounds off his slope

and downs the precipice of Time with white.

This tossed confeti celebrates his nightmare

or his joy.

The night begins and goes and ends with him.

No machinery opens forth the champagne jars of life.

No piston churns the laundered beds to summon light.

Remember this:

Machines are dead, and dead must ever lie.

If man so much as shuts up half one eye.