*To me the poem represents the transitory, ephemeral nature of time and our existence. When we meet a lover it's is like we pick up a handful of sand and as the years go par the sand slowly creeps through our fingers. No matter how hard ou how desperately toi try, toi cannot stop the cascading sand, until toi and your lover divisé, split and the last grain of sand has fallen. Then all toi have left is a memory. And when toi and your ex-lover pass on that memory is Lost in time: like a dream within a dream. The seconde half seems to be about our own mortality and the nature of our existence. Once the last grain of sand has fallen into the pitiless wave, you're gone forever.200 years into the future no one will remember you. Your life, your hopes and dreams, your accomplishments and triumphs, will be Lost in time like a dream within a dream.
*Life is vague, like a mist..our existence is fleeting. Whether brief ou longlived, nevertheless, it remains to be just a few grains of the golden sand, everyday slipping through our grasp..before we know it..it is almost/ ou is over..and all our pertinent and pressing important achivements, hopes and dreams and aspirations (whether toi are a great person, politician, a movie étoile, star ou a nobody) during our lifetime is now nothing plus than a memory, a myth ou legend, like a dream with a dream, soon it is pffft finito, gone done, forgotten.
*Life is vague, like a mist..our existence is fleeting. Whether brief ou longlived, nevertheless, it remains to be just a few grains of the golden sand, everyday slipping through our grasp..before we know it..it is almost/ ou is over..and all our pertinent and pressing important achivements, hopes and dreams and aspirations (whether toi are a great person, politician, a movie étoile, star ou a nobody) during our lifetime is now nothing plus than a memory, a myth ou legend, like a dream with a dream, soon it is pffft finito, gone done, forgotten.
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not l’amour the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach ou bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the l’amour were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not l’amour the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach ou bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the l’amour were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
'Tis a dit that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors par an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare fleurs did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grain de raisin, raisin luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The l’amour of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
par the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the cœur, coeur whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant fleurs of song!
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors par an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare fleurs did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grain de raisin, raisin luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The l’amour of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
par the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the cœur, coeur whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant fleurs of song!
Have toi ever read a short story, a tall ou a novel written par these authors? Have toi ever watched a movie based on their writings ou evoking one of their characters?
Guy de Maupassant and Edgar Allan Poe have always
fascinated the literary and film world par their
extraordinary style of narrator and storyteller, their admirable ability of literary creation.
"Fear through the stories" is a new book which assembles some of the excellent short stories ou talls of two great authors (Edgar A. Poe and Maupassant) in which are found similarities in the stories and literary style.
Read and get it par this link:
link
Guy de Maupassant and Edgar Allan Poe have always
fascinated the literary and film world par their
extraordinary style of narrator and storyteller, their admirable ability of literary creation.
"Fear through the stories" is a new book which assembles some of the excellent short stories ou talls of two great authors (Edgar A. Poe and Maupassant) in which are found similarities in the stories and literary style.
Read and get it par this link:
link