"When I went to Venice, I discovered that my dream had become – incredibly, but quite simply – my address." Marcel Proust

Venezia - Peder Mørk Mønsted

In honor of National Poetry Month in the US, here is one from my T. S. Eliot phase. This phase did not last long, which was good for me, and good for poetry. 

I loved you as my destiny,
hoping to meet infinity
in giving self to self.
Now I am a book upon the shelf.

Human potentiality,
passes into tragedy,
the rending realization
of inhuman limitation:

All things must pass,
slipping through the broken glass,
meeting in conception, hurled,
the moment's destruction of the world.

Man corrupts alone, futilely
enduring, enclosed hopeless virility.

Photo courtesy of marcelabr on Pixabay.com

“Spring drew on...and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps.”  Charlotte Brontë

The Cornish April by Adrian Paul Allinson (1890–1959)

Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing. Camille Pissaro