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				Title:     Anniversaries 
			    
Author: Aldous Huxley [
More Titles by Huxley]		                
			    
Once more the windless days are here,
 Quiet of autumn, when the year
 Halts and looks backward and draws breath
 Before it plunges into death.
 Silver of mist and gossamers,
 Through-shine of noonday's glassy gold,
 Pale blue of skies, where nothing stirs
 Save one blanched leaf, weary and old,
 That over and over slowly falls
 From the mute elm-trees, hanging on air
 Like tattered flags along the walls
 Of chapels deep in sunlit prayer.
 Once more ... Within its flawless glass
 To-day reflects that other day,
 When, under the bracken, on the grass,
 We who were lovers happily lay
 And hardly spoke, or framed a thought
 That was not one with the calm hills
 And crystal sky. Ourselves were nought,
 Our gusty passions, our burning wills
 Dissolved in boundlessness, and we
 Were almost bodiless, almost free.
 The wind has shattered silver and gold.
 Night after night of sparkling cold,
 Orion lifts his tangled feet
 From where the tossing branches beat
 In a fine surf against the sky.
 So the trance ended, and we grew
 Restless, we knew not how or why;
 And there were sudden gusts that blew
 Our dreaming banners into storm;
 We wore the uncertain crumbling form
 Of a brown swirl of windy leaves,
 A phantom shape that stirs and heaves
 Shuddering from earth, to fall again
 With a dry whisper of withered rain.
 Last, from the dead and shrunken days
 We conjured spring, lighting the blaze
 Of burnished tulips in the dark;
 And from black frost we struck a spark
 Of blue delight and fragrance new,
 A little world of flowers and dew.
 Winter for us was over and done:
 The drought of fluttering leaves had grown
 Emerald shining in the sun,
 As light as glass, as firm as stone.
 Real once more: for we had passed
 Through passion into thought again;
 Shaped our desires and made that fast
 Which was before a cloudy pain;
 Moulded the dimness, fixed, defined
 In a fair statue, strong and free,
 Twin bodies flaming into mind,
 Poised on the brink of ecstasy.
[The end]
Aldous Huxley's poem: Anniversaries
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