| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Somebody's Little Girl by Martha Young: the little tiny girls came as their tiny hands were washed and wiped
them on the pink checked towel.
Then if two little girls took hold of the pink checked towel at once
they both laughed and sang:
``Don't wipe together,
Or we'll fight
Before night.''
And the other little girls that were still washing their hands in
the white basins on the low shelf by the back-gallery lattice sang
over and over again:
``Wash together! We'll wash together!
|
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from 'Twixt Land & Sea by Joseph Conrad: bare, because, having fallen asleep towards the morning, she ran
out headlong in her fear of being too late. Heemskirk had never
seen her looking like this, with her hair drawn back smoothly to
the shape of her head, and hanging in one heavy, fair tress down
her back, and with that air of extreme youth, intensity, and
eagerness. And at first he was amazed, and then he gnashed his
teeth. He could not face her at all. He muttered a curse, and
kept still behind the door.
With a low, deep-breathed "Ah!" when she first saw the brig already
under way, she reached for Nelson's long glass reposing on brackets
high up the wall. The wide sleeve of the dressing-gown slipped
'Twixt Land & Sea |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Poems of William Blake by William Blake: Art thou a Worm? image of weakness. art thou but a Worm?
I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lillys leaf;
Ah weep not little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep:
Is this a Worm? I see they lay helpless & naked: weeping
And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mothers smiles.
The Clod of Clay heard the Worms voice & rais'd her pitying head:
She bowd over the weeping infant, and her life exhald
In milky fondness, then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes
O beauty of the vales of Har, we live not for ourselves,
Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed:
My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark,
Poems of William Blake |
