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“A terraced house on a tree-lined street. Earlier today, the house rang with the sound of children’s cries and adult voices, but since the last occupant took off (with her satchel) a few hours ago, it has been left to sample the morning by itself. The sun has risen over the gables of the buildings opposite and now washes through the ground-floor windows, painting the interior walls a buttery yellow and warming the grainy-red brick facade. Within shafts of sunlight, platelets of dust move as if in obedience to the rhythms of a silent waltz. From the hallway, the low murmur of accelerating traffic can be detected a few blocks away. Occasionally, the letter-box opens with a rasp to admit a plaintive leaflet…. The house gives signs of enjoying the emptiness.” ―Alain de Botton, The Architecture of Happiness

“A terraced house on a tree-lined street. Earlier today, the house rang with the sound of children’s cries and adult voices, but since the last occupant took off (with her satchel) a few hours ago, it has been left to sample the morning by itself. The sun has risen over the gables of the buildings opposite and now washes through the ground-floor windows, painting the interior walls a buttery yellow and warming the grainy-red brick facade. Within shafts of sunlight, platelets of dust move as if in obedience to the rhythms of a silent waltz. From the hallway, the low murmur of accelerating traffic can be detected a few blocks away. Occasionally, the letter-box opens with a rasp to admit a plaintive leaflet…. The house gives signs of enjoying the emptiness.”
Alain de Botton, The Architecture of Happiness

Filed under Alain de Botton Architecture Lit

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“For A Poet”I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,And laid them away in a box of gold;Where long will cling the lips of the moth,I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;I hide no hate; I am not even wrothWho found the earth’s breath so keen and cold;I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,And laid them away in a box of gold. —Countee CullenToday is the anniversary of the birth of Harlem Renaissance poet Countee Cullen (born today in 1903; d.1946).

“For A Poet”

I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found the earth’s breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.
—Countee Cullen

Today is the anniversary of the birth of Harlem Renaissance poet Countee Cullen (born today in 1903; d.1946).

Filed under Countee Cullen pOETRY Lit