(Wow. Seeing her picture with the words following it just awakened this whole mass of emotions in me.)

The Reaper And The Flowers
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he;
"Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

Overwhelmed with nostalgia and impossible longing, Bellmer acquired from these incidents a need, in his words: "to construct an artificial girl with anatomical possibilities [...] capable of re-creating the heights of passion even to inventing new desires". [...] "It was worth all my obsessive efforts," he wrote, "when, amid the smell of glue and wet plaster, the essence of all that is impressive would take shape and become a real object to be possessed." [...] And just as Bellmer revisited an infantile world in "Memories of the Doll Theme [...] in this linocut he seems to have posed quintessential childish questions: "How are girls different?" and "Where do I come from?"

[...About the "Seeing hands":]

Another girl of fourteen, who also had just begun to menstruate, exhibited [...] attacks of somnambulism during which she saw distinctly with her hand and read in the dark. [...] Insoluble, this conflict can only lead to the repression of sex: a projection or displacement that explains to us [...] the hyperbolic valorization of the sense organs, the dramatization of their functions. [Wich] let[s] us suppose, without risk of serious error, that [...] under the influence of shock, repugnance, and a sense of guilt, the transfer or at first simply the loss of vision signifies: "I do not want to see anything, I do not want to see any more."

SOURCE: http://www.artic.edu/reynolds/essays/taylor.php

Dang it OP. I was just about to post some of Shakespeares sonnets. We just read them in a literature class and every single one of the ones we read I could apply to a waifu.

I've a little pamphlet of WWI British poetry, but it's at home and I'm in my college dorm. Some weekend I'll go home to get it so I can find a piece that reminds me of my waifu and I'll post it here.

I find war poetry to be very appropriate in terms of love and relationships, because would we not long for the lovely face of our waifus rather than the hollow eyes of our comrades or the angry visage of the enemy? I think so. War is hell, and the soldier of any nationality needs somebody to love.

...Maybe that's a little bit of poetry in of itself...

>>7062
Whenever how you say something becomes as important -or more- than what you're saying (the syntax over the semantics, the sign over the meaning, the music over the lyrics), you're been a little bit of a poet yourself.

Post edited on 14th Nov 2011, 6:26pm