My friend wants to know the title and author of this poem, and I've been looking everywhere online. I only found part of it on a site devoted to Russel Crowe fan fiction. However, none of the contact emails there work. So I can't ask that fan where she got it from. If any of you could help me out, you would get many thanks!
"You are old and new to me, as cowbells at evening are, as rain-wet streets are, as the silent mountains are. I am dissolved and come alive in the time and the space of you. I write on air, on dusk, on snow, the words not said. It is enough to know that I am known by you, old and new. I have gathered violets in April and watched the silent falling of a star. The wind has touched my hair and I have laid my ear against the earth to hear the grasses whisper. I have walked barehead in the rain and sat with friends at supper. I have kissed my heart good-bye at nightfall, and I have loved...but deeply. And still to sit in the sun, to know the breadth of tenderness deep as the earth. And bread. And sleep. And waking after pain. To feel the hush of snow against my lips. And still to love...but deeply. I have only one way, my love, and that is with you. I offer you all the days before me..."
It's possible that this is only an excerpt but still. I have exhausted myself looking through poetry collections, and I'll keep looking. I suspect it may be from T.S. Eliot.
"You are old and new to me, as cowbells at evening are, as rain-wet streets are, as the silent mountains are. I am dissolved and come alive in the time and the space of you. I write on air, on dusk, on snow, the words not said. It is enough to know that I am known by you, old and new. I have gathered violets in April and watched the silent falling of a star. The wind has touched my hair and I have laid my ear against the earth to hear the grasses whisper. I have walked barehead in the rain and sat with friends at supper. I have kissed my heart good-bye at nightfall, and I have loved...but deeply. And still to sit in the sun, to know the breadth of tenderness deep as the earth. And bread. And sleep. And waking after pain. To feel the hush of snow against my lips. And still to love...but deeply. I have only one way, my love, and that is with you. I offer you all the days before me..."
It's possible that this is only an excerpt but still. I have exhausted myself looking through poetry collections, and I'll keep looking. I suspect it may be from T.S. Eliot.
