"That's why I hold with all I have..."

My muse, sometimes, asks me why, why I am your muse?

It is a question, when put on the spot, that can be hard to answer. The sea, I say, I cry. The moon, and books, and trains in magical lands. Stories of kings, and bears, and tigers, of pirates and boys who won't grow up. Latin, Greek, and languages long dead, I say. And love, my muse, love.

My muse asks me what is love, and when I answer, it is you, it is not enough.

But this, this is love:

When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer

BY WALT WHITMAN

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

So, Gentle Reader, when next my muse demands, perhaps I have an answer. It is the moon, and stars, and the sea. It is stories, and Latin, trains, and magic, and all these things. My muse will ask, what is love? Why me? And I will answer, it is you.

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind."

Sleep, gentle reader, has never come easily to me. You are lucky, in your unabashed love of sleep, with naps like long embraces. Sleep and I are wary of each other, although we do fine when we both finally accept our mutual fate.

I am tired. It has been a long run, of late.

YOU ARE TIRED

e. e. cummings

You are tired 

(I think)

Of the always puzzle of living and doing;

And so am I.

Come with me then 

And we'll leave it far and far away-

(Only you and I understand!)

You have played 

(I think)

And broke the toys you were fondest of 

And are a little tired now;

Tired of things that break and-

Just tired.

So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight 

And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart-

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows 

And if you like 

The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah come with me!

I'll blow you that wonderful bubble the moon 

That floats forever and a day;

I'll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probable stars;

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream 

Until I find the Only Flower 

Which shall keep (I think) your little heart

While the moon comes out of the sea.

I have been tired, you know. Drawn out, worn out, like an old thing. I am tired of things that break, of the puzzle of living and doing. But like our dear cummings, so recently discovered, or re-discovered, I'll keep knocking, Gentle Reader, at the gate of your heart, no matter how tired you are, no matter how tired I am.

These things, these things that cummings writes about, that he gets, are important, to me, to you. I'll keep knocking at that gate, no matter how tired I am, no matter how tired. There a sea out there somewhere, and a moon, a moon! And I intend to go there, somehow, someway, and with you.

Gentle Reader, will you come to the sea, with me?