When you & I were young

When you & I were young
we would press our white faces from the car
& the rain on the windows would run through the gathering
dark

& the lampposts shone & dogs would run into the dying
frame
where the park was glowing dimly through the silence of the
lanes
& the radiators hum rose above the falling leaves
where so fragile & so young you had drifted into sleep

I've been for a walk
& every face I see seems to be mine
night-time comes
the birds have flown
a fever glows in every line

I love this season
this weary night
the flint the dreams the silent pines
the eeriness
is in the feeling
that I have finished everything

& a chill from the school was running back to her car
& her white face cried she was deaf & afraid of the dark

& the whispering house grew still as we stared into the night
in the garden & the lamps & the window's fading light
& though Christmas was the same, we had seen another
year
turning softly through the flames

Alasdair MacLean

A more precise language

The Hour

This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affections glow again and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen magically along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.
- Bernard DeVoto "The Hour"

Philonious

"The feeble narrow sense cannot descry innumerable worlds revolving around central fires; and in those worlds, nor imagination are big enough to comprehend the boundless extent, with all its glittering furniture. Though the labouring mind exert and strain each power to its utmost reach, there still stands out ungrasped a surplusage immeasurable. Yet all the vast bodies that compose this mighty frame, how distant and remote soever, are by some secret mechanism, some Divine art and force, linked in a mutual dependence and intercourse with eachother, even with this earth, which was almost slipt from my thoughts and lost in the crowd of worlds. Is not the whole system immense, beautiful, glorious beyond expression and beyond thought!"

-George Berkeley, from The Second Dialogue Between Hylas and Philonious

Frege and Metaphor

An introduction. I'd appreciate any thoughts!

Frege and Metaphor - Upload a Document to Scribd

Hylas

Hylas

single mindedly
words
this
wind
geometry of sensations
sensations of geometry
geometry of self
sensations of self
self geometry
words of which are
all
mindedly this
singular
for

The Instant

The Instant

Where are the centuries, where is the dream
of sword-strife that the Tartars entertained,
where are the massive ramparts that they flattened?
Where is the wood of the Cross, the Tree of Adam?

The present is singular. It is memory
that sets up time. Both succession and error
come with the routine of the clock. A year
is no less vanity than is history.

Between dawn and nightfall is an abyss
of agonies, felicites, and cares.
The face that looks back from wasted mirrors,
the mirrors of night, is not the same face.
The fleeting day is frail and is eternal;
expect no other Heaven, no other Hell.

Jorges Luis Borges

El Instante

Dónde estarán los siglos, dónde el sueño
de espadas que los tártaros soñaron,
dónde los fuertes muros que allanaron,
dónde el Árbol de Adán y el otro Leño?
El presente está solo. La memoria
erige el tiempo. Sucesión y engaño
es la rutina del reloj. El año
no es menos vano que la vana historia.
Entre el alba y la noche hay un abismo
de agonías, de luces, de cuidados;
el rostro que se mira en los gastados
espejos de la noche no es el mismo.
El hoy fugaz es tenue y es eterno;
otro Cielo no esperes, ni otro Infierno.