My Sisters, O My Sisters
π΅ 1805 characters
β±οΈ 2:57 duration
π ID: 24650492
π Lyrics
"Nous qui voulions poser, image ineffaçable
Comme un delta divin nortre main sur le sable"
- Anna de Noailles
Dorothy Wordsworth, dying, did not want to read,
"I am too busy with my own feelings," she said.
And all women who have wanted to break out
Of the prison of consciousness to sing or shout
Are strange monsters who renounce the treasure
Of their silence for a curious devouring pleasure.
Dickinson, Rossetti, Sappho β they all know it,
Something is lost, strained, unforgiven in the poet.
She abdicates from life or like George Sand
Suffers from the mortality in an immortal hand,
Loves too much, spends a whole life to discover
She was born a good grandmother, not a good lover.
Too powerful for men: Madame de Stael. Too sensitive:
Madame de Sevigne who burdened where she meant to give.
Delicate as that burden was and so supremely lovely,
It was too heavy for her daughter, much too heavy.
Only when she built inward in a fearful isolation
Did any one succeed or learn to fuse emotion
With thought. Only when she renounced did Emily
Begin in the fierce lonely light to learn to be.
Only in the extremity of spirit and the flesh
And in renouncing passion did Sappho come to bless.
Only in the farewells or in old age does sanity
Shine through the crimson stains of their mortality.
And now we who are writing women and strange monsters
Still search our hearts to find the difficult answers,
Still hope that we may learn to lay our hands
More gently and more subtly on the burning sands.
To be through what we make more simply human,
To come to the deep place where poet becomes a woman,
Where nothing has to be renounced or given over
In the pure light that shines out from the lover,
In the pure light that brings forth fruit and flower
And that great sanity, that sun, the feminine power.
Comme un delta divin nortre main sur le sable"
- Anna de Noailles
Dorothy Wordsworth, dying, did not want to read,
"I am too busy with my own feelings," she said.
And all women who have wanted to break out
Of the prison of consciousness to sing or shout
Are strange monsters who renounce the treasure
Of their silence for a curious devouring pleasure.
Dickinson, Rossetti, Sappho β they all know it,
Something is lost, strained, unforgiven in the poet.
She abdicates from life or like George Sand
Suffers from the mortality in an immortal hand,
Loves too much, spends a whole life to discover
She was born a good grandmother, not a good lover.
Too powerful for men: Madame de Stael. Too sensitive:
Madame de Sevigne who burdened where she meant to give.
Delicate as that burden was and so supremely lovely,
It was too heavy for her daughter, much too heavy.
Only when she built inward in a fearful isolation
Did any one succeed or learn to fuse emotion
With thought. Only when she renounced did Emily
Begin in the fierce lonely light to learn to be.
Only in the extremity of spirit and the flesh
And in renouncing passion did Sappho come to bless.
Only in the farewells or in old age does sanity
Shine through the crimson stains of their mortality.
And now we who are writing women and strange monsters
Still search our hearts to find the difficult answers,
Still hope that we may learn to lay our hands
More gently and more subtly on the burning sands.
To be through what we make more simply human,
To come to the deep place where poet becomes a woman,
Where nothing has to be renounced or given over
In the pure light that shines out from the lover,
In the pure light that brings forth fruit and flower
And that great sanity, that sun, the feminine power.
β±οΈ Synced Lyrics
[00:02.86] "Nous qui voulions poser, image ineffaçable
[00:07.58] Comme un delta divin nortre main sur le sable"
[00:12.49] - Anna de Noailles
[00:15.77] Dorothy Wordsworth, dying, did not want to read,
[00:21.00] "I am too busy with my own feelings," she said.
[00:25.33] And all women who have wanted to break out
[00:27.81] Of the prison of consciousness to sing or shout
[00:32.11] Are strange monsters who renounce the treasure
[00:35.98] Of their silence for a curious devouring pleasure.
[00:41.40] Dickinson, Rossetti, Sappho β they all know it,
[00:46.55] Something is lost, strained, unforgiven in the poet.
[00:51.65] She abdicates from life or like George Sand
[00:55.95] Suffers from the mortality in an immortal hand,
[01:00.55] Loves too much, spends a whole life to discover
[01:04.28] She was born a good grandmother, not a good lover.
[01:08.72] Too powerful for men: Madame de Stael. Too sensitive:
[01:13.82] Madame de Sevigne who burdened where she meant to give.
[01:18.83] Delicate as that burden was and so supremely lovely,
[01:22.98] It was too heavy for her daughter, much too heavy.
[01:27.73] Only when she built inward in a fearful isolation
[01:32.50] Did any one succeed or learn to fuse emotion
[01:36.92] With thought. Only when she renounced did Emily
[01:41.33] Begin in the fierce lonely light to learn to be.
[01:45.98] Only in the extremity of spirit and the flesh
[01:49.57] And in renouncing passion did Sappho come to bless.
[01:54.95] Only in the farewells or in old age does sanity
[01:59.59] Shine through the crimson stains of their mortality.
[02:05.33] And now we who are writing women and strange monsters
[02:11.27] Still search our hearts to find the difficult answers,
[02:15.66] Still hope that we may learn to lay our hands
[02:19.45] More gently and more subtly on the burning sands.
[02:24.13] To be through what we make more simply human,
[02:28.65] To come to the deep place where poet becomes a woman,
[02:33.64] Where nothing has to be renounced or given over
[02:37.11] In the pure light that shines out from the lover,
[02:41.56] In the pure light that brings forth fruit and flower
[02:47.17] And that great sanity, that sun, the feminine power.
[02:52.81]
[00:07.58] Comme un delta divin nortre main sur le sable"
[00:12.49] - Anna de Noailles
[00:15.77] Dorothy Wordsworth, dying, did not want to read,
[00:21.00] "I am too busy with my own feelings," she said.
[00:25.33] And all women who have wanted to break out
[00:27.81] Of the prison of consciousness to sing or shout
[00:32.11] Are strange monsters who renounce the treasure
[00:35.98] Of their silence for a curious devouring pleasure.
[00:41.40] Dickinson, Rossetti, Sappho β they all know it,
[00:46.55] Something is lost, strained, unforgiven in the poet.
[00:51.65] She abdicates from life or like George Sand
[00:55.95] Suffers from the mortality in an immortal hand,
[01:00.55] Loves too much, spends a whole life to discover
[01:04.28] She was born a good grandmother, not a good lover.
[01:08.72] Too powerful for men: Madame de Stael. Too sensitive:
[01:13.82] Madame de Sevigne who burdened where she meant to give.
[01:18.83] Delicate as that burden was and so supremely lovely,
[01:22.98] It was too heavy for her daughter, much too heavy.
[01:27.73] Only when she built inward in a fearful isolation
[01:32.50] Did any one succeed or learn to fuse emotion
[01:36.92] With thought. Only when she renounced did Emily
[01:41.33] Begin in the fierce lonely light to learn to be.
[01:45.98] Only in the extremity of spirit and the flesh
[01:49.57] And in renouncing passion did Sappho come to bless.
[01:54.95] Only in the farewells or in old age does sanity
[01:59.59] Shine through the crimson stains of their mortality.
[02:05.33] And now we who are writing women and strange monsters
[02:11.27] Still search our hearts to find the difficult answers,
[02:15.66] Still hope that we may learn to lay our hands
[02:19.45] More gently and more subtly on the burning sands.
[02:24.13] To be through what we make more simply human,
[02:28.65] To come to the deep place where poet becomes a woman,
[02:33.64] Where nothing has to be renounced or given over
[02:37.11] In the pure light that shines out from the lover,
[02:41.56] In the pure light that brings forth fruit and flower
[02:47.17] And that great sanity, that sun, the feminine power.
[02:52.81]