forced.

I’m forcing myself out of this very un-creative attitude.  Yes, I mean forcing.  I demanded of myself that I cover this canvas with a calming shade of green paint, scour an antique book of British and American Verse for the perfect poem, and then put the fine tip marker to the canvas and inscribed those words.  I hung it above our bed for now, but it may not stay there.  Especially if I ever get that old wooden mantel turned headboard, that I visit frequently in my dreams.

Here is the poem that I chose…

Hymn to the Night, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,--
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!