TOFTT I can feel ya there
[QUOTE=RichardHead57;1684228]I texted and haven't had the time to follow up with a phone call to schedule. She seemed pretty adamant in her response about no texts so I assume there is a menu and a happy time to be had with her. If you take the plunge, please review. I just had a terrible TOFFT (review posted recently) and still need some recovery time before I get back on the TOFFT horse again.[/QUOTE]I was doing that for about a month and reached a point where I got sick of it. Took me 4 months to get back on that horse. Who was it that was the terrible TOFTT? You can PM it to me, want to make sure I stay away.
Tantra Goddess you will be e missed
O Goddess! Hear these tuneless numbers, wrung.
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung.
Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt today, or did I see.
The winged Psyche with awakened eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side.
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof.
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran.
A brooklet, scarce espied:
'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber.
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!
O latest born and loveliest vision far.
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heaped with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan.
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet.
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat.
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
O brightest! Though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retired.
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan.
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet.
From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat.
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane.
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees.
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain dryads shall be lulled to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness.
A rosy sanctuary will I dress.
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight.
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
