“Tread Lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.”
Requiescat, Oscar Wilde, 1881
Wilde wrote this poem for his sister Isola, who died of meningitis aged 9.
“So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever. With masks down, I walk, talking to the moon, to the neutral impersonal force that does not hear, but merely accepting my being. And does not smite me down.”
– Sylvia Plath, Cambridge Notes. (via torturegardens)