( ･ั﹏･ั)( ･ั﹏･ั)(っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ(｡•́︿•̀｡)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´ ;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ( ≧Д≦)(｡•́︿•̀｡)( ；∀；)( ；∀；)( ･ั﹏･ั)Ó╭╮Ò( ･ั﹏･ั)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´;︵;`)ಥ _ಥ(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ( ≧Д≦)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)( ･ั﹏･ั)(๑´•.̫ • `๑)( ･ั﹏･ั)Ó╭╮Ò( ･ั﹏･ั)( ；∀；)(｡•́︿•̀｡)Ó╭╮Ò(｡•́︿•̀｡)(っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ(｡•́ ︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д ≦)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧ Д≦)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧ Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)( ≧Д≦)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)(´ . .̫ . `)( ･ั﹏･ั)( ･ั﹏･ั)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(๑´•.̫ • `๑)( ･ั﹏･ั)( ･ั﹏･ั)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(｡•́︿•̀｡)( ･ั﹏･ั)(｡ŏ﹏ŏ)Ó╭╮Ò(๑´•.̫ • `๑)(´ . .̫ . `)( ･ั﹏･ั)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ( ꈨຶ ˙̫̮ ꈨຶ )( ꈨຶ ˙̫̮ ꈨຶ )(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)( ꈨຶ ˙̫̮ ꈨຶ )(╥﹏╥)(〒﹏〒)(╥﹏╥)(〒﹏〒)(╥﹏╥)༼;´༎ຶ ۝ ༎ຶ༽.·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·.ಥ╭╮ಥ( ≧Д≦)(๑´•.̫ • `๑)( ≧Д≦)( ･ั﹏･ั)(๑´•.̫ • `๑)( ･ั﹏･ั)Ó╭╮Ò(｡•́︿•̀｡)Ó╭╮Ò(｡•́︿•̀｡)Ó╭╮Ò(｡ﾉω＼｡)Ó╭╮Ò(｡ŏ﹏ŏ)Ó╭╮Ò(｡ŏ﹏ŏ)(｡ŏ﹏ŏ)༼;´༎ຶ ۝ ༎ຶ༽( ⚈̥̥̥̥̥́⌢⚈̥̥̥̥̥̀)(〒﹏〒)(〒﹏〒)ಥ_ಥ( ꈨຶ ˙̫̮ ꈨຶ )(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)(´;︵;`)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)(´;︵;`)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(｡•́︿•̀｡)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(๑´•.̫ • `๑)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(｡•́︿•̀｡)Ó╭╮Ò(っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っÓ╭╮Ò(･ัω･ั)( ；∀；)(･ัω･ั)•́ ‿ ,•̀ಥ‿ಥ•́ ‿ ,•̀ʕ´• ᴥ•̥`ʔʕ´• ᴥ•̥`ʔಥ‿ಥ(╯︵╰,)(╯︵╰,)Ó╭╮Ò( ･ั﹏･ั)(๑´•.̫ • `๑)(っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っÓ╭╮Ò( ･ั﹏･ั)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡ŏ﹏ŏ)(｡ŏ﹏ŏ)( ⚈̥̥̥̥̥́⌢⚈̥̥̥̥̥̀)(´;︵;`)( ⚈̥̥̥̥̥́⌢⚈̥̥̥̥̥̀)( ≧Д≦)ಥ╭╮ಥ.·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·.( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(´;︵;`)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(´;︵;`)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`).·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·.ಥ_ಥ.·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·.ಥ_ಥ( ≧Д≦)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥಥ_ಥ(｡ﾉω＼｡)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)( ･ั﹏･ั)ಥ_ಥ(｡•́︿•̀｡)ಥ_ಥ( ≧Д≦)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ꈨຶ ˙̫̮ ꈨຶ )ಥ_ಥಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)(´;︵;`)( ꈨຶ ˙̫̮ ꈨຶ )ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)(´;︵;`)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)( ≧Д≦)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)( ≧Д≦)( ≧Д≦)(๑´•.̫ • `๑)( ≧Д≦)( ≧Д≦)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)( ･ั﹏･ั)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(´ . .̫ . `)(｡•́︿•̀｡)( ･ั﹏･ั)( ；∀；)( ･ั﹏･ั)( ･ั﹏･ั)(っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ(╯︵╰,)(っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ( ･ั﹏･ั)(っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ( ･ั﹏･ั)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(´;︵;`)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(´;︵;`)( ≧Д≦)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(｡•́︿•̀｡)(ᗒᗩᗕ)(´;︵;`)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)(´;︵;`)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)( ꈨຶ ˙̫̮ ꈨຶ )(༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)(´;︵;`)ಥ_ಥ(´;︵;`)(ᗒᗩᗕ)( ≧Д≦)(´;︵;`)(｡•́︿•̀｡)Ó╭╮Ò( ･ั﹏･ั):,-):-)8-)8-):,-)}:‑):-P:-*:-|:-*:'((+_+):-(\=-O\=-O:'(:-\:-\^_^:-!:-(TT)(*_*)(*_*)o:-):-$:-[\=_\=O_oO_o(TT):0(+_+):0:-\:-|:-\:-P:-!}:‑););)}:‑)B-)}:‑)B-)B-)8-)B-)8-)(•‿•)(・∀・)◉‿◉｡◕‿◕｡(◔‿◔)(ʘᴗʘ✿)(θ‿θ)ʘ‿ʘ(✷‿✷)(◍•ᴗ•◍)(◕ᴗ◕✿)(≧▽≦)(人 •͈ᴗ•͈)(◍•ᴗ•◍)(☆▽☆)(ʘᴗʘ✿)(◍•ᴗ•◍)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(≧▽≦)(ㆁωㆁ)(☆▽☆)(✯ᴗ✯)(✯ᴗ✯)(✿^‿^)(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✿^‿^)( ꈍᴗꈍ)( ꈍᴗꈍ)<(￣︶￣)>(☆▽☆)^_________^(*´ω｀*)(◠‿◕)(*´ω｀*)(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧( ꈍᴗꈍ)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(✿^‿^)(ㆁωㆁ)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(ㆁωㆁ)( ꈍᴗꈍ)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(≧▽≦)(◕ᴗ◕✿)(ʘᴗʘ✿)(◔‿◔)(◔‿◔)(✷‿✷)(◔‿◔)(ʘᴗʘ✿)(◕ᴗ◕✿)(ʘᴗʘ✿)( ╹▽╹ )(☆▽☆)(◕ᴗ◕✿)(人 •͈ᴗ•͈)(◔‿◔)(人 •͈ᴗ•͈)(◔‿◔)(ʘᴗʘ✿)(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)ʘ‿ʘ(•‿•)(◕ᴗ◕✿)(ʘᴗʘ✿)(ㆁωㆁ)(◍•ᴗ•◍)(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(≧▽≦)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)( ╹▽╹ )(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(≧▽≦)(≧▽≦)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(≧▽≦)(ʘᴗʘ✿)ʘ‿ʘ(◔‿◔)(ʘᴗʘ✿)( ╹▽╹ )( ╹▽╹ )( ╹▽╹ )(ʘᴗʘ✿)( ╹▽╹ )(ʘᴗʘ✿)( ╹▽╹ )(ʘᴗʘ✿)(ʘᴗʘ✿)( ╹▽╹ )(≧▽≦)( ╹▽╹ )(ㆁωㆁ)( ╹▽╹ )(ㆁωㆁ)( ╹▽╹ )(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(≧▽≦)(≧▽≦)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(ㆁωㆁ)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(✿^‿^)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(✿^‿^)(✿^‿^)(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)(✿^‿^)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(ㆁωㆁ)( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)(ㆁωㆁ)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(ㆁωㆁ)(◍•ᴗ•◍)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(ㆁωㆁ)(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✿^‿^)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(✿^‿^)(✿^‿^)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(✿^‿^)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(✿^‿^)(✿^‿^)( ╹▽╹ )(☆▽☆)(◕ᴗ◕✿)(ㆁωㆁ)( ╹▽╹ )(ㆁωㆁ)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(≧▽≦)( ꈍᴗꈍ)(≧▽≦)(ㆁωㆁ)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✿^‿^)ಡ ͜ ʖ ಡ(✯ᴗ✯)(◍•ᴗ•◍)❤♡˖꒰ᵕ༚ᵕ⑅꒱♡˖꒰ᵕ༚ᵕ⑅꒱꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡(´∩｡• ᵕ •｡∩`) ♡(> ਊ <)♡(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(｡・//ε//・｡)(◕દ◕)(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(~￣³￣)~♡(> ਊ <)♡(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~♡(> ਊ <)♡(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(｡・//ε//・｡)♡(> ਊ <)♡(｡・//ε//・｡)♡(> ਊ <)♡(~￣³￣)~♡(> ਊ <)♡(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(｡・//ε//・｡)(◕દ◕)(´∩｡• ᵕ •｡∩`) ♥╣[-_-]╠♥(｡・//ε//・｡)♡(> ਊ <)♡(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)♥╣[-_-]╠♥♡(ӦｖӦ｡)(♡ω♡ ) ~♪♡˖꒰ᵕ༚ᵕ⑅꒱(♡ω♡ ) ~♪(｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡(◍•ᴗ•◍)❤(✿ ♡‿♡)꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡(｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(●’3)♡(ε`●)(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(~￣³￣)~(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(｡・//ε//・｡)(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)♡(> ਊ <)♡♡(> ਊ <)♡♡˖꒰ᵕ༚ᵕ⑅꒱(~￣³￣)~♡˖꒰ᵕ༚ᵕ⑅꒱(´∩｡• ᵕ •｡∩`) ♡˖꒰ᵕ༚ᵕ⑅꒱(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(´∩｡• ᵕ •｡∩`) (◕દ◕)(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(｡・//ε//・｡)(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(｡・//ε//・｡)(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(´∩｡• ᵕ •｡∩`) (◕દ◕)(◕દ◕)(｡・//ε//・｡)♡(> ਊ <)♡♡(> ਊ <)♡(~￣³￣)~♡(> ਊ <)♡(~￣³￣)~♡(> ਊ <)♡(~￣³￣)~

(●♡∀♡) (●♡∀♡) (●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡ )(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)( ●♡∀♡)(●♡∀♡)

thousand years

The day we met,

Frozen I held my breath

Right from the start

I knew that I'd found a home for my heart

Beats fast

Colors and promises

How to be brave?

How can I love when I'm afraid to fall

But watching you stand alone?

All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow

One step closer

I have died everyday waiting for you

Darling don't be afraid I have loved you

For a thousand years

I'll love you for a thousand more

Time stands still

Beauty in all she is

I will be brave

I will not let anything take away

What's standing in front of me

Every breath

Every hour has come to this

One step closer

I have died everyday waiting for you

Darling don't be afraid I have loved you

For a thousand years

I'll love you for a thousand more

And all along I believed I would find you

Time has brought your heart to me

I have loved you for a thousand years

I'll love you for a thousand more

I'll love you for a thousand more

Ohh

One step closer

I have died everyday waiting for you

Darling don't be afraid I have loved you

For a thousand years

I'll love you for a thousand more

And all along I believed I would find you

Time has brought your heart to me

I have loved you for a thousand years

I'll love you for a thousand more

A thousand years

Making my way downtown

Walking fast, faces pass and I'm homebound

Staring blankly ahead

Just making my way

Making a way through the crowd

And I need you

And I miss you

And now I wonder

If I could fall into the sky

Do you think time would pass me by?

'Cause you know I'd walk a thousand miles

If I could just see you tonight

It's always times like these when I think of you

And wonder if you ever think of me

'Cause everything's so wrong, and I don't belong

Living in your precious memory

'Cause I need you

And I miss you

And now I wonder

If I could fall into the sky

Do you think time would pass me by?

Oh, 'cause you know I'd walk a thousand miles

If I could just see you tonight

And I, I don't wanna let you know

I, I drown in your memory

I, I don't wanna let this go

I, I don't

Making my way downtown

Walking fast, faces pass and I'm homebound

Staring blankly ahead, just making my way

Making a way through the crowd

And I still need you

And I still miss you

And now I wonder

If I could fall into the sky

Do you think time would pass us by?

'Cause you know I'd walk a thousand miles

If I could just see you, oh-oh

If I could fall into the sky

Do you think time would pass me by?

'Cause you know I'd walk a thousand miles

If I could just see you

If I could just hold you tonight

A million dreams

I close my eyes and I can see

The world that's waiting up for me

That I call my own

Through the dark, through the door

Through where no one's been before

But it feels like home

They can say, they can say it all sounds crazy

They can say, they can say I've lost my mind

I don't care, I don't care, so call me crazy

We can live in a world that we design

'Cause every night I lie in bed

The brightest colours fill my head

A million dreams are keeping me awake

I think of what the world could be

A vision of the one I see

A million dreams is all it's gonna take

Oh a million dreams for the world we're gonna make

There's a house we can build

Every room inside is filled

With things from far away

The special things I compile

Each one there to make you smile

On a rainy day

They can say, they can say it all sounds crazy

They can say, they can say we've lost our minds

I don't care, I don't care if they call us crazy

Runaway to a world that we design

Every night I lie in bed

The brightest colours fill my head

A million dreams are keeping me awake

I think of what the world could be

A vision of the one I see

A million dreams is all it's gonna take

Oh a million dreams for the world we're gonna make

However big, however small

Let me be part of it all

Share your dreams with me

You may be right, you may be wrong

But say that you'll bring me along

To the world you see

To the world I close my eyes to see

I close my eyes to see

Every night I lie in bed

The brightest colours fill my head

A million dreams are keeping me awake

A million dreams, a million dreams

I think of what the world could be

A vision of the one I see

A million dreams is all it's gonna take

A million dreams for the world we're gonna make

For the world we're gonna make

bitter sweet

Your arms around me come undone

Makes my heart beat like a drum

See the panic in my eyes

Kiss me only when you cry

'Cause you always want what you're running from

And you know this is more than you can take

Baby don't forget my name

When the morning breaks us

Baby please don't look away

When the morning breaks us

Oh your touch, so bittersweet, ah

Baby don't forget my name

When the morning breaks us

Your cheek is softly by the sun

Makes my heart beat like a drum

I know it hurts you, I know it burns you

Hot and cold in a lonely hotel room

Look into me, tell me why you're crying I need to know

'Cause you always want what you're running from

And it's always been that way, oh

Baby don't forget my name

When the morning breaks us

Baby please don't look away

When the morning breaks us

Oh your touch, so bittersweet, ah

Baby don't forget my name

When the morning breaks us

'Cause you always want what you're running from

Baby don't forget my name

When the morning breaks us

Baby please don't look away

When the morning breaks us

Oh your touch, so bittersweet, ah

Baby don't forget my name

When the morning breaks us

perfect

I found a love for me

Oh, darling, just dive right in and follow my lead

Well, I found a girl, beautiful and sweet

Oh, I never knew you were the someone waiting for me

'Cause we were just kids when we fell in love

Not knowing what it was

I will not give you up this time

But darling, just kiss me slow

Your heart is all I own

And in your eyes, you're holding mine

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark with you between my arms

Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favourite song

When you said you looked a mess, I whispered underneath my breath

But you heard it, darling, you look perfect tonight

Well, I found a woman, stronger than anyone I know

She shares my dreams, I hope that someday I'll share her home

I found a love, to carry more than just my secrets

To carry love, to carry children of our own

We are still kids, but we're so in love

Fighting against all odds

I know we'll be alright this time

Darling, just hold my hand

Be my girl, I'll be your man

I see my future in your eyes

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark, with you between my arms

Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song

When I saw you in that dress, looking so beautiful

I don't deserve this, darling, you look perfect tonight

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark, with you between my arms

Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song

I have faith in what I see

Now I know I have met an angel in person

And she looks perfect

I don't deserve this, you look perfect tonight

The Black Mountain School    What came to be known as the Black Mountain School of poetry represented, in mid twentieth-century America, the crossroads of poetic innovation. The name of this poetic movement derives from Black Mountain College in North Carolina, an experimental college founded in 1933. By the time the poet and essayist Charles OLSON became its Rector in 1950, it had become a mecca for a larger artistic and intellectual avant-garde. Until it closed in 1957, the college was the seedbed for virtually all of America’s later artistic innovations. A vast array of writers, painters, sculptors, dancers, composers and many other people involved in the creative arts passed through the college’s doors as teachers or students.

The poets most often associated with the name Black Mountain are, primarily, Olson, Robert CREELEY and Robert DUNCAN, along with Denise LEVERTOV, Paul BLACKBURN, Paul Carroll, William BRONK, Larry EIGNER, Edward DORN, Jonathan Williams, Joel OPPENHEIMER, John WIENERS, Theodore ENSLIN, Ebbe Borregard, Russell EDSON, M.C. Richards, and Michael Rumaker (a few of whom never attended the college but are associated with the college group because of their poetic styles or their representation in certain literary magazines discussed below). Many other important intellectuals and artists were also involved in what amounted to an artistic revolution.

Today, Black Mountain poetry may seem to contain a great variety of styles and themes. Regardless, there are some common characteristics to be noticed in this poetry: the use of precise language, direct statement, often plain (even blunt) diction, and metonymy rather than metaphor or simile. These writerly tendencies evolved in reaction to earlier poetry that was strictly metered, end-rhymed, filled with aureate diction and monumental subject matter. The reaction by the Black Mountain poets was a continuation of a poetic revolution begun by the IMAGISTS and later the OBJECTIVISTS. In general, Black Mountain poets typically refrain from commenting on their personal appraisal of a scene evoked in a poem, and this strategy can even mean the avoidance of adjectives and adverbs. As Ezra Pound had pronounced early in the century (in describing the poetry of H.D.), poetry should be "laconic speech," "Objective," without "slither—direct," and containing "No metaphors that won't permit examination.-- It's straight talk." Besides its alignment with Imagism and later Objectivism, Black Mountain poetry can be said to descend, especially in its embrace of individualism, from such nineteenth-century New England writers as Henry David Thoreau and particularly Ralph Waldo Emerson. As Edward Foster has written, Emerson’s essay "Self-Reliance" gave the many Black Mountain poets, "despite their radical differences in personality, sensibility, and general ambitions, a common apprehension about what a poem might achieve" (xiii). The poem could be an extension of themselves as persons, as individuals standing apart from the ideals of an orthodox past.

Philosophically, Black Mountain poetry also shares a view of reality—of the physical world and humanity’s relationship to it—derived from scientific movements of its time, movements that contradicted the view of a stable and predictable universe set forth by Sir Isaac Newton and later Immanuel Kant. Olson, Creeley, Duncan and others were interested in the ideas of Albert Einstein, who formulated the theory of relativity, and Werner Heisenberg who postulated his theory of uncertainty relations, especially. Physical reality was relative to time, according to Einstein; according to Heisenberg, it was simply indeterminate and incomplete. Therefore, Creeley has argued,

The world cannot be "known" entirely. . . . In all disciplines of human attention and act, the possibilities inherent in the previous conception of a Newtonian universe—with its containment and thus the possibility of being known—have been yielded. We do not know the world in that way, nor will we. Reality is continuous, not separable, and cannot be objectified. We cannot stand aside to see it.The reliance in Black Mountain poetry, and its "objectivist" forebears, on direct statement and metonymy is a symptom of this basic outlook on the world.: What is unknowable finally can nevertheless be beautiful. This poetry, then, poses a fundamental problem of perception. In "Love," an early poem by Creeley, there are the sure "particulars" such as "oak, the grain of, oak," and there are also, by contrast, "what supple shadows may come / to be here." These details hold within themselves a tension between the stable and the radical, the known and the continually evolving.

The literary magazines associated with the Black Mountain school, The Black Mountain Review, Origin and, to a lesser extent the San Francisco Review, were a haven for writers whose aesthetics and point of view were found to be unacceptable by the mainstream journals of the time. Indeed, it is within the issue of these magazines that the Black Mountain sensibility truly coalesces. Edited by Creeley and Cid CORMAN, respectively, the The Black Mountain Review and Origin published now well known figures such as (besides the poets named above) Jorge Luis Borges, William Burroughs (under the

name of William Lee), Paul Celan, Judson Crews, René Daumal, Fielding Dawson, André du Bouchet, Katue Kitasono, Irving Layton, James MERRILL, Eugenio Montale, Samuel French Morse, James PURDY, Kenneth REXROTH, Hubert Selby Jr., Kusano Shimpei, Gary SNYDER, John TAGGART, Gael Turnbull, César Vallejo, Philip WHALEN, Richard WILBUR, and WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS. Later issues of Origin, in the 1960s, featured work by Louis ZUKOFSKY, Snyder, Zeami Motokiyo, Margaret Avison, Robert KELLY, Ian Hamilton Finlay, Turnbull, Corman, Duncan, Francis Ponge, Frank Samperi, Lorine NIEDECKER, André du Bouchet, Shimpei, Bronk, Albers and others.

The ars poetica of the Black Mountain movement is usually identified with Olson’s 1950 essay "Projective Verse," published in Poetry New York, a magazine that preceded these others—Olson’s fully defined formula for poetry being projective or open field verse. In this essay, Olson discusses the importance of composing poetry according the breath of the individual poet or speaker of a poem and not according to a predetermined set form of speech or verse. There are two aspects of a poem, he maintains:

the HEAD, by way of the EAR, to the SYLLABLE

the HEART, by way of the BREATH, to the LINE[.]

The breath of the poet "allows all the speech-force of language […]." Moreover, a poem should never have any slack or, as Olson puts it, "ONE PERCEPTION MUST IMMEDIATELY AND DIRECTLY LEAD TO A FURTHER PERCEPTION." Hence, the poet must "USE USE USE the process at all points" so that a perception can "MOVE, INSTANTER, ON ANOTHER." Perhaps the essence of what Olson is trying to say comes from Creeley’s belief, as quoted by Olson in this essay, that "FORM IS NEVER MORE THAN AN EXTENSION OF CONTENT."

The openness of the poetry Olson advocated can be seen in Duncan’s poem, "Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow," which begins his volume of poetry entitled, fittingly, The Opening of the Field. In this poem Duncan is involved with the personal creative process and the bid for freedom that poetry (and implicitly Black Mountain poetry) makes possible; writing is a "place of first permission," Duncan asserts. The meadow referred to in the poem’s title is possibly real, tangible, yet it exists, more importantly, "as if it were a scene made-up by the mind"; still, it is a place apart from the poem’s persona and in fact it is "a made place, created by light / wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall." Duncan’s vision of poetic reality is akin, it seems, to a classically Platonic view of the world in which ideal forms reside beyond human perception, with the things humanity can know similar to them but not perfectly the same, much as shadows of objects are

Likewise, Olson creates, in his epic work The Maximus Poems, a towering epic persona, Maximus, who looks out upon a vast geography informed by a historical past. The singularity of this figure is meant to compare with the immensity of Olson’s subject, the terrain beneath Maximus’ feet grounded in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and the history beginning in ancient Greece and running up through a present American time. There is tangibility, as when Maximus says that there are "facts, to be dealt with"; on the other hand, he asks, "that which matters, that which insists, that which will last, / that! o my people, where shall you find it, how, where"? In Olson’s work readers discover an astonishing sweep of history, a breadth of vision, and the eternal verities laid out before us—yet these truths are tried by Olson, tested, and finally undone. Olson is reconceiving both space (physical geography) and time (the history of his civilization) according the new paradigms set forth by Emerson and Thoreau, Einstein and Heisenberg. Yet this grasp doesn’t neglect the eternally human condition, and accounts for death and suffering as well as triumph and splendor. Hence, in "The Kingfishers," he observes that human beings are capable of precision: "The factors are / in the animal and/or the machine […]"; they "involve [….] a discrete or continuous sequence of measurable events distributed in time […]." All the same, Olson says that what endures is change itself, a theme he strikes at the poem’s outset and reprises throughout. "What does not change / is the will to change." This concept is perceivable in all things: "hear, where the dry blood talks / where the old appetite walks […]."

Olson’s point of view is echoed in Levertov’s work. In her poem "Beyond the End" human destiny is constrained by natural forces, yet the point of it all is not merely to "’go on living’ but to quicken, to activate, extend." The "will to respond" is a force unbounded by reason, and so we reside always "further, beyond the end / beyond whatever ends: to begin, to be, to defy." What stands out in both Levertov and Olson is the precise stipulation of limits and the recognition of something outside them, which can best be evoked with exacting language. This use of language is nicely exemplified by Joel Oppenheimer, who was a student of Olson, Creeley and others at Black Mountain College. Not only is his work precise, coming out of his student experience; it is also rhythmic according to the measure of a reader’s breathing, as was stipulated in Olson’s essay. Moreover, Oppenheimer’s signature diction is for its time breathtakingly casual and candid, reflecting the social revolution in America that was to reach crisis proportions in the late 1960s. Oppenheimer’s poetry is located in the moments of a daily life. In his poem "The Bath," the acts of living, so to speak, are simple, for instance the act of taking a bath. His lover’s bathing, Oppenheimer