On certain days, amid the wandering refrains, the vague and fleeting impressions, and half-formed conversations I carry on with my inner self that constitute the majority my brain’s activity, a color will creep and leave its humor in everything I think and dream. Today is an orange day.

TO F—

By Edgar Allen Poe

Beloved! amid the earnest woes
  That crowd around my earthly path
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose),
  My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.

And thus thy memory is to me
  Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea,—
Some ocean throbbing far and free
  With storms, but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
  Just o’er that one bright island smile.

NP: Beth Orton, Sweetest Decline