melancholia

When I say that I love what is melancholy, people usually look at me strange. Perhaps I'm not using the word in it's proper or more common context (sadness, depression), but to me, melancholy is so much more.

 It's a song tinged with sorrow
   a sparrow in the cold, grey snow
a gentle rain that remembers when the world was young,
  before the apple and the snake.

The thunder in a horse's feet
  a flower in the twilight
the sense of regret in a colorless photograph, the faces without names

Is it our own mortality that can make these things so tragically beautiful, or is it a glimpse of longing for a world we were made for but have never known?

inspired by Hannah's post, here